376 - 3 Days [Sturmblitz]

Three days and two nights passed.

Despite his entranced state, to the outside world, Victor never went fully catatonic. Between bouts of screaming and being consumed by inner dragonfire, in the short windows when the throes abated, he made it abundantly clear what he wanted — food. Always food. He devoured a third of his body weight over the course of three days, and consumed about as much Witch’s Brew — she didn’t even bother accounting for the quantity of Viriditas he took in, between what he ate and drank. By Zel’s reckoning, his skin burned off and grew back twice over, and he wept enough bloody tears to exsanguinate him.

In the afternoon of the third, he grasped Koschei’s Key in hand and rammed it into his own chest, and his flesh simply parted before the artifact as if to welcome it in. That had been the turning point. Before then, even Kanberich had seemed uneasy. It was unmistakable.

“He finally broke the delusion. What a monstrous heart demon, this is usually the fastest part. At this rate, if all goes well, this may take a week…” the old dragonslayer grumbled, rubbing his chin as he nervously paced back and forth. It was clear he worried how the rest of the tribulation would go, if this first stage was this difficult, but his worries were for naught.

From the moment Victor took Koschei’s Key into himself, the rite accelerated at a breakneck pace. The redhead grasped onto his staff, using it to prop himself up as he continuously chanted a sutra of purification. The raging inferno once threatening to devour him inside-out now burst out of him as flame would burst from a burning log, each plume rapidly turning from green to the white-black of bonefire.

Three more days passed, over the course of which Victor’s skin grew back, including entirely new bone plates.

Zelsys knew it was done when he doubled over, and a vaguely draconic, grinding pressure lifted.

“How do you feel, boy?” Kanberich asked.

“I feel that… I can finally complete my work,” Victor said. He struggled to his feet, and the miniature shrine he had set up reassembled around him to form Daywolf once again. Zelsys instantly noticed the change in posture and movement, the manner in which this incomplete prototype now seemed to possess a towering presence of which it had not shown a speck previously. As it stood now, she wagered Daywolf would outperform Dawnwolf without issue. Even without any design alterations, the qualitative change Victor had just undergone was already this significant.

There was just one thing.

“Your skin burned off thrice over, you bled out at least once, and you shoved Koschei’s Key into your chest, Victor. Are you sure you’re fine?” Zel questioned with a facetious tone, gesturing towards the half-crusted blood pool at his feet. Opening his faceplace as he looked around, Victor winced. “I, ah, did do that. I am fairly certain there’s nothing wrong, but it would be a good idea to have Makhus look me over…” he said, his eyes glazing over. He took a step, and before he could take the second, he was asleep inside his armor.

And so, she wrapped him up in her Thundergods and simply carried him on her back. She didn’t spend much longer at the Guardian Spire, and neither did Kanberich — with the rite finished, they visited the manor once more and soon made for the tower summit. Kanberich refused to speak until they returned to Willowdale, and so they flew back with an unconscious Victor in tow. In the memento-filled back room of Kanberich’s restaurant, Victor lay sprawled out in full armour as his elders spoke over tea. It was so bitter even Zelsys felt it was a little much, far beyond any mundane plant, but there was something undeniably appealing about it.

The man who sat across from her was not Siegfried Kanberich Eberheart, but Kanbu — sans Zirnitra, sans his imposing aura, only a hint of green flame burning behind his eyes. He drained three cups before he broke the silence at last.

“The tribulation is never pretty, but this one was anything but in line with the established course of events. The boy’s heart demon, his deific cultivation method, that jeweled key, the Despot of Self… But all’s well that ends well. As his foundation stabilizes over the coming days, the true results will show themselves,” he said.

He placed a pair of scrolls on the table. The first had a silver spindle and tan fabric, and felt both old and new. The other was black dragonhide. It exuded an aura similar to the Dragonslayer Flame Method scroll, but weaker, less heavy — nonetheless, Zel got the impression it was at least several hundred years old.

“Here. Take them,” he said, pointing to the dragonhide scroll first. “I made a few of these a long while ago, so I would have them if I found a suitable disciple. It’s a copy of the original. It’s complete as far as the Dragonslayer Flame Method is concerned — the only parts missing are mine and mine alone. I’m sure you understand.”

Then, pointing to the silver-spindled scroll, he continued: “Herein, I compiled the best parts of the leyline-riding methods I had access to within the Guardian Spire. The ones that helped me the most, at least. It seems this, among all others, was a technique that came closest to extinction during the dark ages. It does not surprise me — such a means of travel is advanced and powerful enough to be limited to only a sect’s most advanced disciples, meaning that upon a sect’s destruction, the technique would be lost, and whomever knew it wouldn’t be eager to teach it to just anyone. Yet, at the same time, we old monsters take it for granted, and so it doesn’t come to mind when we think of something interesting to teach the next generation.”

He grinned. “I am sure the survivor sects would rather you not have this.”