II-120 A Night at the Theater (II)

I am not one to usually expose the benefits and virtues of mercy. Mercy is often used against you in the Claimed Hells. Mercy is wielded against you when you give it, and you are treated as a fool.

When faced with a degenerate, with a scoundrel, with a monster, you must speak the same language as them. You must convey something they can understand.

It is too often that a decent soul sees themselves ruined and broken because of arrogance or foolishness. You cannot offer mercy to someone that refuses to understand it.

But just as well, sometimes—sometimes mercy comes with its own rewards. Sometimes your adversary can understand, but they are merely trapped, trapped within their own mind, within their own misunderstanding of the world, within their own limitations. And for those, if you can see them, if you can recognize them for who they are, mercy might just give you a most potent companion.

-Wei An Wei, The Realmbreaker

II-120

A Night at the Theater (II)

“I am impressed,” Wei said. No reply came, but he was truly impressed. His Concept Core of the Harvest had transformed the stage into his personal realm—his realm of the Harvest. But the Sinner, the Facetaker, was nowhere to be seen, not even within the confines of Wei’s Omniscience. He couldn’t understand why that was at all, but he was really looking forward to finding out.

To his growing interest, he experienced a series of dilation echoes splashing over him, twisting around his body. An attack was coming from almost every direction at once—as if the echoes themselves weren’t sure, as if his relativity was uncertain.

The young master licked his lips and actually chuckled. “Finally, something novel,” he murmured, feeling a feeling of danger not with his Omniscience but with his instincts. He felt a shift in the air, and he twisted. The blade barely missed him, but he realized the Facetaker wasn’t striking to kill—it was aimed at his midriff, at the point where his spinal cluster joined his tailbone.

Wei swept out, but at the last moment, he decided to strike with the haft of his glaive instead of the scythe. The blow impacted the Facetaker, who grunted and slid along the ground. The Facetaker wasn’t particularly strong or quick, but they were remarkably silent—so quiet that even Wei’s system was fooled. The young master could have finished the man with a dozen thrown scythes, but Wei decided he wanted to be sporting. So he watched the Facetaker for a few moments, head cocked in curiosity.

“I will tell you only one more time,” the Facetaker said, voice low, morose, displeased. “Leave. Leave, or I will be forced to take extreme measures.”

Wei pointed a finger. “I’m impressed with what you did. If you didn’t hear me earlier—I am. I couldn’t feel you at all. I don’t know how you’re doing that. But I will release my inner realm and return us to the stage. You may stalk me, hunt me, attempt to take my face in front of the audience—whatever you wish. But I want to know something. How are you avoiding my notice?”

The Facetaker didn’t answer. Wei pressed on. “Your body is shrouded in darkness. Your face is blank and black—a pall as dreary as a funeral shroud. Why? What are you hiding?”

“Fine,” the Facetaker said with an eye roll. “I’m going to drop this realm regardless in a moment. I do not need to use it against you. You don’t seem to be trying to kill me, anyway. Or not trying very hard.”

“I don’t kill. Not really,” the Facetaker replied. “I preserve. I preserve.”

Wei felt he was missing something—something about this mysterious Sinner, about this whole affair. “Preserve?”

Wei released his realm and the scythes vanished, the sprouting blades dissolved. Shadow and light ceased their war—and he was once again on the stage, trapped in that dense forest, thick mist rolling over him like curling fingers urging the Facetaker to deliver proper violence upon the young master.

Yet neither moved.

“What do you mean?” Wei asked.

“They don’t deserve their faces. I don’t deserve mine,” the Facetaker answered, the motion so slight Wei barely noticed. “The faces belong on something better—a better body, a better face. I make them perfect. I preserve them.”

Wei was pretty sure he was dealing with a madman. But this madman sounded like he had a story. On a whim, Wei made a decision.

“I’m not going to kill you either,” Wei said. “I won’t even try. My curiosity is piqued. You’ll try to take my face, and I’ll try to best you—and keep you alive. That’s my new bargain.”

The Facetaker studied him, then stepped back. The mist rolled over him—and he vanished entirely from Wei’s omniscience.

“Well,” Wei murmured, “this will be extremely annoying, but also very interesting.”

A loud chorus of claps roared from the audience. He stared out and frowned: he wasn’t sure what they were applauding or why they threw roses, but he shrugged and carried on. This world was an odd place filled with degenerates. Maybe they enjoyed two people hunting each other. Maybe they were delusional enough to call it art.

When he strolled off into the woods, to his surprise, the stage always remained to his right. No matter where he was, there was a small window of reality—a portal he could cross through, where the audience constantly stared. In a weird sense, it was voyeurism and a strange kind of performance art.

“I’m beginning to see some of the appeal,” he said. “It’s an interesting format.”

His Shell considered the mechanics of this minor realm. “I’m more interested in how he composed a scrolling, developing sub-world within this theater. Another thing we might ask him.”

Just then, dilation-echoes flashed through Wei—and once more the Facetaker appeared from an odd angle, bursting through the mist with a silvery blade. Despite the surprise, the Facetaker was slow, and Wei, dancing on the edge of combat, easily dodged, letting the blade cut open air before snatching the dagger from his hand.

But the moment he stole the dagger, the Facetaker vanished once more—dagger and all—dissolving into mist.

“Mist,” Wei blinked. His mind accelerated, and he gained another level of Enlightenment, as a theory formed. He was actually staring at the Facetaker all along—this wasn’t pure stealth. His Shell realized it too.

The looming Skill looked around and laughed. “I see. What a remarkable thing to do.” The Skill brushed the corners of the realm, its finger gliding through this makeshift dimension. “He is this place. Melded with his minor realm. We control our Realm of the Harvest, but he blends into his environment. He can materialize anywhere—because this place is him. This is his great skill. Anyone who cannot strike the environment at once, or disrupt its essence, has no means of attacking him. How ingeniously clever.”

“Then we must incapacitate him quickly,” Wei decided. He waited, ignoring the dilation echoes this time, because he knew the Facetaker could come from any direction at any moment. So Wei simply sat down. He knelt, he meditated, and he presented an open target.

His plan worked a little too well. Unlike all the other sinners the Facetaker hunted, the young master wasn’t scared. He wasn’t even particularly worried. He genuinely meant what he said earlier: even with all the Facetaker’s advantages—the ability to melt into and out of this realm—they weren’t going to touch Wei. He was sure of it. He’d been honed far too much to make any mistakes.

Once more, he heard the rasp of metal, the sing-song of a dagger gliding through the air. The young master smirked. He caught the Facetaker by the wrist before they could close the distance. He struck their elbow, and something broke. A loud cry sounded from the Facetaker—and they vanished in his hand as a swirl of mist washed over them, trees cracking as the thicket expanded, turning the forbidden forest into something altogether uninviting. The wind howled, carrying the distant scream on its currents.

“You are using this place to mask your pain,” Wei said aloud. “You have melded into this place—I figured it out. I do not need to ask you anymore. But still, I remain impressed.”

He looked around, waiting for a response. When none came, he continued, “Why do you do this? Why do you use your skills here in this manner? What is the purpose? What is the point? Why does this matter to you? Why do you find this to be art?”

“It’s preservation,” the Facetaker’s voice echoed from all directions. And Wei understood that was true: the realm itself was speaking to him.

“Explain that to me.”

The Facetaker suddenly materialized behind him, already slashing. Wei simply angled his head. The Facetaker was gone. They cut again, and again, each blade kissing only empty air. Wei noted, silently, that the Facetaker was slow—slow compared to Lein. Their knife technique felt less like fighting and more like surgery: precise, extracting a face neatly rather than leaving a mangled mess. He wasn’t an average madman; he was an insane artist.

Wei took a chance. “What are you trying to make? What are you gathering all these faces for?”

“You wouldn’t understand!” the Facetaker yelled.

Wei smirked. “Press him,” his the Shell demanded—and Wei obeyed.

“Tell me! Tell me and I will listen! I am not here to judge you. I am not here to leer. I am not like them,” Wei gestured toward the distant audience, scoffing despite their claps and chants of his name. “No self-respecting cultivator would delight in brutality and slaughter for ends beyond power or virtue.”

“I… I’m trying to bring… I’m trying to bring them back.”

“Bring what back?” Wei prompted.

“The piece. The final piece. I need a face. I need a perfect face. I’m trying to make the perfect face.” The desperation in the Facetaker’s voice was unmistakable.

Suddenly, Wei realized he wasn’t dealing with a fearsome hunter but someone young, desperate, and lost. “What kind of face do you need?”

“I don’t know!” The scream was accompanied by flashing thunder as the Facetaker materialized next to him, blade swinging wide—fast enough to crack the sound barrier and split several trees. 

Wei dodged effortlessly. He ignored the strike. “What kind of face?” he asked again, calm.

“I don’t know!” the Facetaker howled, darkness peeling back to reveal a mousy-looking boy, younger than Wei, eyes unwilling to meet his, lip bloodied from biting. “I don’t know,” he cried, then vanished into the mists.

Wei smirked very, very hard. He’d come expecting to butcher a killer. Instead, he found a confused—but not unteachable—young soul.

“What if I could help you find this face?” Wei asked.

“No, you can’t!” the Facetaker shouted. “No one knows what I want! No one wants to understand! They’re just here to watch me kill—watch me take faces! They’re here for the blood, to admire my cuts. They’re not people to me. No one cares. It’s just me!”

Wei paused. “But I’m still here, aren’t I? I could have fled at any moment. I could have cut you at any moment.” His voice edged with steel. “I can strike you. I can hurt you at any moment, boy—but I don’t. What do you think of that?”

The Facetaker trembled. “I think… I think you’re using me for fun, too.”

Wei drew a sharp breath and then dismissed his glaive, holding out an arm. “Fine—come out. Cut me then. I won’t strike you anymore. We can do this as long as you want. You will tell me everything before the end—so come, vent your rage. Tell me your heart. It’s important to speak eventually.”

With a scream, the Facetaker burst from the mist: “No one understands! No one sees! Everyone’s blind! Everyone never has the perfect face—it’s always the wrong ones! And I need the eyes, too! I can’t get them right!”

He ranted and cleaved, ferocity born of pain. Wei parried and dodged; by the end, he was holding the Facetaker by the back of the neck as the boy’s blade still swung—but with no strength left. The boy sagged against Wei. “I need…I need a face.”

Once more, the shadows peeled from the Facetaker’s features. Wei met the boy’s eyes for the first time: wide, desperate, savage, yet sharp with intellect twisted by trauma.

“Your face,” the Facetaker breathed. “Your eyes… It’s still not good enough. It will never be good enough!” the boy wailed.

“Why isn’t it good enough?” Wei asked.

“I need a face for an angel. I need it. I need a face to put on the body of a god. A god? I need to find the face of a god?”

“Yes. I need to find the face of a god.”

An idea formed. One Vendrian might not like, that others might oppose—but it could satisfy the boy. “What about the God of Death? Do you know of them? What about their face?”

The boy couldn’t look at him. He wasn’t fading to mist—he was listening. He struggled but made no real effort to flee. Wei leaned in and chuckled.

“What does the Hound look like?” The boy asked.

“Like a dog or a wolf. But also unlike any of them.”

“I don’t… I don’t trust you.”

“I think you do,” Wei said. “Or at least I think you’re curious. You want to know what I can offer. I’ve proven I’m not quarry, not your enemy. I don’t intend to mock you. I’m curious—and so are you. Since I haven’t hurt you, I won’t.”

He paused. “I can’t force my will on you when we have our rules.” He leaned closer. “You haven’t called your lawyer. Not once. You could have all this time. But despite everything, you want something. You want to know what I know. Am I as much an enigma to you as you are to me?”

The Facetaker shook, staring at Wei. “Can you really show me a god’s face—something I can see?”

“I can show you many faces,” Wei said. “A god might be the easiest. I just need to convince someone to die for me. I think I could do it.”

The Facetaker slowly released his dagger. It clattered to the soil as he made a gesture—and the curtains crashed closed. A half-hearted cry of outrage erupted from one section of the audience, while others stood and cheered.

Wei didn’t understand it—but it didn’t matter. He came hunting a monster and found a confused, mad boy. “So,” he said quietly, “a face of a god—when would you like to see it?”

“As soon… as soon as possible,” the Facetaker whispered, lifting his eyes to meet Wei’s. He flinched at every gaze.

“Don’t like my stare?” Wei frowned. “Why? 

“It’s too intense—like you want to kill everything you see. It’s too much hate. Your eyes would be perfect without that hate. Ruined now. Ruined.”

Now Wei felt something strange—a chill. He looked away. “Fine. Come with me. Come, and I’ll show you what you desire. Let’s see if the Hound’s face is perfect enough. And if it would give you its face.”