[Severed Divinity] 51-53

Chapter 51. New Recruit

[ Jorin. Even middle aged half elves look hot. Combo of elven genes and tier 2. ]

At the early hour, the streets were relatively clear, though some elves milled about. The lack of congestion allowed the horse to display some of its speed and maneuverability. Whenever Jorin so much as twitched the reins, the horse responded, shifting directions.

Even on horseback, it took them an hour to reach their destination: an imposing staircase flanked by a pair of guards in full regalia. The staircase was made of the same white material as the rest of the city. What made it stand out was its size and height. The stairway was over ten feet wide and had large steps, reminiscent of those Isen had seen at the Compass of Legacy. The stairs extended skyward a long way, Isen guessed at least a quarter mile.

Jorin led the steed to one of the guards, who, upon seeing the man’s pins, waved them through. “Will you be fine if we pick up the pace?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

Jorin flicked the reins, and the horse took off like its tail was on fire. Isen nearly lost his hold on the beast from the sudden shift, squeezing his legs around its body and clenching the pommel.

The stairs flew by. In a minute, they’d reached the top. Isen turned to behold the primary level, which stretched out in fullness before him, beautiful and white in the early sun. People wandered about like ants.

Then, Isen turned and beheld the upper level. It was a bluff that naturally looked over the city while still remaining within the towering walls that spanned the gorge. A single paved walkway proceeded forward. Only a few paces in, it lifted from the ground, suspended by seemingly nothing. Below it lay fields of red flowers with voluptuous yellow stamen, all rustling in the soft breeze.

Isen directed his attention further out. The walkway rose, its height over the ground increasing. It eventually split, like a scroll torn into several vertical pieces, each leading to a vast gated compound.

The sleeksteed panted heavily and resumed the journey at a pace little more than a mundane person’s jog. Jorin rubbed the horse’s side affectionately, and Isen raised a hand and ran it through the beast’s silky blue mane, no longer needing to grip the pommel to keep his seat.

“Why is the walkway raised, when the ground beneath is flat?” Isen asked.

Jorin gestured to the path. “It’s impressive and elegant.”

It had taken Isen’s breath away, so he couldn’t disagree.

They soon reached the point of divergence. To Isen’s surprise, there was a branching road he hadn’t seen, one that led downward. He saw a plaza below, ringed by red flowers and lush green fields.

Jorin flicked the reins and the sleeksteed took the seventh path, the one furthest to the right. Isen scrutinized the associated compound’s walls. White, like most things in Eldrassin, with black banners draped over them. White and violet filigree on the banners came into focus as they neared the gates, which were open but manned by a dark-haired half elf woman in a black dress that reached her knees. A violet fur mantle hid her shoulders, and a tier two pin, plus the additional pin that Jorin wore, adorned her collar.

As they drew closer, she gazed at Isen with unconcealed interest. She didn’t say anything when they passed through, however, merely giving Jorin a clipped wave.

Within the compound, Isen got his first taste of what it meant to be part of a tier three’s clan. It was filled with what looked like simple cloth structures, almost like merchant tents. They were multi-leveled, and thin walkways little more than long, colorful ribbons stretched between the buildings. At a glance, it almost looked like a rich man’s tented shantytown: impermanent, unplanned, and precariously constructed.

He saw one half elf dash between two buildings, her feet seeming to barely touch the fabric. She somersaulted off at the end. Isen expected her feet to sink into the upper structure’s cloth floor, but the fabric was rigid, not moving an inch.

Of course, it was magic cloth.

The ground was a mix of the cleanest dirt paths Isen had ever seen, fine white packed sediment that didn’t produce dust clouds even under heavy hoof falls, and trimmed green grass.

The center of the compound was devoid of any buildings, instead filled by a broad square of the white dirt. Considering the hundreds of half elves moving through a series of flowing strikes on the flat space, Isen figured it was a dedicated area for training and fighting.

Everywhere Isen looked, people were in a flurry of activity—the morning rush. He wondered how many, if any, knew of the impending calamity.

“It’s not usually this busy,” Jorin remarked as he led the horse around the right edge of the compound. “The queen’s death has put a fire under everyone. Her lessers must rise to defend the kingdom, and that trickles down, keeping tier twos like us busier than ever.”

Isen hummed noncommittally. Jorin eventually called the sleeksteed to a stop outside of the largest building, another black cloth construction at the head of the compound, in the far back. Unlike the more improvised buildings, it was elegantly shaped into what looked like a massive arching wave made of shadow. The fabric became more shear in places, giving the illusion of foam and bubbles.

Jorin and Isen dismounted. The older cultivator patted the rump of the steed and motioned for Isen to follow him inside. They traversed a short staircase made of the same black cloth before coming to an arch covered by a thin, flowing cloth. Isen covertly stomped on the stairs as they went. It felt like solid stone.

Behind the archway was a spacious chamber with a plethora of plush chairs and low tables. At the back was a desk tended by two dark-haired pure elves engrossed in conversation. They turned as Jorin approached.

“A new clan recruit?” the one on the right asked, a man with dark tan skin.

“Yes.”

The one on the left, a woman with bright pink eyes, pulled open a binder. She held a thin, featherless quill over an empty page. “Name?”

Jorin looked to him.

“Isen.”

“Age?”

Thirteen or fourteen? Isen wanted to round up—he wanted to be older—but also… if he was trying to be as impressive as possible.

Groaning inwardly, he said, “Thirteen.”

“Don’t skip over species,” Jorin suddenly interjected.

The woman blinked. “Half elf?”

Jorin shook his head. “Human.”

That got a pause. Both elves behind the desk were taken aback. Isen couldn’t say he was surprised by the reaction, given everything he’d learned in the Elven Lands.

“Cultivator, or mage?” the woman finally continued.

“Cultivator.”

She gave him an encouraging smile. “And how long have you been cultivating?”

Isen was genuinely curious how they’d react to this one. “A little over a year.”

Now even Jorin was looking at him strangely.

The woman coughed as the scribbled into the sheet. “How many rings have you consolidated?”

Isen had no idea what would be impressive at this point, but he wasn’t going to lie. They might have ways to check. “Seven.”

The man’s polite expression warped into one of annoyance. “Jorin, is this a joke?”

“Keep going, Saerenna,” the half elf escort insisted, blowing the other elf off.

The woman, ostensibly Saerenna, narrowed her eyes in dawning realization. “Sponsor?”

“Welco Femera,” Jorin stated, raising an eyebrow.

The elven duo looked as though doused with cold water. “Oh,” the man said simply.

Saerenna shook her head. “Where did the patriarch find him?”

Jorin shrugged. “That is none of our business.”

She wrote quickly for another half minute, then closed the binder and set the quill aside. “As a new tier two recruit, your residence will be in section E. You can either take a room that’s already constructed, or you can make one yourself. Do you have a preference?”

Isen had no idea what making one would entail. “I’ll take one that’s ready now.”

“That keeps things simple.” Saerenna turned to the wall behind her. There were a series of small pegs, at least one or two hundred of them. Each had at least one key hanging from it, though a few had a second key. Interestingly, he noticed that the peg grid was arranged by letter and number, with letters coming from the common tongue. The common alphabet was simpler, so it did make sense, but it was a surprise given the disdain elves seemed to hold for humans.

Saerenna grabbed a key from the E section. “The room is stocked with fresh linens, sect uniforms, and basic necessities. If you need anything else, you’ll need to acquire them with sect points. Jorin, have you already explained…?”

“No.”

“Alright. Isen, since you’re still a minor, you’ll gain sect points by going to classes and cultivation instruction with the other sect members. As long as you exert yourself, you’ll have more points than you’ll know what to do with.” Saerenna said this with a kind smile, but Isen felt a cold feeling in his stomach.

“Classes,” he echoed, “covering what areas of study?”

“The elven foundations—literature and writing, mathematics and reasoning, history and geography, tactics and strategy, and the arts.”

“Can I refuse?”

She blinked. “Why would you?”

He was clenching his hands so tight, he felt his nails digging into his palms. “For one, I’m not an elf. I’ve already learned the equivalent human foundations. And more importantly, I believe I can study better on my own. A class filled with others will only slow my progress.”

“Isen, you’re clearly a gifted cultivator, but you’re in the Elven Lands—you must learn the foundations. Depending on your performance, however, we can look into getting you a personal instructor.”

“Is there a way to test out now?”

Saerenna looked to Jorin, who shook his head. “Just attend classes for a few days, and if there’s a problem, we’ll talk.”

Isen didn’t know what else he could say at this point. He just nodded. Saerenna handed him a sheet of paper along with the key to his room and waved him off.

Jorin didn’t speak until they returned to the entrance. “Are you concerned the classes will be boring?”

Isen didn’t respond.

“If you’re worried about sheprin, don’t be—you’re a tier two.”

He cocked his head at the unfamiliar word. “Sheprin?”

Realization came over the half elf. “The other children being... rude to you. Picking fights.”

Isen laughed sharply at that. “That is the least of my concerns.” Jorin’s care was endearing, but he wished the man would stop. “My priority is cultivating. I simply don’t have time to worry about anything else.”

Jorin looked unconvinced. “You may be human, but you’re a cultivator—you do have time.” He grabbed the sleeksteed’s reins and walked the horse back the way they had come. “It might not be obvious at a glance, but there’s a letter displayed on a plaque before each building.” He pointed to the nearest one. “B.” It was a large structure, practically a complex. C and D were even bigger.

In contrast, E was much smaller. There were three doors—little more than flaps—on the first floor, and a small ladder leading up to a landing on the second. Isen didn’t see any obvious place to put a key.

“The numbers always go from left to right. Your key is for E2, so the middle door.” Jorin grabbed the key from Isen and brought it up to the front flap. Incredibly, the cloth morphed around the key, forming a hole. Jorin inserted it and twisted, then withdrew it.

The door rolled upwards on its own, granting them entrance.

“If you have questions, you can ask anyone—but if you want to talk to me, I live in A3. If I’m not in, you can leave a note.” He motioned to the rolled up paper in Isen’s hand. “Otherwise, all the basic information you need is in there.”

“Thank you,” Isen said softly.

“Good luck, Isen.”

Isen took the key back, along with the library bag filled with his possessions that Jorin had been carrying. With a polite smile, he turned and entered his room. He pulled the flap down and the room resealed itself, leaving Isen in a murky semi-darkness—the cloth let in enough natural light to see by, even though there weren’t any windows.

Isen dropped the bag, bow, and quiver on the ground and looked the space over. It was about the same size as his hotel room, though didn’t have a full bathroom. He only saw a small corner sectioned off with cloth that couldn’t fit much more than a chamber pot and, if he was lucky, a small washbasin.

Instead of a plush bed, there was a padded mat on one side of the room. Bed linens—what looked like sheets and a simple quilt—were folded on top of it. A shelf made of the ubiquitous black cloth on the back wall contained three sets of clan clothing, a black tunic and pants. There were even undergarments in another bin, a welcome surprise.

Rather than feeling relieved that he wouldn’t be kept “safe” in an isolated cell, or excited at the opportunity to learn from a proper tier three organization… He was filled with dread.

He knew it was irrational, but that didn’t help. He considered just not going to the classes at all. He’d be fine without sect points for a month, and it wasn’t like he was planning to stick around the clan for longer than that, not if Lumina’s current plan came to fruition and they left the city in the coming weeks.

He could just cultivate and hope to impress everyone with his cultivation prowess and young age.

He still rejected that idea. There were things he needed to learn—things he wanted to learn.

He couldn’t let his past drag him down.

He wouldn’t let it ruin his future, too.

Chapter 52. Lady Jin

How Lady Jin had found them hadn’t seemed important at the time, but Isen had later thought back to it with an almost feverish obsession. Why had she approached them, older, streetwise orphans, where “rough around the edges” was an understatement, rather than younger ones, or even infants who could be shaped from birth?

He had never found an answer that satisfied him.

But she had approached Isen’s gang, and even welcomed them into her home to hear her proposition. Normally they would never accept such suspect generosity, but Isen had assured everyone that nothing bad would happen to them.

Lady Jin’s son had died, and her husband had also already passed away. She wanted a new son or daughter, and had decided to choose one from Goldbounty’s many orphans. She had claimed that she wanted to adopt a child who was similar in age to her son. It had seemed reasonable, at the time. None of them had fully understood the terrible gulf that widened each year between children with everything… and those without.

Her proposition had seemed too good to be true: she would house all seventeen of Isen’s gang, children from age nine to twelve, providing them food and instruction. The instruction angle was most irresistible—any kind of education was invaluable and otherwise completely out of reach.

They’d almost doubted it, but the full bookcase in Lady Jin’s living room, where she’d offered her proposition, had silenced those doubts.

In the end, the lady would adopt only one of them, but all would benefit from shelter, food, and learning.

And so they had accepted.

... And so they had descended into a nightmare.

In the beginning, spirits were high. Lady Jin forced everyone to thoroughly wash, gave them clean clothes, and arranged two rooms, one for the boys and the other for the girls. The arrangement was cozy—the rooms weren’t large—but it was more than they had expected.

It was as though overnight, the orphans had shed their skin and become something like little aristocrats. Isen wished he could have stopped time and captured that moment forever.

Now, their optimism seemed so silly, so naïve.

None of them had been stupid. They were observant children, and they’d all known better than to yearn for the impossible, to dream beyond their station… But Isen had told them that this was the real thing, and they’d trusted him blindly, and so invited hope, the most insidious of monsters, into their hearts.

Lady Jin taught them herself. She was well-educated, and had a tongue honed by years conversing with other intellectuals, especially wealthy men who passed through and wanted to catch up. Isen hadn’t seen that side of her until much later.

She had converted her living room into a classroom of sorts. The orphans sat wherever there was space, overflowing from the limited seating options—a divan and three chairs—onto the floor rugs. She had given each of them a square of dark green and a piece of chalk.

They had tried. Isen knew they had. But most of the orphans struggled terribly with the most simple lessons, like learning the alphabet and basic math.

Lady Jin seemed undeterrable—she taught them, corrected mistakes, and always smiled. But as the first week dragged to a close, Isen wondered if she was really trying to teach them at all. It felt more like a test.

At the close of the second week, Lady Jin announced who would be leaving.

At first, the orphans had been confused. Leaving? But Lady Jin explained slowly, simply, so everyone could plainly understand. Every two weeks, she would choose one of them to leave. She’d timed it so it would take exactly a year to select her new child.

The reaction to this had been ambivalent. The children enjoyed the cushy life with Lady Jin, but many had quickly soured on the idea of learning.

They hadn’t considered what it meant for only one of them to be released back onto the streets at a time. A lone orphan without the backing of the others was vulnerable in Goldbounty, especially when—after two weeks off the streets—their territory had surely been taken over by opportunists.

The first to leave was a girl named Kella. She’d promised to visit in a week to say hello.

She never did.

At the close of the tenth week, no one who had left had ever come back to visit, despite Lady Jin claiming that doing so was permitted. Moreover, nobody was permitted to leave the house to check on them. Lady Jin had a servant who tended to the lone door in the house at the front, and there were iron bars on the windows. Those weren’t uncommon in Goldbounty—they were to prevent break-ins—but they turned Lady Jin’s house into a cage.

So six children approached, wanting to forfeit their chance to be adopted. At that point, four had already left, so only thirteen remained—six was almost half their number.

Lady Jin had, with a polite smile and warm eyes, denied the request. It was, in her words, against their best interests.

That was when things had really spiraled.

Only four of them had a mind for learning, and of them, Isen and Letta were far ahead. Bitterness and resentment fomented in the others, leading to sabotage and beatings. Three boys led by Randall, the oldest of them all, had nearly killed Isen, slamming him into a wall and kicking him until he could hardly move.

He could have avoided it. He’d felt the danger coming. It had been a poor atonement, leading only to more pain and misery.

The longer everything dragged on, the clearer it became that Isen was the favorite. But still, with more than half the year left, Lady Jin refused to make her selection. She kept the children in her house, fed them, and tested them.

It was torture, Isen knew that now. She’d enjoyed the psychological torture she’d inflicted on children.

In Lady Jin’s prison, the only thing to do was learn, so Isen had. Whenever he pulled ahead, Lady Jin adjusted, tailoring everything to him, rather than the majority. And when the others failed to keep up, she just gave them saccharine smiles and swatted their hands with her thin stick.

Around the twentieth week, five children orchestrated an escape. It hadn’t been complex—they’d waited for the servant-guard to be asleep, then had tried picking the door’s lock. Getting the key was considered all but impossible since Lady Jin wore it around her neck on a chain. When they tampered with the door, a loud klaxon had gone off—summoning the irate, well-muscled servant. Lady Jin hadn’t bothered to rise.

The next day, the five children were heavily bruised, but still attended class like the rest.

The weeks after that were a blur of failed escape attempts and spite. The others had hated him. Isen had hated himself.

The only one who had seemed to love him was Lady Jin. It was perverse, but part of Isen came to rely on that toxic love.

Months passed until there were only two left—Isen and Letta.

He didn’t think he would ever forget her last words to him as she prepared to leave, just before Lady Jin announced her official choice.

“I know you never meant for any of this to happen. But it did, because of you. You’re so smart Isen, so much better than all of us.” Her voice was cold, as though she couldn’t even muster the energy to be venomous. “But we all know there’s more to you than that. I have to wonder, was this an opportunity for all of us, or just for you?” He’d just stared at her, unable to reply. She shook her head. “If you’re ever allowed out of this cage, do better. Goodbye, Isen.”

And just as Letta had predicted, Lady Jin continued to keep Isen in her little cage after adopting him, training him to be a supposedly perfect son. She showed him off to guests. She dressed him in increasingly nicer clothes. She entertained herself with conversation at dinner, always taking care to unveil precious little about herself.

The fragile illusion cracked one night, when Isen was asleep. The lady had come into his room. It wasn’t the original room the boys had all shared, but a room on the upper floor, one filled with another child’s belongings. It was the only proof he’d ever found that Lady Jin’s first son had ever existed.

Lady Jin entered his room and started stroking his hair, watching him. He’d woken up, but had pretended to be asleep.

He didn’t know what she wanted. Part of him suspected she was just doing what a normal mother might to her child. But it had terrified him.

He wasn’t her son. She wasn’t his mother. Her house was a hell, and every day a torment.

That was the night he had resolved to leave, or die trying.

The rest was history.

Chapter 53. Lay of the Land

Isen knew every day was important, and it was still early. He needed to be productive, even if he felt wired after all the revelations, entering Clan Femera, and a night without sleep.

He resolved to at least address his exhaustion. He made his bed and slept for two fitful hours, unable to get fully comfortable in the new environment. Still, it was better than nothing.

The bathroom was functional, with a self-cleaning chamber pot and a wash basin on a pedestal that generated its own limited water, along with a small, circular mirror that hung over it, pinned to the dark wall.

Everything felt so… temporary. There was no central infrastructure, and Isen felt that if the clan desired it, they could gut his room in minutes.

There must be a reason behind it. The sheet that Saerenna had given him wasn’t particularly helpful in that regard. It had a table with the point system, but it made little sense when he didn’t know how much a sect point was worth. It also included the class schedule. There didn’t seem to be classes today. On the back of the sheet was a map, though most of it wasn’t filled in. Only a few key locations, such as the wave-like building at the head of the compound, were denoted.

Before leaving, Isen considered what to do with the Shard of Erasmus, which he considered his only valuable possession at this point. He was loath to keep it on him, worried that someone might get too curious why he wore a blade he never drew. But leaving it in the room also struck him as unwise, especially when the structure was so obviously made for transience.

For now, he’d wear it.

He nearly jumped in surprise when, just as he was going for the door-flap, a knock sounded out. He peeled the flap upward, revealing two half elves around his age, maybe a bit older.

“Are you Isen?” The half elf girl smiled, running a hand through sand-colored hair. She gave her partner, a boy with a broad nose and angled eyes, a nudge. “I’m Freyan, and this is Arthum. We were surprised to see this room claimed—you’re really a tier two?”

Isen nodded. She was speaking faster than even Allezin—he had trouble keeping up. “And you both…?”

“Why don’t you find out for yourself,” Freyan said, smile stretching into a grin. “We can exchange pointers.”

“It’s still a bit early for sparring,” Arthum protested. “It’s rest day. I’m hungry.”

Isen realized that neither of them had the secondary pin he’d seen on Jorin and the other adults. So, they weren’t just given to everyone in the clan. Maybe it was because they were recruits, or because they hadn’t yet reached the age of majority.

Isen’s mind lingered on Arthum’s comment—rest day. If it was a rest day, why was the sect so busy, even early in the morning?

How much had Welco told his clan?

As they walked to the food hall, one of the few places denoted on the map, Freyan spoke endlessly, her talking speed seeming to ever-accelerate. Isen thought she might consider a career as an auctioneer. He felt bad that, by the time they reached the food hall, he understood only every third word.

“Freyan,” he finally interjected. “Please speak slower, or switch to common.”

She looked at Isen like he was crazy. “Common?”

Isen didn’t plan to get attached to anyone in the clan, but Freyan’s enthusiasm—and even Arthum’s quiet interest—were infectious. He found himself oddly at ease around them, enough so that he rolled his eyes and loosened the cloth around his ears. “Were you told anything else about me besides my name?”

“N-no,” she stuttered, looking down at the floor. “Ah, common, right…” She spoke it with a peculiar tang.

“Stick to elvish, but just slow down a little,” Isen said, giving her a wry smile. He turned to Arthum. “Who told you both about me, anyway?”

“There was a note left outside my door—it said to bring you along to breakfast.”

“Mine too,” Freyan rejoined.

Probably Jorin’s doing, Isen thought. He felt a small pang of appreciation.

The food hall wasn’t anything extraordinary from afar, just another black cloth building, but up close, it was strange. Its cloth was propped up and molded to form jutting geometric shapes. They didn’t have anything to do with food. He couldn’t call the abstract, chaotic shapes beautiful, either.

The two half elves didn’t pay the exterior any mind and walked straight for the open entrance flaps, the cloth folded and twisted back to form a simple archway. Within, a smattering of elves sat at tables, some of them long and rectangular, and others smaller and circular. The furniture was, unsurprisingly, made of that ubiquitous, rigid cloth.

There was a small gathering of other young elves at one of the rectangular tables. Their eyes snapped to Isen with curiosity, and one looked ready to leave her seat, but another elf held their arm.

Freyan and Arthum ignored them, heading straight for the back of the room, where a table lay filled with steaming food. Isen followed their example and took a bowl of warm porridge and a meat-filled bread knot.

They sat at an empty circular table rather than joining the other children.

Isen knew the young tier twos were curious about him, but he didn’t want to talk about himself, so he went on the conversation offensive, asking Freyan if she’d been born into the clan. It was the right choice—she spoke, while he and Arthum ate.

He did learn some interesting bits. Freyan and Arthum Femera were cousins, and they’d lived in the clan their entire lives.

Arthum was fifteen, and Freyan was a year younger, though they’d both hit tier two around the same time six months ago, the first two of their generational clade to do so. Isen didn’t know what that meant, exactly, but the clade seemed closely tied to school and cultivation training.

They seemed to have put the point about him being a human behind them as an interesting, but irrelevant detail. Given that they’d grown up in a clan without much human interaction, that sort of made sense. Isen also thought that their enthusiasm for a new young tier two was partly to blame—someone else “on their level.”

“Is it rare for someone to join the generation clade at my age?” Isen asked as he lifted his spoon. The meal was bland, undersalted to his tastes, but much better than monster meat and road rations. He was just glad to have something hot.

Freyan made a face. “So rare. You’re the first in ours since we were, what, six?” She turned to Arthum.

“Seven for me, but yeah.” He swallowed a spoonful of porridge. “Clan Femera has always been on the smaller side. Quality over quantity. Mage heavy, too, not that that’s relevant to our clade since the cultivators and mages are kept separate.”

“How many are in each clade?” Isen asked.

Freyan nodded at the table of other young elves. “Usually around ten, though ours is a big one at fifteen. Sixteen with you.”

Roughly eyeballing the other table, Isen estimated that a single clade probably spanned about two years. Arthum was probably the oldest of the clade, while Freyan was a bit older than average.

Isen didn’t see any other younger or older children eating outside of their generational clade, and only a smattering of adults. When he mentioned this, Freyan just chuckled.

“Normally kids eat at home on rest day, but our clade’s been a bit… obsessed with cultivating since me and Arthum broke through. Still, it’s been six months, and none of them have closed the gap.” She grinned.

Isen wasn’t sure what to make of Freyan’s attitude and Arthum’s complicity. She acted like cultivation was a race where six months mattered, like she and Arthum were better for reaching the second stage first… when they had over a year head start over some of the others, by Isen’s estimates.

She’s insecure, he thought as they brought their bowls over to a bin. They both are.

The realization gave him a new perspective on what they were doing now, with him.

“Your parents will be busy settling in this week,” Arthum said, breaking Isen’s train of thought. “They’re also cultivators?”

Isen smiled. “They’re not in Eldrassin. I came alone.” It wasn’t even a lie.

“WHAT!?” Freyan exploded.

“I was traveling with a tier three,” he explained. At Freyan and Arthum’s curious gazes, he added, “Allezin the Wanderer.” He didn’t see how revealing Allezin’s name would come back to bite him. Anyone who investigated his past would know that he’d come with the refugees from Shevenar.

“Oh! I guess that makes sense,” Freyan replied.

After putting their bowls away, Freyan volunteered Arthum to give a tour of the clan. The older boy gave her an exasperated look, but neatly slid into the role.

“Most of the layout will change six days from now, so don’t bother memorizing much,” he explained.

Isen eyed the surrounding buildings. “Can you elaborate?”

“Every two months, the clan rankings update,” he said. “They determine where people live. The A’s pick where they want their dwellings to be first, with the highest ranked getting first choice. The primary A also gets the privilege of setting the theme. This cycle, it was embarrassingly uninspired.” He paused for effect. “The void.”

“The void is cool!” Freyan interjected.

Arthum frowned. “The void is black. Lightless black. We weren’t even allowed any windows!”

“And this happens every two months?” Isen cut in.

“The rankings update, but the theme doesn’t always, especially if it’s the same primary,” Arthum explained. “And it’s usually the same primary, though Kelsina rose from A3 to A1 this last round, which is pretty surprising.”

“That’s only because she helped the clan head with important business outside,” Freyan noted.

The system sounded so… chaotic. He’d come in without any expectations about what the tier three Eldrassin clans were like, but even so, this belied expectations. The more eccentric it seemed, the more interested he became.

Isen filed away Kelsina’s name for later. If she’d helped Welco with important business, it was probably related to Dray.

As the tour came to a close, Freyan groaned and gestured at the central training area in disgust. “The cultivators are still drilling in the ring,” she lamented. “Whatever. We can just exchange pointers in the alleys. Just nothing too flashy. Only movement techniques.”

The ring was a broad circle circumscribed within a larger square. This left four parts bordering the circle, the alleys.

One of the alleys was empty. It was long, but thin, not giving too much space to maneuver in. Arthum explained the rules of the spar while they walked over. Isen split his attention between him and the cultivators in the central ring.

“It’s simple. Control is as important to a cultivator as power, so you must win without damaging your opponent. Drawing blood means an immediate loss. Force a surrender or wait for the referee to call a winner.”

It was an interesting rule, though Isen supposed it made sense here. In the depths, the radiant lake offered a quick solution for most injuries. On the surface, recovering wasn’t so simple. Natural recovery, higher tier monster blood, pills, healers… there were many options, but they all cost either money or time.

“Who’s going first?” Isen asked.

Arthum motioned to Freyan. “Let’s set an example.”

She beamed and made a taunting gesture at Arthum. “Try to keep up!”

They stood ten feet apart in relaxed stances, hands at the ready. They evidently planned to fight unarmed.

“We’ve practiced together enough that we don’t need an observer to call the match, so just watch and learn,” Arthum explained.

Isen nodded and stood on the periphery, eyes narrowed in focus. They just stared at each other, unmoving. Freyan even waved her arm and stomped her leg, failing to elicit a response.

Then, without warning, she exploded into motion.

Freyan launched herself at Arthum, energy bursting under her feet. From the way ambient energy swirled around her legs, it almost felt like a form of external manipulation, but seemed… different.

Arthum received the attack with grace, already stepping to the side and thrusting out with his left hand, grasping for Freyan’s arm. She nimbly twisted aside, sweeping her foot between Arthum’s legs and kicking to the right, trying to break his stance.

Their limbs moved in a blur as they exchanged blows. The display was mesmerizing. They were half Talis’s age but moved with superior speed and precision.

Enhancing his legs alone wouldn’t give Isen that kind of swiftness and control.

Isen had never heard of movement techniques before. He just empowered his body with energy to go faster. It was valuable knowledge—and it was something he could learn.

The spar ended after twenty seconds with Freyan’s fingers under Arthum’s throat. The older boy sighed and shook his head. He didn’t seem upset by the loss. “Alright, your turn Isen.”

Freyan looked giddy as she re-took her place. Isen found himself smiling too, but inwardly, he worried. He was supposed to be impressive, yet he didn’t even know if he stood a chance against a clan cultivator his own age.

He breathed deeply and exhaled, imagining his concerns flowing out with the air and energy. In the end, his part in all of this wasn’t that important. If Lumina’s plan hinged on him getting intelligence from Welco, it was a terrible plan doomed to fail regardless.

He would just need to do his best, and if that wasn’t good enough… gain as much as he could before departing.