Chapter 239 - Penance

Maythayes Le’Furiette

Mathayes had been observing the two interlopers as well as he could since they entered his trap on the ground floor. Their stealth abilities were far beyond the norm, and that prompted him to interrupt his training to converse with them at all.

Another test from the Cardinal? Or perhaps something more sinister? 

The lightest touch of aura followed them down the stairs and to his abode’s only door, a door which was promptly and rudely kicked in. Mathayes's mood soured, though he remained carefully in control of himself as he brushed the metal missile aside.

With the ruse no longer necessary, his aura swarmed them and he immediately recognized Mark the Hiss, but the tall man in heavy armor was a mystery. Of course, they had no need to know of his ignorance, and planting seeds of distrust between them was the basic of basics when manipulating those of common blood, “My dear Mark the Hiss, you’ve finally brought him to me.”

Predictably, Markhiss hesitated. Mathayes's first clue that not all was as it seemed was the mercenary glancing with wide, scared eyes at his companion.

Fear? Markhiss is as cold-blooded as they come, and insane to boot. Regardless, such cracks in their teamwork is unacceptable. The Cardinal isn’t sloppy enough to send me such easy prey. Unless he expects me to convert them.

Mathayes examined the movements of his guests, determining the stranger to be tier seven and Markhiss to still be tier six. His momentary concern flickered out like a candle in a storm.

At tier eight, Mathayes stood near the pinnacle of the empire's hierarchy. While the emperors may be tier eleven, and the difference between his and their powers beyond imagining, the total number of individuals stronger than him besides the emperors numbered less than fifty.

In just a few short years, he would reach the ninth tier; a feat thought to be impossible just a century ago. For the entirety of the Empire's history, the years needed to ascend from eighth to ninth numbered in the hundreds, not a mere handful. To say he was confident when facing the armored man and his mercenary pet would be the understatement of a generation. 

The second clue came in the form of a thin, yet unyielding aura that squeezed the space around them. Admittedly, Mathayes was not a premier auric genius. His father, Emperor Dagris, instilled within him every scrap of knowledge the ancient being had accumulated over his two thousand years of existence. However, putting that knowledge into practice was neither enjoyable nor simple. It was in fact, incredibly time consuming, and therefore, not a priority. 

Still, while his aura might be smaller than some of his peers, it was potent for his age and tier. He pushed back against the armored man with a prideful snarl, only to meet what could only be described as an immovable object.

How could a tier seven—

Coherent thought came to an abrupt end as a golden hued fist crashed into Mathayes' nose. A kaleidoscope of sensations blossomed within his rattled skull. Rational thought not returning until his back slammed into the coldest surface he'd ever felt. His skin blistered, peeling away like rotten bark.

Mathayes opened his mouth, drawing breath to scream, but no sound came out as a raging elemental fire consumed the air in his lungs, melting organs and flesh with equal ease. Instinct took over, Channeling, Molding, and Shaping consuming his mana at an unprecedented rate to both heal him and annihilate the dung that had dared to stain his boots.

Except, his mana wasn't moving like it should. The elements that were by right his to conjure, failed to coalesce. The armored man was supposed to be blasted to nothing by a bolt of lightning capable of annihilating half the city. Yet he towered before Mathayes, perfectly unscathed.

A twisting in his chest was the last warning. Even as he felt it, Madra changed for the better. Years spent gnawing on his own fingers, then healing them so none could see, became meaningless. The curse of his lineage, a death sentence in all but name, no longer clouded his judgment. He wouldn't be sent into Graymin lands to fight indefinitely in an insane gambit to either raise another emperor or die trying; his new patron would surely relieve him of that fate.

A god made flesh and metal stood before him. The Voice, a mere mockery of divinity now that Mathayes knew the truth. Nothing could compare to his patron. Not the emperors, not the Fathers, and certainly not the cardinal who had lost his way long ago. 

The floor splintered, cracks racing up the walls as Mathayes smashed his forehead into it, “Great one! I see your light and I live to serve!”

Cardinal Andross

A deep, steady breath filled Andross’ lungs with the bitter, rank fragrance of purifying incense. Allowing his serenity to be shaken by a naive nuisance of a girl was beneath him. His mind betrayed him, summoning an image of them competing in a footrace through the hushed halls of the Grandem Papal. A shiver crawled its way through him and he gagged, the incense doing its part to cleanse the disgust from him one wretched breath at a time.

A soft knock interrupted his ritual, echoing dully within his personal chapel. His jaw clenched as he rose to face the door. Another inhalation reminded him of why he was there and he smoothed his features, “Enter.”

The Twelfth Templari stepped inside, hastily closing the door behind him. A solitary whiff of the tiny room’s ambiance stopped him short and he swayed slightly, holding his breath. Andross noticed the jitters of his subject’s hands and decided to forgive the lapse in decorum. Twelve was usually the epitome of tranquility and had never before dared interrupt a ritual. Whatever he discovered must be of great import.

“You may speak.”

“Thank you, Your Eminence. I’ve just returned from questioning the army at the border. Their commanders confirmed that he has returned.”

Had Andross not been in the middle or repenting for an overt emotional response, he would no doubt have berated the fool. Pressure built behind his eye, threatening a twitch, “I cannot fathom how you believe such scant details are adequate for relaying an official report. When our conversation is complete, report to seven for penance.”

Twelve’s face turned pale, all visible movement ceasing as his muscles locked in panic. Knowing his situation would only grow worse with hesitation, he blurted the only viable response, “As you command, Your Eminence. My sincerest apology, it shall not happen again.”

Andross nodded and Twelve continued in a more official tone, “Upon confirming the reports of an army amassed at the edge of the Outlands, I confronted their commanding officer, a Colonel Roptere of the 5th Imperial Corps. They showed no signs of resistance and agreed to a full scan of their vitals for purposes of interrogation. They confirmed the use of additional portals to bring them back from the new lands. Portals created and closed by none other than Jiran of Feylon.”

Andross wanted nothing more than to growl and rip something, anything apart. Instead, he took a deeper breath, his eyes watering as the incense entered him, “Did you question her regarding the whereabouts of Three?”

“Indeed, Your Eminence. I also spoke with her second in command, who corroborated the story. Neither were capable of falsehood, and neither had any contact with Three.”

“Then his death is all but certain. And thus, we confirm the existence of high tier combatants among the abominations,” Andross slumped, his ever-stiff posture collapsing as he turned away from Twelve and sank to his knees to resume his ritual. 

Everything they had slaved for, centuries of effort and sacrifice, were falling apart in mere days. They had planned every detail to perfection, accounted for each possible reaction from the emperors, and even given themselves a significant margin of error. The addition of completely alien troops in unknown strengths and quantities was simply so far beyond their calculations that no amount of planning could have sufficed. And it was all due to a single anomaly, a young boy from a no-name village.

The sheer absurdity of it was a crushing blow that Andross could no longer withstand.

“Please, Your Eminence! There is more. When instructed to describe the boy, they spoke of a man in heavy golden armor!”

Andross froze, and a sweeping ache spread from his manapool, enveloping his body in simmering warmth that banished his stalled thoughts.

A man in heavy golden armor, Jiran of Feylon. The one who appeared at the ruins and fought off Nine and Thirteen. They are one and the same. Is it possible? Could the boy reported as tier three when he disappeared a mere year ago already be capable of defeating Three? Are the rumors of him gifting the rankers mana, of draining a densoon cloud and using it to fuel an entire army actually true?

But we confirmed his mana signature at the location of Three’s disappearance. It was nowhere near potent enough to defeat him. Yet now he fought off two Templari single handedly?!

Andross leapt to his feet, darting past Twelve. He didn’t slow his pace until reaching his destination. Smoothing his robes, he entered with his head high. The room was pitch black, the soft lights from the hallway blossoming suns that engulfed the two suffering men within.

They hung from chains made of pristine white bone that wound around their arms, snaking in and out of their flesh. The chains circled their necks, and ended in barbed tips burrowed deep within their chests. Their agony was beyond excruciating, yet neither dared to whimper or show signs of distress, even as blood dripped from their bodies to pool at the center of the chamber. Neither lifted their eyes to glance upon him and Andross nodded, satisfied they were taking their penance seriously this time. 

Seven separated from the deepest shadows in the corner of the room, bowing gracefully. He did not verbally greet Andross, as speaking in this most hushed of places was an insult to the god they followed. A glance at each prisoner, followed by a nod, was enough to relay what needed to be done. Minutes later, the two were brought before him in an adjoining chamber.

Seven carried them in, a hand around the backs of their necks. He dropped them before Andross where they curled, kneeling and pressing their heads into the stone. “Their penance had only begun, Your Eminence.”

Andross’ voice oozed with the authority granted to him by the Supreme, his gaze boring into the supplicating Nine and Thirteen, “Explain to me again how the two of you were forced to flee from a man in golden armor you claim was below your tier. Even the smallest detail missed could be disastrous. Tell me everything.”

Mayalyn Aloyhee

Mayalyn’s claws inched free from the tips of her fingers, delicately sliding between the gaps in the stone wall she was scaling. Wind buffeted her back and the chilly night air tickled her skin.

He put enough thought into the gloves that they can mold around my extending claws, but did not bother with insulation… Typical boy.

A grin stretched the muscles in her face as she hefted herself up to the next purchase. The city streets were now far beneath her, the exhilaration from being so high without anyone there to catch her made her finally understand the appeal behind the ritual of bringing a keepsake up the steep cliff of the Mettlerise. Not to mention, she was nearly to her quarry.

After parting with Niya and Cameron, she found a suitably wind-free location atop a building and Circulated as much mana into her ears as they could hold. After overhearing a few hundred useless conversations, she was about to change locations when a passing group of arguing guards caught her attention. They were being led by two pompous windbags who foolishly let slip their disgruntlement over the rankers being treated so well after fumbling the war and needing to be rescued. Apparently, they were being provided for as though they were royalty, and there was even an undeserving princess among them being paraded about in the very cathedral she was currently scaling.

The hardest part had been determining the correct building from its name alone, requiring her to listen in on dozens of additional conversations before being certain she was in the right place. She was long since late to the agreed upon meeting with Niya and Cameron, and they would no doubt be worried. She felt only slightly foolish for coming here first, reasoning that even if she had gone back, they would have simply told her to scout the location while they waited.

A warcry split the night, followed by an explosion that rocked the wall beneath her hands. A gout of flame melted through the wall far above, shooting into the night like a beacon. Rubble tumbled down, dozens of shards pinking harmlessly off her suit. An impact far stronger than before sent another shudder through the building and Mayalyn sunk her claws deeper, clinging for all she was worth as she was rattled to her bones.

The furious warcry choked off, replaced by the torturous moan of a girl in pain. After so many sleepless nights, talking and becoming inseparable friends, there was no way she would mistake the owner of that voice. Any thoughts of enjoying a nighttime climb were a thing of the past as she scrambled higher, her core suddenly feeling as though it were pumping blood mixed with venom through her veins.

Desperation fueled her with manic purpose; she skipped entire rows of stones, throwing herself higher each time her claws found purchase in the stones’ gaps. It wasn’t until she felt an aura slide over her suit and heard a man’s muffled voice through the broken wall that she slowed her pace, “How the blazes did she escape?!”

“Shadow knows,” a second, deeper voice responded, “Should we move her somewhere more secure?”

The gaping Fissure had yet to cool, the glowing stones separating Mayalyn from confirming her fears.

“Well, we can’t put her back in there! Cardinal will have us in penance for a decade if we lose her,” The first shuddered in his armor, releasing a chorus of metal scraping against metal.

“Hey, that’s a great idea!” The second grunted as though he were lifting something heavy.

“What? The penance chamber?”

The second man’s visor clicked shut as he nodded sharply, “The penance chamber.”