Nico sat cross-legged before the crackling fireplace. The pleasant heat soothed his chest, the frigid winds bit at his back, and the wind played delicately with his overgrown hair. Exhaling, a soft glow was issued behind his eyelids.
He called upon the roots of his soul.
Leaning into his innate soul sense, he observed as both twisted out from his cores like ethereal vines of bright blue essence. They stretched out amidst his body, intertwining themselves into the network veins and arteries — well, the passages that assumed their roles — before once again brushing against the luminous spheres, this time coiling around them instead of disappearing within.
His entire being flared with life. Nico's body and soul pulsed with azure light.
'Where is it?' he thought, scouring the intricacies of his form in deep meditation.
Because during his plan making process last night, he decided that alongside training himself to wield the Ascended glaive, he would also learn to know his physical form in a much richer way too.
After all, his Attribute was quite clear.
[Specter] Attribute Description: [In the divine crucible, nothing becomes something, and all becomes one. Spirit, soul, flesh — nothing separates your being.]
According to the Spell, he was indivisible. He already knew what that meant for his soul. It transformed his heart and blood into physical manifestations of his cores and essence. However, what that meant for his spirit was anybody's guess.
The easiest path forward would be to first discover the location of his spirit in the material world to fix it. Since his roots empowered his body due to the binds of that Attribute, he figured the same would apply to his spirit, perhaps making it more noticeable in the process.
When that became evident to him and he began reviewing all the information he knew about his own spirit, he was thrown for a loop. After all, it wasn't like he could split himself open and hope to find something similar to his blue blood but related to his spirit.
Shutting out all sensory information, he searched — through the ropes of his powerful muscles, the network of his iron bones, and layers of his tanned skin. And despite his lack of visual or traditional sensory input, he felt more at home using his soul sense. It transcended his others by leaps and bounds as far as he was concerned.
Hours passed in complete silence save for the whistle of the wind. The fire had at some point snuffed out, its meager embers blown away by the breeze.
Nico kept searching.
The sun stretched across the horizon. Its light began to fade behind the veil of clouds.
He shifted his approach and studied himself within his Soul Sea instead.
Shaman returned covered in a fresh litany of wounds, its host's skin torn asunder and wings frayed, the dark sea rising in a tide mere minutes later.
Nico sighed, then dropped his head into his hands.
This was going to be a long, arduous journey.
***
In the morning, Nico dumped the remains of his firewood into the receding expanse of the black waters beneath him, then ascended to the tip of the priestess' index finger once again.
"Where to go. Where to go," he mumbled, scanning the immensity of the coral labyrinth.
In truth, it hardly mattered which direction he headed. All he needed were the plethora of Awakened creatures that roamed the shore. But, it would be interesting to explore a little anyway. And should he chance upon anything too big to handle, he had the flight and combat strength of a Spire Messenger to support him.
With that in mind, he considered the options. Foremost, west was the least acceptable option. It would only lead him back to the ruins of the Dark City, and should he go further, the looming Crimson Spire.
East was just as deplorable, though, since everything beyond the priestess was the territory of the crater for hundreds upon hundreds of kilometers. Flying over its immensity would be an impossible, vain effort if they were constantly attacked by other flying abominations.
Juxtaposed to that notion, however, was his desire to get further from the Crimson Spire. The menacing obelisk was a beacon of disaster, drawing in the more powerful creatures from all over the labyrinth. The immense amount of Fallen in the Dark City was proof of that.
So, as much as he wanted not to go east, it seemed like the best option in that respect.
He shot a glance north and south.
If he couldn't go through the crater, he'd simply go around it.
"Which of the two, then?"
From what he knew of the Forgotten Shore's geography, south was where the First Lord's exhibition disappeared. Powerful creatures must've roamed those areas.
He wouldn't want to stumble onto anything that could've killed such a powerful cohort.
"North, then," he declared quietly, then hopped down from his perch, boots scraping on the ancient stone of the statue's palm with a metallic ring.
Without much care he swept the charred remains of his campfire off the statue's palm, and then his makeshift bed of seaweed too. The [Winter's Vase] was attached to his belt with a knot of string, while the [Glass Torch] manifested in his hand from a scattering of sparks.
Ready to leave, the Spire Messenger lowered itself slightly, and Nico pulled himself atop without much effort. He noticed that overnight the Fallen Beast's wounds had begun to heal, its limp claw included. It would still take a full day or two to fully recover, though.
The Spire Messenger shook its feathers lightly before springing off into the air.
For two hours they flew, cruising through the sky at a comfortable enough pace. Nico could've relaxed and simply sprawled on the Cursed Herald's wide back should he wish to, but he preferred to use the time to think instead. Running into a flying abomination had been an earlier worry of his, but at the speed Shaman could fly using the Spire Messenger, nothing much would be able to catch them before he reached a coral pillar and was able to dismount.
Most wouldn't really be able to make out more than a vague, distorted space in the air because of the [Glass Torch's] enchantment either.
Based off the diameter of the crater, which he suspected to be somewhere around a thousand kilometers, if they kept up this same pace, they would probably reach the exact opposite side in around a month.
Of course, they could probably knock out the whole trip in around a couple days of flying at Shaman's top speed, but that wasn't the point of the journey. He used the time to try discovering the intricacies of his mind. It was strangely calming to feel the wind in your hair while soaring hundreds of meters above the ground.
Despite the many corrupted souls and Shaman's own that filled his senses, of course.
***
Eventually, they touched down roughly four dozen kilometers away on the upturned rib of some unfathomably giant creature.
Nico stretched, then looked at his battered Specter's body. Well, his host's, that was.
It seemed a good decision he had only sparred the Fallen host enough to gauge his own abilities. Shaman had many duties, after all. He was his training partner, ride, hunter, and personal pain killer. Despite the lack of true damage, it's body must've been taxed after little to no rest, so he couldn't simply continue wailing on it.
He summoned its runes to check yesterday's hunt:
Soul Shards: [40/1000].
'It got twenty kills yesterday. Assuming they're all beasts, that is.'
After a moment of contemplation, he sighed, then gripped its pale feathers, ordering it to take him down to the labyrinth.
A tangled forest of blood-red spikes was revealed below. They stretched endlessly, twisting to form gnarled walls and paths, and sprouting from the depths like the claws of some ancient being, the dead titan's rib cage.
Nico's Specter took him down to the muddy ground, then disappeared back up into the sky.
At the rib's base, he stared into the dim, crimson corridor, then thought:
'It's been a while. Didn't really think I'd ever be hunting here again.'
Basking in the empowerment of two soul roots, Nico gripped the [Wrathful Crescent]'s shaft with one hand and took his first steps inside.
'Two souls close by,' he remarked.
It was time to improve his technique in real a battle — one where he had to put his life on the line, and nothing was bared from use.