[Severed Divinity] 71. The Morning After

As he departed Welco’s mansion, Jorin felt like he’d been hit by an Eldrassin subwyrm, even after taking a peak tier two meridian cleansing pill. He left alone since Kelsina needed more time to recover after serving as the primary invoker of shadow call, a technique they could only cast at full strength. She’d overtaxed herself using it after fighting the other tier twos. Jorin had offered his energy to assist in powering the technique, but that never worked well for cultivation techniques, and resulted in significant energy loss. Joint casting was ever the domain of mages.

Even though he’d also passed out from helping with the technique, he hadn’t strained himself nearly as much as Kelsina, so one pill was theoretically enough to make him functional.

Since Kelsina had been so out of it, reporting on what had occurred had mostly fallen to him.

Jorin went over the short discussion with the drayavin tier three, explaining how she’d readily accepted the offer of assistance in return for access to Lumina Eldrassin’s mage-oriented legacy. That had gone according to plan.

They hadn’t expected the Aran Empire to make an appearance, so that was where the brunt of Welco’s questions were focused. How many had they fought off, how many had been killed, how many had escaped...

The answers had been relatively straightforward. By Jorin’s count, one Aranite had escaped, one of the original tier twos who had appeared. There could have been other Aranites waiting in the wings, observing, but Jorin didn’t have any way to tell for sure.

He did mention the presence of an unaffiliated third party, probably a woman based on her height and the dress-like cloak draped over her slight frame. Even the shroud covering her face had reminded him of a mourning shroud typically worn by female elves.

He hadn’t seen the woman use techniques, but she’d displayed adept combat prowess in her ambush of an Aranite assassin. She’d also taken a hit from a corrosive arrow without being incapacitated, which spoke to her combat experience.

“Probably a cultivator from the south,” Welco had concluded. “Such free agents are little more than nuisances in the broader conflict. Keep an eye out if the same cultivator appears again, though. It never hurts to be cautious.”

As Jorin finished the last stretch of his walk back, he came to a crossroads—one way led back to the sect proper and his room, and the other led to the weapons yard, a sister facility to the archery range.

He squinted his eyes at the sun cresting over the horizon.

His bed called to him... but he was ultimately a creature of habit.

The weapons yard was emptier than usual. Usually a few hundred cultivators engaged in the morning ritual, practicing to hone their skills, ensuring they didn’t fall into disuse. There was often a group of mages as well, since some elves found it enjoyable to practice swordsmanship, but they were all absent, courtesy of the clan’s mage evacuation.

Jorin usually practiced with Kelsina. He scanned for someone of an appropriate level to spar with, but his heart wasn’t really in it. He was tired and didn’t want to go all out, and that was definitely what would happen. Anyone he chose to practice with would take it as an opportunity to showcase their skills, and Jorin wasn’t so much better that he could afford to half-ass his side of things.

He looked for another distraction and found it in the children. All the clades were present from first to sixth. Usually the later clades didn’t have such perfect attendance; he wondered how much of what was going on they understood. Maybe they’d sensed the quiet unease and uncertainty in the clan’s atmosphere. Maybe they’d heard something from their parents or other clan members.

Jorin taught cultivation to the fourth and sixth clades, so he was closer to some of the children, though he still knew all of them—the clan was small enough that he recognized everyone by name and face.

The lower clades, first through third, didn’t hold much interest. They were simply too young, with many in the first and second clades not even cultivators yet. In the morning weapons yard practice, they typically focused on drills and reinforcing—and in the case of first clade, building—muscle memory.

He trained his focus on the older clades—in particular, the tier twos, who had gathered in their own group.

There were three fourth clade cultivators, along with seven from fifth clade and all nine from sixth clade. There was an odd number—perfect.

They noticed his approach. Tomnas’s eyes lit up and he waved. “Jorin!”

Jorin gave the boy a nod, then swept his gaze over the others. On their own accord, they spread out around him in rough order of cultivation level. Tomnas, sixth clade’s star pupil from the south, was on the far right. And on the far left was Isen, which... wasn’t quite right. With seven rings, the boy belonged closer to the middle of the pack, and that wasn’t accounting for his high body tempering and his monstrous meridian responsiveness. Isen was probably at least twice as strong as one of his peers, ring for ring.

It didn’t actually matter, though, so Jorin didn’t remark on it. “I’m pleased to see you all practicing today,” he said. “To reward your diligence, I’ll join you all in sparring. Today, we’ll start by pairing up according to your rough number of rings. We’ll rotate every five minutes.” He nodded to Tomnas. “I’ll start with you.”

He spared a glance for Isen; this was the boy’s first time in the weapons yard, and he looked slightly perplexed, but he had Freyan and Arthum nearby, so he’d probably be fine.

Eh.

Jorin didn’t know all the ring levels of the fifth tiers, but he was pretty sure Tomnas did, since he sparred with them often, exchanging pointers with the younger clades. There was a kindness to Tomnas tempered by a fanatical drive to get stronger, a drive that he hid beneath his welcoming smile and carefree generosity.

He gave Tomnas a look. “Can you pair the new recruit, Isen, with someone? He has seven rings, but match him with someone with double that.”

The teen raised an eyebrow and walked over to the boy, interrupting Freyan and performing the gentlest of extractions, tugging Isen away to a fifth clade girl conversing with two others.

They chatted softly, so Jorin couldn’t hear without intentionally focusing, which he had no desire to do. That is, until he saw Tomnas’s expression change. “Eight?” the teen asked.

“I solidified my eighth last night,” Isen confirmed.

“Zirala has sixteen, so it’s a better match than I thought,” Tomnas said with a smile. “Right, Zira?”

Zirala looked Isen up and down. “You have eight rings? That’s really impressive for your age, but that’s only half of mine.” The girl was seventeen and had broken through to the second tier a year and a half ago. Her cultivation speed was swift; Jorin guessed she’d eventually end up in B rank.

Tomnas pointed to Jorin. “His orders.”

Zirala didn’t look entirely convinced, but she let the argument rest. It was only sparring, and they’d be switching partners after only a few minutes.

With that matter settled, Tomnas returned to Jorin. The two picked up practice blades from one of the ubiquitous racks, thin swords crafted from heavy wood graded for tier two cultivators. Other weapons were also available, but the sword was the general preference of the clan since it flowed better with the Femera sequences.

They took positions opposite one another.

“Begin,” Jorin said, and the young man—for Tomnas was technically an adult at twenty years of age, even if he hadn’t yet graduated from the sixth clade—surged forward. His calm, easy-going demeanor evaporated, replaced by ferocious aggression. The weapons yard was a place for cultivators to practice without leveraging their techniques, honing their skills, but that didn’t mean the spars were boring or slow-paced.

Jorin stepped to the side, avoiding Tomnas’s strike and bringing his own sword around with all his passive cultivator’s strength.

Five minutes passed quickly; by the end, Tomnas was breathing hard. He had a dynamic style, always trying something new to break past Jorin’s guard. He had good instincts, and even better technique, developed over years of practice.

“Switch,” Jorin called.

In retrospect, Jorin wondered if he shouldn’t have left Tomnas for last. Even compared to his contemporaries in sixth clade, Tomnas was a cut above. Most cultivators were destined for C tier, with a few reaching B, and still fewer A. Tomnas was leaving the sixth clade as a high C, and one of the higher ranked C’s in the clan. If he kept training diligently, he might reach A.

It was a genuine pleasure to spar with such a rising talent.

Jorin did his best to push every student, giving them just the right amount of challenge, even as his enthusiasm waned. Dark thoughts intruded as his mind wandered.

He wondered if all of the children would survive the days ahead.

The practical part of him said definitely not. The hopeful part that believed in the patriarch rejected the possibility. Welco would protect them. He would protect them, along with the other clan cultivators.

He felt a new spike of excitement as another rising star moved into place across from him: Isen. The boy tipped his head, his mien serious.

“I’m... not good at sparring,” Isen confessed. “I lost against everyone.”

Jorin hadn’t really been paying attention to the other spars, so he hadn’t seen Isen’s bouts. He glanced at the boy’s hand; he held the practice sword with the familiarity of someone used to swinging a blade.

More than that, Isen moved with a subtle confidence, like someone highly in-tune with their own body. Jorin had noticed it during cultivation lessons.

“Not good at sparring... or not good at fighting?”

Isen replied immediately, “Sparring.”

Jorin held his sword at the ready. “Did your master train you against monsters?” It was an unconventional training method, but some crazy tier threes insisted on it. Welco Femera, was, thankfully, not crazy.

Isen smiled. “Something like that.”

“Then fight me as you would a monster,” Jorin said. “Show me what the direct apprentice of a tier three can do.”

Isen came at him with all the ferocity of a drayavin. All instinct, with minimal technique, and extremely adaptable. He focused on reading Jorin’s moves and anticipating them, which wasn’t something Jorin expected of someone his age. It wasn’t something Jorin expected of most combatants, period.

“You’re stronger than you should be,” Jorin said as he riposted, knocking Isen’s sword aside. When Isen empowered his body, he struck with force approaching that of Tomnas, who had thirty-two rings. “However your master trained you, it worked.”

But in the end, Isen’s assault suffered for its brutal simplicity. By the end of the five minutes, it was obvious that he’d really never trained in any proper sword style. Maybe his master specialized in a different weapon; Jorin couldn’t say.

“Why did you lose your spars?” Jorin asked as he finished the bout with a sword to Isen’s throat.

He flinched at the question, appearing visibly uncertain. “There’s only one way I know how to fight,” he finally said.

Jorin withdrew the wooden blade and studied the wiry boy, deep in thought. “Switch!” he eventually called out, though he caught Tomnas’s gaze, causing the older boy to run over.

“Tomnas, as you know, Isen is new. Can you show him the basics? He’s never trained formally in the sword.”

Ever the willing student, Tomnas nodded. “Of course.” He pulled Isen away just in time for the next young cultivator to take her place before Jorin.

It was a genuine setback for Isen to start formal sword training so late. But from everything Jorin has seen so far, he was a quick study.

He was curious how much lost ground Isen would be able to make up.