Chul Asclepius
"Wise Avicenna, how do I fight like the peaceseekers?" I asked the reverent consciousness residing the Vaultlamp that Uncle had entrusted to me.
No one had ever trusted me like that—not Mother, not Grandfather.
The weight of it settled heavily on my shoulders. It was a burden I had never expected to carry, yet it filled me with a strange, sudden sense of purpose.
Giving me such a responsibility, to keep the last of the Djinns safe while learning everything from him; so that Wise Avicenna could help me join Uncle and the flock in the outside world. It was a gift beyond measure, and I would not squander it.
'Folk of calm currents, Chul Asclepius,' Wise Avicenna corrected me. 'Peaceseekers is a tremendously simplified term to use for Djinnkind.'
"Yes, sorry!" I apologized, my face flushing with embarrassment. The distinction was important, and I should have remembered it. Grandfather, Mother, Uncle always spoke of them with such reverence, and I wanted to honor that.
I was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the Dance Stage, Suncrusher on my lap. This room had become my training grounds and my living quarters both, now that I was alone with Avicenna in the Hearth.
The vast sanctuary that had echoed with the presence of my Clan for centuries was now silent, save for the mental voice of the ancient Djinn and the beating of my own heart.
It was strange to be responsible for everything: what I could eat—going to the Kitchen Halls alone without waiting for one of the Clan, Aurora or Evascir usually, to bring me food—where I could sleep, where I could pass my day.
The solitude was liberation.
I was still in a cage, but... I never felt so free in my whole life. Not even when Grandfather and Mother were here with me, and it was all thanks to Uncle. His belief in me had unlocked something I hadn't known was there: a sense of purpose that transcended my own physical limitations—my cursed mana core.
"So?" I prompted Avicenna for an answer. "How do I fight like the folk of calm currents?"
'Chul Asclepius,' Avicenna said, his voice carrying a weight of centuries. 'Djinnkind didn't fight, you amongst all should know it better.'
"Yes! But it's not destruction what I seek!" I exclaimed, the words bursting from me with a passion that surprised even myself. "I want to help! To protect my Clan and to bring Justice. It is an Article of Peace, right? There must be a connection!"
I tightened my fist around Suncrusher as I exclaimed this, the familiar weight of the weapon grounding me. It had been my companion for so long, my only friend in the darkness of my grief; but now I wanted something more. I wanted it to be more than a weapon to wield against my frustration.
'Your vision is limited, Chul Asclepius,' Avicenna continued. 'The Articles cannot be used for war.'
"But Uncle uses them!" I exclaimed, frustration creeping into my voice. If he could do it, why couldn't I?
'The Justiciar is the Justiciar,' Avicenna said, harshly, a master correcting a stubborn student like me. 'He only has the monopoly over violence.'
"But Uncle needs help!" I shouted, standing up. The motion was sudden, driven by a desperation I could no longer contain. "I won't let him do it alone! I have to help him—he counts on me! There must be a way! A Djinn that has tried to fight back!"
The words hung in the air, a challenge and a plea wrapped into one. I could feel my mana core—that defective, useless organ—thrum in excitement, as if it too was desperate for a way to prove itself.
'There were, Chul Asclepius,' Avicenna said, his voice softening. 'There were...'
"Tell me about them! I will accomplish where they failed!"
I tried to convince Wise Avicenna, even though I was just a child in front of such a great consciousness, someone that even Grandfather would have deeply respected.
"I am Djinn, but I am also Asura: who better than me can do that?!"
'Your words make sense, Chul Asclepius,' the Sage said, and I heard a note of reluctant acknowledgment in his voice. 'But the Djinns that seek the way of war only end up destroying more than they can protect, first of all themselves. I know what happens to the fools that think themselves better than the Justiciar.'
"What do you mean?" I asked, confused by Avicenna's words. The weight of his statement pressed down on me, heavy and unyielding.
'The Conventicle of Artira, Chul Asclepius,' Wise Avicenna said, his tone grave. 'They... we... thought ourselves worthy of the weight of the Justiciar and tried to prepare for the Asuran threat.'
"And how did it end?" I asked, already dreading the answer.
'You can see it yourself,' Wise Avicenna said. 'I remain, but as a consciousness inside a little Vaultlamp. I failed.'
"Have you ever told Uncle this?" I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.
'No. I already showed myself a fool in front of the Justiciar too many times,' Avicenna said. 'I can't let him know I tried to usurp his role.'
"Uncle wouldn't mind," I said, crossing my arms. "Actually, he wouldn't even care to begin with."
'Yes, you are right,' Avicenna said, and I heard the faintest trace of surprise in his voice. 'But my help to the Justiciar is the last thing I have left. I can't suffer the idea of ruining the image the Justiciar has of me.'
Wise Avicenna was beyond knowledgeable, and yet he was so, so real as a person. So complex. In that moment, I understood something I hadn't before: even the greatest minds carried their own burdens, their own fears.
"We are not Uncle, Avicenna," I said, trying to be as wise as him and Grandfather. "We can't be like him, we can't be perfect; but we must try! We must do everything to help him! I don't want you to do anything, I just need your knowledge, Wise Avicenna. I need your guidance, your mind."
I felt my mana core, that defective, useless organ, thrum in excitement. The sensation was unfamiliar, a spark of something I had never felt before.
I had to conciliate Asura and Djinn. That was Uncle's order. That was the will of the Highprince and I would not fail him.
"I am ready, Avicenna!"
Cylrit Vritra
Stairs.
Stairs.
Stairs.
This Zone of the Relictombs was just endless, infinite flights of gigantic stairs—a wall that continued upward and upward, while on the other side was the abyss, and other stairs below.
The steps were vast, each one large enough to hold a dozen men, and they stretched into infinity in both directions, a vertical labyrinth that had no beginning and no end.
The stone was cold, worn smooth in places by the passage of countless souls who had walked this path before me, and left nothing behind but the faintest traces of their despair.
I used one of my Regalias—Nullbash—to conjure black lightnings that managed to scarcely illuminate the area with grey light.
It was little, a pale ghost of illumination that barely pushed back the darkness, but it was the only light in this hell. The shadows pressed in from all sides, hungry and patient, and I could feel them watching me, waiting for the moment when I would finally fall.
Then, I crumbled to my knees, strength leaving my body as my blood sang a cacophonous choir in my ears. The sound was unbearable, a symphony of madness that threatened to drown out everything else.
Just how long had I been in this Zone alone? Days? Weeks? Months? Time had lost all meaning in this place, swallowed by the endless stairs and the endless dark. I had been running for so long, fighting for so long, that I had forgotten what it felt like to rest.
After I met the Ascenders of the Unblooded Party, I had planned to reach that new Retainer: Caera Vritra, and find Master Seris, or the beast that wore her face, so I could avenge her.
By killing her.
The thought had been a beacon in the darkness, a purpose that had kept me moving. But staring into the abyss...
What a fool you have been, Cylrit, I told myself, as the delirium of my blood threatened to take hold of my mind.
Master Seris is already dead. Killing that being won't change a thing; the words were bitter, a truth I had been running from for years.
I had clung to my mission like a drowning man clings to driftwood, refusing to accept that the person I was trying to save was already gone.
I tried to get back on my feet, but my body failed me as I stumbled back on the stairs, and my blood demanded more and more, the enthralling song becoming unbearable. It was a siren's call, sweet and seductive, promising power and release if only I would give in. But I knew what that release would cost. I knew what I would become.
"Vritra damnit!" I bellowed, hitting a step with my right fist.
Rage surged within my body, a rage I hadn't felt since my days before Master Seris took me as her Retainer.
The days of the Court of Basilisks, the days when I was one of the hundreds of experiments of Sovereign Kiros Vritra. I was nothing back then—a kid, then a teenager, then a young adult seeking only war and destruction.
The Court had shaped me into a weapon, had honed my anger and my bloodlust until they were all I knew.
But even there I had something, or someone... a brother. I still had Uto back in the Court of Basilisks.
He had been my anchor in that sea of madness, the only person who understood the weight of what we were being made into. We had promised each other that we would find a way out, that we would break the cycle of Scythes and Retainers of Vechor.
The rule enforced by Sovereign Kiros Vritra on the enforcers of his domain.
I haven't regretted anything in my life. I have never been one for regret; when you were raised to become one of Kiros Vritra's living weapons, regret got you killed.
And yet, facing my inevitable demise, the end of my escape here in the Relictombs after years I managed to survive, regret surfaced from the depths of my being.
I regretted not having died alongside Master Seris, lying to myself that she would live if I continued fighting. And I regretted leaving Uto.
"I am sorry, Uto..." I murmured. "Maybe things could have gone better if I just came back to you."
The last time I spoke with my brother, truly spoke, without the pressure of the High Sovereign or another Asura of the Vritra Clan, was at the Battle of Fiachra, during the last Bloodwar of Alacrya: the one between Vechor and Sehz-Clar many years ago.
If I looked at my hands, I could see my blade as I fought Uto, fresh out of the Court of Basilisks after winning the title of Vechor's Retainer at the Victoriad—after Scythe Dragoth killed his former master, Scythe Enver.
Before I engaged him in combat, he was slaughtering the garrison defending Fiachra, drawing unad and adorned blood alike, waiting for me.
"I am sorry, Uto," I murmured again, my blood making me live that memory again and again in hope to make me break.
How savage that fight had been. I had fought many, many times in my life. The Court of Basilisks produced the greatest fighters of Alacrya after Taegrin Caelum itself, but Uto too was a product of that place.
Many demons I had buried thanks to Master Seris resurfaced that day.
"Stop! Stop!" I screamed in anger, black lightning crackling in fury around me. "I won't succumb to my blood! I won't!"
I prefer to die than to become a beast! Master Seris taught me the virtues of a mind clear from bloodlust, clear from the desire to kill and destroy that Almighty Vritra poured in his blood and the High Sovereign cursed mankind with.
My eyes went to the abyss below. My blood tried its best to not make me end my suffering, but I had to win over it.
I would rather kill myself than let Vritra win.
I stood up screaming in rage against my blood. I felt like I was in front of the High Sovereign himself from how much my blood was trying to govern over me.
I used Pitchaverrer to conjure a simple knife of solidified decay mana, darker than night, worse than death.
I cut my wrists with it, forcing as much blood as possible to flow out. Master Seris taught me this—bleeding yourself had the effect of making the song weaker.
I felt agonizingly weak as blood continued to flow, but I wanted my last moments on this world to be mine. Master Seris might have fallen to Vritra in death, but I wouldn't. I would die a martyr of her cause.
"Uto... Seris..." I murmured, the last words that would leave my mouth.
I jumped.
—
'Blood of Vritra,' I heard a woman's voice say in my mind.
The words echoed through the darkness of my consciousness, pulling me back from the edge of oblivion.
I opened my eyes, waking up in a pool of my own blood, but something was different. I was encased in something: an armour.
The last armour I had, the one I wore when I found refuge in the Relictombs the first time, had broken down after countless fights. This was new; it encased my body, stopping my bleeding, holding me together when I should have fallen apart.
"Who spoke?!" I exclaimed, feeling myself as in control of myself as I had never been.
The clarity was startling, a sudden stillness in the chaos that had consumed me for so long. The song of my blood had quieted, reduced to a distant whisper.
'Below you, Blood of Vritra,' the woman's voice echoed in my mind.
Below me on the floor, drenched with litres of my blood, was a crystalline red lamp—rounded, with a beaked spout and a looping handle.
Around it, red light shone on the floor... runes activated by my blood, it seemed. I looked around myself, taking in my surroundings.
I was in the middle of a labyrinth of some sorts, illuminated by a few sconces in the distance.
I managed to escape from the Stairs Zone, I realized. The thought was a small victory, a flicker of hope in the vast darkness that had consumed me.
I took back control of my emotions as I stood up, taking the mysterious lamp with me. My hands were steady now, the trembling that had plagued me for so long finally stilled. The armour felt perfect on my skin, as if it had been crafted for me, a second skin that understood my every need.
"What are you?" I asked. "A Relic?"
'A Relic, interesting name, Blood of Vritra,' the woman inside the crystal said in my head. 'What you hold in your hands is a Vaultlamp; a lamp-shaped crystal that contains the knowledge of a Sage: a Djinn of immense knowledge.'
"So you are an Ancient Mage," I said, the words carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken questions. "The creators of the Relictombs."
'The creators of the Grand Library of Mausoleia, Blood of Vritra,' the woman said, her voice carrying a hint of ancient pride.
"My name is Cylrit, not Blood of Vritra," I replied as I started to explore the Zone I woke up in. The armour moved with me, responding to my every motion, and I felt a strange sense of familiarity with it, as if I had worn it in another life. "What is that I am wearing?"
'My Lifework of Aetherology, Cylrit of Vritra,' the woman replied. 'Adaptarmour, a weapon I designed to fight against Asuras.'
"And you gave it to someone you are calling of Vritra?" I asked, uprooting one of the sconces from the wall to make myself light without needing to use magic.
I had lost too much blood, and this Adaptarmour was the only thing keeping me from collapsing. I had to use mana as little as possible.
The sconce cast a warm glow, pushing back the shadows that pressed in from all sides.
As the Ancient Mage continued to talk, I started exploring the tunnels of this labyrinthine Zone. The walls were covered in ancient runes, their meanings lost to time, but I could feel their power humming beneath my fingertips.
'Yes,' the Djinn said. 'It was me who gave the Adaptarmour to you, because you will help me amend to the sins of me and my group.'
"Quite the demand," I observed, but I didn't mean it in any unkind way. "Not that I am in a position to complain. I am alive only because of you, Djinn."
'You are a man of logic, Cylrit of Vritra,' the Djinn said. 'I appreciate that, and my name is Fatima Artira of Ramdad.'
As I walked through the first tunnel, the Adaptarmour began to shift on my skin, changing its colour to red while I felt the runes on my back shift on the Adaptarmour too.
The sensation was strange, a tingling warmth that spread across my body like a second heartbeat.
"What happened?" I asked Fatima.
'The Adaptarmour is slowly getting acquainted with you,' she explained. 'Give it time. You have too much Asuran blood, so it will be a slow process.'
"If you want to collaborate with me, Djinn," I said, my voice firm despite the exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm me. "I will let something clear: I have objectives of my own."
Killing the monster faking to be Scythe Seris and continuing my Master's dream.
Scythe Seris had been trying to find useful information about the Ancient Mages for decades—funding Ascenders, using her authority as Scythe to put her hands on accolades and other objects from the Relictombs. But nothing had ever come close to this.
A true Djinn, the first people that became the victims of the Asuras.
'That is understandable, Cylrit of Vritra,' Fatima said. 'But if you want a suggestion from me, going to Focularsa is your goal.'
"Focularsa? What place is that?" I asked, the name foreign on my tongue. "A Zone of the Relictombs?"
'The Asuras call it Dicathen,' the Djinn said. 'There, is the only place where you can find the help we need.'
"And what makes you say that it fits with my own plans?" I asked when I found myself in front of a Descension Portal. The portal pulsed with a soft, inviting light, and I could feel the pull of it, a call to somewhere else.
'I felt it when I gave you the Adaptarmour and manifested my Vaultlamp,' Fatima said. 'Our goals align. Now. Interface yourself with the portal. I can bring you where you need to be.'
"Aedelgard," I told Fatima, touching the portal. The surface was warm beneath my fingers, humming with ancient power. "There are things I need to get done before we depart for Dicathen."
'As you wish, Cylrit of Vritra.'
I stepped through the portal, the light swallowing me whole.