Chapter 66

“What else?” Nic asked. The dungeon should be over. And if there was a final challenge to be overcome, frankly, Nic wasn’t sure he had that left. Everything about him felt tired.

“Nothing to worry about.” The child answered. Nic was steadily growing aware that, no matter how this spirit looked, it must be ancient. There was an eerie intelligence within those luminous gold eyes. “But the crown cannot be left to lie on the sands. For me to put it down, another must take it up. The tradition must be unbroken.”

At that, Nic stood up. “If you wanna shower with me ancient techniques, hell, be my guest.”

“Then you should come with me, and quickly.” The child turned and marched deeper into the temple.

“That’s the manners you get when you’ve got people kissing your ass all day, I guess.” Sighing, Nic stumbled after the boy, using the haft of Peacemaker to support himself.

“This is the technique of immortality my family was given in the moment a comet eclipsed the sun. It refined the rays of the sun’s light into a purest spear of essence, which fell to earth and pierced into the eyes of my ancient ancestor. Burned into his dead vision were runes of an ancient magic.”

“So he got lucky and decided that made him king?” Nic asked, skeptically. He was eyeing the gold on the walls of the temple as they walked through an ascending hallway. The actual gold was worthless, but it was used to illustrate the most important pieces of the history on the walls. That history was the record of a cultivator civilization lost to time; he saw there were signets and runes written down here that had, sadly, been worn away by the ages. A half here, a fragment there– runes that people had spent their entire life learning to scribe were now lost.

“He was given power and used it wisely. At the time, our people were scattered into tribes throughout the small scraps of fertile land that the river fed. The population had reached its apex, and those who were exiled into the desert for lack of food became raiders, pillagers. The only remnants of the grand kingdom that we stood in the ruins of, the only reminders of our glory, had lost their names to the ages. They were statues without face, worn away.”

Nic shrugged. “Should’ve seen where I grew up. It’s the same thing, but instead of glory and faceless statues, we had dumb nicknames and boarded up windows.”

The spirit turned back. “And if you came to power one day, you would have done the world to lift it up on your shoulders, would you have not?”

“You know…” Nic paused. “I think you might actually get me.”

“You are a conqueror but not a cruel one. My ancestor had a similar soul in this regard. He united the tribes and laid down the seeds of civilization.” “For this reason, even moreso than necessity, our technique may be passed to you.”

“What’s so necessary?” Nic was looking for the hook. He was a smart fish; when someone dangled food, he looked for a hook.

“My family lives immortally in a spiritual plane, but their spirits must be tethered to the earth. He who carries this technique becomes that vessel. Their body is a conduit to the ancestors.” He glanced back, sharply this time.

“Sofia is there… room up there? Like, can all this guy’s ancestors fit?”

“Nicolas the psycho-thaumaturgic crystal stabbed through your eye would probably eat any psychic influences who came in here now.”

“Yeah, no vacancies. I’m not taking your technique if my head is going to implode.”

“Do not fear. We will not be joining you, no. You cannot fully inherit us, for you lack many requisites. Chief among them, this technique must be practiced from birth to be fully effective. It is our hope you will be able to pass on the technique in time, and prepare a better vessel.”

“Okay, sounding more like something I could do…” Nic actually felt better knowing he wouldn’t be wearing some destiny on his shoulders. He had too many weights on him– but just passing on a technique was bearable. It was actually tempting to just give it to everyone in Winterhome.

After all, they hadn’t said not to share it more than once.

They had reached the apex of the stairs. A platform stood there, suspended between four pillars, a structure like a golden bowl. The pillars continued above it to hold a massive lens, slanted down so that it caught the rays of light as the sun passed in front of an aperture, a tunnel carved into the stone of the ceiling, at exactly the height of the day.

Nic could feel the essence from where he stood. It radiated from the black water suspended in the bowl, a rich dark fluid like oil that had drank in thousands of years of sunlight.

“This technique is the Four Organs and Divided Body.” The pharaoh-child gestured to the pool.

“Divided Body?”

“You could resemble yourself from broken pieces, even if you were cut apart a dozen times. A true practitioner could split their strength into many copies of themselves, but that can only be achieved when training from a young age. When I was born, my twin brother was sacrificed to empower me to achieve the full technique– this is the ruthlessness required to achieve perfection with this method.”

“Well, I don’t have any blood brothers, and gosh, I’m just not sure adopted is the same.” Nic was beginning to sour on this whole arrangement already. The ancestor might have been a kind conqueror, but his children were clearly bloodthirsty to the extreme if it meant keeping their power over all civilization. “How ‘bout we skip that step?”

“We have no other choice.” The pharaoh-child agreed, missing or ignoring the sarcasm. “The Four Organs refer to the fonts of all power within the body. The technique will refine them into wellsprings of life that allow you to survive for millenia, survive lethal blows, and crush boulders to dust in your hand.”

“Ohhhhh, so it’s another body cultivation method.” Nic said loudly, faux-oblivious to his own insults and happy to bring the pharoah down a peg. So what? He thought. Even the lowest sects have developed their own body cultivation. It might mean a lot to me, but that’s only because this world is poor on techniques and high on talent.

“Nicolas, it’s a body cultivation method that the System had no hand in creating.” Sofia said. “It could be unique in all the world.”

“My ancestor’s technique can’t be compared to your crap techniques!” The pharaoh's temper flared.

“Great, I got an echo on that one.” Nic rolled his eyes.

“Restrain your tongue. Can you not see I am passing to you something more precious to me than life itself? Do not send me to my grave thinking I trusted this to an oaf.”

“Okay, okay. You know what? I’ll give you this. I am an oaf, but I’m one who keeps their promises. I can survive long enough to find someone worthwhile. Someone who can carry your ancestor’s legacy.” Nic said, stepping up to the pool. “Rest easy. I’ll do it or die trying.”

“I don’t doubt you’ll be diligent. My worry is, in my observation, you approach everything with that same dedication. I’m worried you’ll die trying for some other goal first.” The spirit sighed, and then said. “But step into the pool. There are no other inheritors left.”

Stripping off his armor and letting Gwungo shrink down to a tiny newt that ran along the bowl’s edge, Nic set Peacemaker aside.

Nic dropped into the waters, which rippled once and fell still. The warmth was like fire on his skin, but without pain or fear. Like he was sinking, slowly, into the sun itself. Golden light began to grow upwards along his veins, spreading throughout his body. It started in the marrow of his bones and followed the flow of blood outwards, branching and branching until it covered his entire body in a complex pattern. The runes on his skin, the marks of the Aleph, stood like shadows over the glowing lines. The meridians within his body lit up one after another…

And his cultivation core began to solidify, slightly, the pain echoing out from the breaks in his foundation dimming and dulling. The two techniques were perfectly matched– they had been created to compliment one another. The sun in his heart could feed his blessed meat and bone like no other source; his regeneration was growing by the second, finally managing to tend to old scars that had lingered deep in his body, left by countless near-death experiences.

His regeneration had always allowed his flesh to recover…

But this seemed to soothe the aches of his spirit too, letting him breath and expel the pain and worry that had added up. He felt at peace. His body was one thing, echoing to the single drum of his pulse.

Nic…

Knew that other people had more quiet in their heads than him. Didn’t have to relive being insulted, beaten down, defeated when they closed their eyes. Most people had more peace in their souls, somehow…

He had to earn it. Had to push himself to the point where his concentration was total, complete, and unbreakable, before he could feel that weight on his soul relax.

And if fighting cleared away the hurt in his mind, then winning cured it. Gave his mind good fights to go to when he closed his eyes. Moments of victory.

In short…

If he didn’t break free soon, the System would win. It would mold him perfectly into a soldier.

His mind snapped back into his body and he lifted his head from the black waters. The glow on his skin had already faded, leaving behind a feeling of great strength and vitality.

But as he did, he came face to face with another battle.

The pygmy devil stood at the height of the stairs, holding open an earthen jar scribed with evil, shifting runes. A light poured from the open mouth of the jar and the pharaoh’s spirit was being leached away, shimmering ribbons of golden light pouring down into the vessel.

Nic didn’t see the time or the need for words. He grabbed Peacemaker and lunged–

But even as he did, he realized something was wrong.

When the pygmy had first appeared, he had been deformed by numerous golden spikes thrust into his back, forcing him to walk hunched over. Now those spikes were gone. The craters where they had been now dripped with blood, black as night, and belched out smoke. There was a fiery light from within, which spread across the man’s face in bulges and veins of fire.

Nic felt immense threat scream across his being…

And the man moved. Nic’s eyes could barely follow, and the rest of his body was moving so slowly he felt paralyzed.

But the hand never touched him. Nic just managed to duck aside and flinch back. It simply gestured at his neck, and squeezed shut.

The steam escaping from the man’s wounds erupted forth in billows of smoke and ghastly pale-green energies. It took the form of a man, standing above Nic clothed in imperious robes. His eyes flashed with terrible light and his arm shot forward, flying from his arm into the air.

Nic flung himself aside again, but there was no reprieve. The second hand swept sideways. A simple backhand struck Nic across the arm– Nic felt his bones snap like dry twigs.

He slammed into the ground, rolled, and felt his arm knit back together. Peacemaker had fallen from his grasp, but if he could reach it…

“Little bug.” The ghost of smoke addressed him. Its voice rippled with power.

Oh boy. Nic thought. This would be the shard of the patriarch, then. He’d been warned…

“My vessel is damaged, and the blame falls on you. Thankfully, your own body is sturdy enough to serve as a replacement. I know you will kick and scream until the moment I shatter your soul, but know this– you die honorably.”

“Oh tomb and sept could you blow yourself any harder?” Nic spat. “Just– STOP.”

He roared in the Old Tongue and lunged for Peacemaker.

The patriarch’s hand descended like a guillotine.