Chapter Summary: Asterion is a chill guy.
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Central Antarctica celebrates after Lady Nephis closes a Category Three Gate single-handedly, without casualties. — The New Government's News
The first day of the Chain of Nightmares ends in triumph as the Valor Awakened closes all the opened Gates. — The Herald of Steel
Supreme Ki Song praises Lady Changing Star's foresight and handling of the mislabeled Gate . — The Raven's Feather
Supreme Asterion personally takes to the field in Eastern Antarctica, saving hundreds of Awakened. — The Unfiltered Quill
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Naeve, not for the first time, wondered when his life had become so damn complicated.
He was brought out of his thoughts by the need to swim faster, desperately avoiding the jaws of a piranha-like Nightmare Creature that was twice his size.
Everything had started simply enough.
The Nightmare Chain was coming, and he and his Clan were going to offer as much help as they could afford to. Simple and easy. Even the Supremes, despotic as they were, had deemed it necessary to lend their aid for once.
Then, one night like any other, he had settled down to watch Changing Star's cohort being interviewed before they departed for the frigid continent of Antarctica. He could recall how excited his daughter had been and the eye rolls he had shared with his wife at the corny answers. And then Asterion, a man everyone in the House of Night had long thought dead, made his triumphant return.
Naeve stabbed with his harpoon, nailing the piranha-like Fallen Demon straight in the eye, though he missed the brain. He had barely enough time to get out of the way before its jaws snapped shut around the empty water he had occupied mere moments before.
He could recall how he had frozen at the sight, and how his blood had turned to ice when the man started revealing terrible secret after terrible secret. Even he, aware of most of them as he was, was left shaken by the end of it.
Naeve had, rather naively, thought that the surprises would end there.
The very next day, he was surprised again when the expected war between the Supremes' domains failed to materialize. Quite the contrary: they set their differences aside and forged the mightiest alliance humanity had ever seen.
He stabbed again, and this time he hit his intended target, killing the Fallen for good.
Naeve did not allow himself to rest in the slightest when he saw more of them incoming, fleeing from their fight with Uncle Bloodwave. Determining that he had no chance against such numbers, he immediately swam out of the water and climbed the stairs on the side of the warship.
Up there, he took a moment to catch his breath before resuming his attacks, throwing his harpoon at the Nightmare Creatures swimming beneath the water.
Once more, he had naively thought that the surprises would end there.
And once again, he was proven a fool, as the sight before and above him made abundantly clear.
Wave after mighty wave rose and came crashing down, each one tall enough to swallow the ship whole if it collided with it.
Already, that had nearly happened more times than he was comfortable with.
The culprit was a Corrupted Tyrant of gargantuan proportions. It resembled a hammerhead shark, and though the last of its kind had gone extinct long before he was born, Naeve was still fairly sure they weren't supposed to have so many fins or a pair of giant, scaled wings, each flutter of which sent waves crashing in all directions.
As hideous as the Nightmare Creature was, it looked even more so when compared to its opponent.
The other being was humanoid in shape and size, though the latter was ever-changing, its form flowing as freely as the waves and adapting to whatever circumstances it encountered. The being, or Starbeast, as it preferred to be called, was entirely black, resembling the vast void of space. Across its obsidian skin, constellations shimmered, and stars gleamed, their brilliance and breathtaking expanse rivaling the beauty of the night sky itself.
They clashed in the air, each exchange sending shockwaves through the air as the shark attempted, without success, to pin down the obsidian humanoid.
Naeve watched between harpoon throws as space rippled with every movement of the Starbeast, manipulated as though it were clay being molded by a child. Under its influence, distances that had once spanned mere meters stretched into hundreds, shielding the ship from the dangerous waves. At the same time, space compressed and twisted around the Devil, leaving torn flesh and shattered bones in its wake.
The battle had started a mere three minutes ago, but the outcome was already as clear as day. The Devil kept losing ground, while the Starbeast had yet to suffer a single wound.
He was proved right no more than a minute later, when a clash left the Devil wide open long enough for space to ripple beside its head. It died then and there, its neck twisting round and round like a bottle cap.
Cheers erupted across the deck as the sailors celebrated their savior before settling down to mop up the remaining Nightmare Creatures.
Naeve threw his harpoon one last time before turning to his left, where the Starbeast appeared a moment later, its transformation already coming undone.
When it did, a handsome man emerged. He was tall and dark-skinned, with long hair tied neatly in a ponytail and a mischievous glint in his silver eyes. The man looked young, even younger than Naeve himself.
And he was his father.
"Why so gloomy, son?" Nightwalker asked cheerfully.
He sighed, both because of how exhausted he felt and because of his lingering irritation at the man's presence.
He had long since resigned himself to the idea that his father was dead. Thought that the man had finally met his end during one of his many adventures. Comforted himself with the idea that, had his father not died, he might have been the kind of father all the other children seemed to have.
Naeve had been nothing but a child the last time he had seen his father.
He was an adult now. He had a wife and a daughter of his own. He liked to think of himself as a sensible man, the kind who could keep his head cool when the unexpected happened.
As such, he wasn't proud of the fact that his first reaction when the man dared to show up in the Nightgarden as though he had only been away for a day or two was to punch him in the face. Hard. Nor was he proud of the fact that he had gone for a second punch when Nightwalker hadn't reacted to the first.
"We keep encountering Corrupted," Naeve explained in a strained tone. "Just a month ago, we considered it remarkable to encounter more than one during a single journey, whereas this one is the fifth we've encountered on this journey alone."
Nightwalker shrugged lightly, seemingly unconcerned by the news.
"Good thing you have old Bloodwave and me around to protect the armada, as well as those lovely Transcendent ladies, then."
Naeve sighed again, thoroughly fed up with how childish his father could be.
"The Chain of Nightmares has barely started, and things are already this bad. What will we do by the end of it? Spell, what will we do in just a month if they keep spreading at this pace?"
The other man placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, then gave it a squeeze. He barely managed to stop himself from batting the hand away.
"Don't worry, son. Lord Asterion will find a way."
Having grown up hearing stories about the man -instead of hearing them straight from the source, he thought bitterly- Naeve had expected to hear a 'but' right after. A joke. Something to show that his father hadn't meant what he had said.
None came.
In his father's silver eyes, Naeve saw nothing but unwavering confidence in the Supreme. A conviction that went beyond reason and into the realm of blind faith.
And that concerned him deeply. He was troubled by the way Nightwalker kept talking about the newest Supreme as though he were an infallible god. Though not nearly as much as he was by the strange glint in his father's eyes when he found out what Typhaon and Knossos were doing.
"Then I hope he'll find it soon," Naeve said, attempting to lighten his own mood.
"He will," Nightwalker said confidently, giving his shoulder another squeeze. "Now, cheer up. We'll arrive in Falcon Scott in a matter of hours, and I could use a wingman's help in charming one of those lovely ladies before we do."
Naeve sighed for the nth time, whatever child-like wonder he had once felt for the man long gone after having had so much time to interact with him.
"I'm a married man," he said in a long-suffering tone, sounding as though he were trying to explain it to a particularly slow child. "And you're a little old to be flirting with Saint Jet and Saint Morgan."
Nightwalker, as always, acted as though he hadn't heard a word of what Naeve had said.
"More for me, I guess."
With those parting words, Nightwalker turned around and walked off toward the interior of the ship.
Naeve watched his father walk away for a long time, the man's lack of a shadow standing out even more starkly beneath the ship's bright lights.
By all rights, he should have been glad. His conflicting emotions aside, Nightwalker's return meant that the House of Night had acquired another Saint. Another line of defense to protect their homes. They had gained a much-needed lifeline if... no, when Knossos and Typhaon returned.
And yet, he could not help but be concerned.
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Anvil brought his hammer down.
Sparks erupted as it struck the steel resting atop the crucible, scattering in a shower of orange and gold before splashing harmlessly against his bare chest. His brow furrowed as he studied the metal, searching for the slightest imperfection. Sweat gathered along his forehead and temples, trickling down his face and neck as he worked, each measured strike guided by a steady hand, an unwavering Will, and decades of experience.
The metal rang with every blow.
It was a sonorous, melodic note that echoed throughout the forge and beyond the ruined castle, resonating through its stone walls and mingling with the low roar of the furnace. With each successive strike, the sound grew clearer, higher, more harmonious, until the steel beneath his hammer seemed to sing. Hundreds of voices rose from its depths, weaving themselves into a celestial chorus that filled the air with a beauty no mundane instrument could hope to reproduce.
And yet, beneath the harmony, there was another note.
A discordant one, faint at first, almost imperceptible beneath the chorus. But with every strike of the hammer, it grew more pronounced, an intrusion that threatened to unravel the whole song.
Anvil knew that sound well.
There were many laws that governed the Realms. Some had been established by the Gods themselves, forged into the very foundations of existence for the sole purpose of serving as weapons against the Void. Others had been devised by the Daemons, their intentions inscrutable even to him. Still more had been etched into creation by the Divine beings that had once walked the Realms, each leaving behind a fragment of their will upon the world.
Of all these laws, however, there was one that intrigued and frustrated him more than any other. One that was as absolute as it was cruel. One that even the Gods themselves could not escape.
The absolute Law of Flaws.
His hammer came down once more. The steel buckled beneath the blow, its carefully wrought shape twisting ever so slightly. For a fleeting moment, the celestial chorus faltered, its harmonious voices stumbling over one another as the discordant note swelled to an almost unbearable pitch.
Anvil frowned, briefly considering tossing it aside and beginning anew before deciding against it.
Instead, he adjusted his grip and set to work correcting the damage. Patiently, methodically, he brought the hammer down again and again, coaxing the steel back into shape through a careful application of Will, Aspect, and decades of accumulated experience. Every blow was deliberate, every movement precise. He did not fight the metal so much as persuade it, imposing his intent upon it until it yielded.
Gradually, the chorus returned. The celestial notes rose once more, clearer and more resonant than before, as though the steel had grown stronger after overcoming its defects. And yet the discordant note remained, stubbornly lingering beneath the harmony.
Anvil's frown deepened, displeasure etched into every line of his face as he continued hammering, his gaze fixed upon the blade.
Everything and everyone was meant to have a Flaw.
It was simply inevitable. No amount of strength could overcome it, and no measure of wisdom could allow one to escape it. The Gods themselves were bound by it as surely as the humblest mundane.
Once, when he had still been a child, and his father was still alive, the man had told him many stories. He had spoken of the Waking World's ancient past, of the strange and wondrous Dream Realm that had emerged in his generation, of grand adventures and terrible wars. He had regaled Anvil and his brothers with tales of noble knights, rightful kings, and heroes whose deeds had become so legendary that even time itself could not erase them.
Of all those stories, one had captivated Anvil more than the rest.
The tale of the Stone Titan, an ancient being whose hide was said to be harder than mountain chains whole, and its eventual slaying at the hands of Ariel, the Daemon of Dread. Even as a child, Anvil had struggled to comprehend how such a creature could possibly be defeated. How could anything hope to harm a being whose very body was impervious to the mightiest of weapons?
When he had asked, his father had explained that Ariel had not overcome the Titan through strength, but through cunning. The Daemon had found its Flaw.
For all the Stone Titan's might, its heart was no more resilient than that of any lesser creature. Its hide could withstand the force of a thousand blows, yet the heart concealed within it remained as fragile as glass.
Anvil remembered being dissatisfied with that answer. He had asked why. Why should such a powerful being be condemned to possess a weakness it could neither overcome nor control? What purpose could there be in granting a creature such extraordinary strength, only to undermine it with a single, fatal imperfection?
His father had smiled then, his eyes alight with that familiar glint that always preceded a lesson. Flaws, he had explained, were vicious things. Cruel, even. They could bring down the mighty and humble the proud. But they were not without purpose.
"What is better, my son? To be born perfect, or to overcome your failings through great effort?"
His father's answer had been gentle, filled with wisdom, yet to Anvil's ears, it had sounded like a stern rebuke. A complete denial of his dream of a perfect sword.
The chorus swelled into a crescendo, hundreds of voices rising together in perfect harmony. The discordant note persisted, but it had grown fainter now, diminished beneath the overwhelming beauty of the song.
He brought the hammer down, and the note weakened. Again. It weakened further.
Anvil paused, his gaze narrowing as he listened. He could feel it in the steel, in the vibrations that traveled through the hammer and into his arm. One more strike, and the discord would vanish entirely. The blade would sing as it was meant to, every note in harmony with the next.
His arm rose, the muscles in his shoulder and back tightening as he lifted the hammer high above his head. Sweat trickled down his arm, catching the light of the furnace as it ran along the contours of his forearm. For a long moment, he remained perfectly still, the hammer poised above the steel, the chorus hanging in the air as though the entire forge were holding its breath.
Then, at last, reason prevailed, and Anvil lowered his arm.
He set the hammer aside with a heavy clatter and exhaled through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing only slightly.
Anvil leaned closer to examine the blade, his expert eye scrutinizing every millimeter of its cherry-red surface. He inspected the edges, the curvature, and the subtle transitions along its length, searching for any defect he might have overlooked. He turned it slightly, allowing the light to travel along the steel and reveal even the faintest irregularity.
He found none, and yet he already knew it wasn't the perfect blade he sought.
This blade would have a Flaw, just as everything else did. The difference was that this time, the Flaw would not be the result of a careless mistake, an imperfect strike, or some deficiency in his own craftsmanship.
It would be there by design.
Anvil reached out and took the blade in his bare hands. The steel still smoldered with heat, its surface glowing a deep cherry red, but he scarcely noticed the burn. He held it for a moment longer, turning it in his grasp as though committing every detail to memory, before lowering it into the waiting barrel of oil.
Steam billowed upward, briefly obscuring his view as the oil churned around the steel. The sound filled the forge, drowning out the lingering echoes of the hammer and the fading resonance of the celestial chorus. Anvil watched in silence, waiting for the metal to cool and the process to finish, so he could see whether he had succeeded this time or failed once more.
While he waited, he turned his attention to the runework, written down in full in a book that rested beside his workbench.
Anvil had spent countless hours designing the enchantment, carefully arranging each symbol and line to serve a singular purpose. The geometry was intricate, the interlocking patterns so precise that even the slightest alteration would compromise the entire structure. Every rune had been selected with care, every connection considered and reconsidered until he could find no deficiency in its design.
Once again, he found no fault in his work, and once again, he knew just how little that meant.
His gaze drifted toward the far end of the forge, where a mountainous pile of discarded blades lay heaped out of the way. Some were bent, others warped, yet most of them appeared perfectly serviceable to an untrained eye. Every one of them represented a failure. Every single one of them was a promise he had been unable to fulfill. His dream remained just as distant as it had been years ago, when he had first embarked upon this undertaking.
Anvil had learned early on how to forge a blade without flaws. It was, in truth, among the first things he had mastered. Through painstaking labor, he had learned to hammer it out to leave a perfect, unmarred creation behind.
And yet, somehow, those blades were always inferior.
They were more brittle, weaker, duller. Less than the sum of their parts.
How cruel was the irony that a blade without flaws could prove weaker than one that possessed them.
Anvil had refused to accept it. Refused to entertain the possibility that his dream was impossible, that perfection was a horizon he could approach but never reach. He had dismissed every failure as a temporary setback, every failed blade as another lesson to be learned, every dead end as a problem awaiting the right solution.
The oil settled with a final hiss, and at last, the quenching was complete.
Anvil retrieved the blade and set to work wrapping its hilt in thick, hardy leather, securing it with practiced movements until the grip sat comfortably in his hand. He inspected the binding, tested its firmness, and made a final adjustment before appraising what truly mattered.
The enchantment lay dormant within the steel, waiting for the moment it would be called upon. The runes he had painstakingly etched beneath the hilt concealed its workings from anyone who would wield it, their elegant patterns disguising the intricate mechanisms woven into the blade's very existence.
That was the easy part. He had forged the blade, inscribed the runes, and imbued it with the power he had so carefully designed.
Now came the moment of truth. It was time to check its Flaw.
His expression remained stern, his features as immovable as stone. He did not smile, nor did he allow himself the satisfaction of a triumphant laugh. And yet, the corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly.
He had done it.
This was no perfect blade. It was no invincible sword that could cut through every obstacle, withstand every blow, or emerge unscathed from every battle. It possessed a Flaw, as all things did, and that Flaw would remain a part of it for as long as it existed.
But it was exactly what he needed at the moment. The first of a legion.
The blade that would allow him to cut down the Worm and the Dream Spawn at last.
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Many were the sorceries unearthed in the wake of the Spell's descent. Some, such as the Runic Sorcery favored by Clan Valor, had become famous throughout the world, their principles studied and their applications coveted by Awakened far and wide. Others remained shrouded in obscurity, so niche as to be virtually nonexistent. Among the latter, the Sorcery of Names favored by her troublesome daughter served as a good example.
Of all the sorceries that had emerged in this new age, however, Ki Song had a particular favorite.
One she had gone to extraordinary lengths to keep hidden from the world, entrusting its secrets only to a select handful of loyal retainers. A weapon known to all, made for a terrible weapon, after all.
It was the sorcery known as Alchemy.
Though calling it a sorcery was something of a misnomer. Alchemy was closer to a science, governed by principles that could be studied, refined, and applied with sufficient knowledge. Where other sorceries relied on the manipulation of supernatural forces, Alchemy sought to understand the underlying properties of substances and exploit them to produce results that would otherwise seem impossible.
Ki Song was its foremost practitioner, at least among those still living. She had long since exhausted the knowledge preserved in the ancient texts of the Jade Palace, committing their secrets to memory before building upon them with discoveries of her own.
It was a pity, then, that circumstances allowed her to make so little use of that knowledge.
The ingredients and reagents required by the ancient formulas had grown exceedingly scarce. Many had been destroyed during the Doom War, while others had been corrupted beyond recognition, their once-remarkable properties rendered useless or unpredictable. Even the most basic concoctions had become exercises in frustration, forcing Ki Song to devise substitutes for ingredients that had once been commonplace.
The results were rarely satisfactory. Some substitutes produced effects that were merely weaker than those of their original counterparts. Others introduced unforeseen complications, rendering an otherwise promising formula unreliable. And then there were substances for which she had yet to find any suitable replacement at all.
The experiment currently unfolding before her was a perfect illustration of the problem.
Ki Song sat behind a pane of one-way glass, her hands folded on her lap as she surveyed the vast chamber beyond. Its walls were bare, its floor marked by the occasional stain and the faint scars of previous experiments.
Only three beings occupied it.
The first was a Nightmare Creature, an Awakened Demon whose appearance, at a casual glance, might have passed for that of a particularly lanky human. A closer look, however, would reveal just how thoroughly wrong the impression was. Its limbs were grotesquely mismatched, some too long, others too short, lending its otherwise humanoid frame an unsettling asymmetry. Its pupils were square rather than round, and three distinct lips adorned its mouth, framing rows of teeth that seemed altogether too numerous for its small jaw. Where a nose should have been, it possessed a squat, pug-like protrusion that only made the rest of its face appear more unnatural.
The creature was currently pressed against the floor, held in place by the crushing weight of Ki Song's Will.
The second occupant was a man named Robert, if Ki Song remembered correctly. He was an Awakened of unremarkable stature, short and light-haired, with a face that displayed in clear detail every anxious thought passing through his mind. His eyes darted repeatedly toward the Nightmare Creature, and fear radiated from him so plainly that she could almost touch it, even from where she sat.
Robert was one of Anvil's spies. Or, at least, he had been. Ki Song had decided that he had outlived his usefulness and determined that he could be put to better use by assisting with this experiment.
The final occupant was one of Ki Song's vessels, an elegant butler whose immaculate appearance seemed almost comical amid the otherwise austere chamber. It stood perfectly still, holding a silver platter upon its outstretched arm.
At her silent command, the butler lifted the domed lid.
Resting upon the silver surface was a small glass vial filled with a deep crimson liquid. Wisps of vapor curled from its open mouth, still, drifting lazily into the air before dissolving.
Robert gazed at it warily, correctly guessing that he was meant to drink it, and afraid of what the result might be.
Ki Song offered him no explanation, nor did she bother with words of encouragement. Instead, she simply withdrew the weight of her Will from the Nightmare Creature.
The Demon sprang into motion, charging on all fours despite its bipedal nature, its limbs striking the floor in frenzied hunger.
Robert barely managed to evade the initial attack. He stumbled backward, nearly losing his footing as the creature's claws swept through the space where he had been standing a moment earlier. The Demon twisted with unnatural agility, immediately pursuing him before he could regain his balance.
To his credit, Robert performed better than Ki Song had anticipated. Deliberately starved and deprived of Memories as he was, he nonetheless managed to avoid the Nightmare Creature's attacks with a combination of quick reflexes and desperate improvisation. He ducked beneath its claws, sidestepped its lunges, and occasionally retaliated with punches and kicks whenever an opening presented itself.
Unfortunately, those counterattacks accomplished very little. His strikes landed with enough force to make the creature recoil, but they failed to inflict any meaningful damage. The Demon was simply too resilient, and Robert's exhausted body lacked the strength necessary to overcome it.
The outcome of the battle was obvious.
Robert seemed to realize it as well, for after narrowly evading another vicious swipe, he gritted his teeth and made a sudden dash toward the butler.
The vessel had remained motionless throughout the fight, its silver platter held steadily in place as though the commotion around it were none of its concern. Neither Robert nor the Nightmare Creature had dared to approach it before now, both seemingly wary of provoking whatever retaliation it might unleash.
The spy, however, had run out of options.
He snatched the vial from the platter and swallowed its contents in a single gulp. Then, without waiting to see whether the potion had taken effect, he hurled the empty glass at the pursuing Demon in an attempt to buy himself a precious few seconds.
The vial shattered against the creature's face, achieving little more than dazing it for a split second before it charged again.
As it turned out, that was enough time for the changes to begin manifesting. Energy surged through Robert's flagging body, flooding his limbs with renewed vigor. His next step carried him twice as far as before, and when he twisted out of the Demon's reach, his movements were sharper, more fluid, and far more controlled.
The Nightmare Creature lunged again, and Robert struck back. His fist connected with its face, drawing blood where his earlier attacks had barely managed to inconvenience it. A follow-up kick sent the creature stumbling sideways, and before it could recover, Robert was already moving to exploit the opening.
Ki Song leaned forward slightly, her attention fixed on the unfolding fight.
She catalogued every movement, every reaction, every change in posture, the speed of his strikes, and the ease with which he shifted his weight, committing it all to memory.
His strength, speed, flexibility, and even coordination had improved twofold, if not more. Boundless energy seemed to course through his body as he darted across the chamber, leaping and weaving with newfound ease. He relentlessly pressed the Demon, driving it into increasingly worse positions with every passing moment until, at last, he cornered it.
The Demon crumpled at his feet a moment later, its neck twisted at an unnatural angle. Robert remained standing over the corpse, barely winded by the fight.
For a brief moment, silence reigned over the chamber. Then Robert threw his arms into the air and let out a triumphant roar.
His celebration was short-lived.
Barely a few seconds after the battle ended, his legs gave way beneath him. He dropped to his knees, his entire body trembling violently, as though he had just completed a marathon, when in truth, the fight had hardly lasted five minutes, only one of which had been spent under the effect of the potion. His breath came in ragged, painful gasps next, each inhalation seeming to scrape against his lungs. He clutched at his chest, struggling to draw enough air, while sweat poured down his face.
Ki Song frowned in displeasure.
The strengthening potion was a success. It had achieved precisely what she had intended, dramatically enhancing its user's physical capabilities and allowing an otherwise ordinary Awakened to overcome an opponent he would have stood little chance against under his current circumstances.
Yet it was still far from good enough.
The potion's duration was woefully inadequate, and the subsequent side effects were too severe.
She could admit that it was a minor miracle that the concoction had worked as well as it had, given the inferior substitutes she had been forced to use. However, Ki Song had no intention of settling for such an insufficient result.
Still, the initial results were encouraging.
Ki Song then turned her attention inward, reaching for the tiny drop of her blood that Robert had swallowed alongside the crimson liquid. The potion was a success; now it was time to find out whether the poison was, too.
With a subtle exertion of Will, she commanded it to act.
For several seconds, nothing happened as the drop reacted with the remains of the other ingredients, combining with them to create something new.
Meanwhile, Robert remained on his knees, struggling to breathe. His shoulders rose raggedly, and his fingers dug into the floor as he fought to regain control of his body, his skin paler by the moment. Five seconds passed, then ten, with no visible indication that Ki Song's command had taken effect.
Then, at last, the first changes appeared.
Robert's breathing gradually steadied. The frantic rise and fall of his chest slowed, his gasps giving way to deeper, more measured breaths. The trembling in his limbs subsided, and he slowly straightened, standing steady on his feet once more. Relief spread across his face, followed by the beginnings of a smile.
Then the light went out of his eyes.
Robert simply stood motionless, his expression empty and gaze fixed on nothing in particular. His chest continued to rise and fall. His heart still beat. His body remained upright, and to anyone observing him from a distance, he might even have appeared to be perfectly fine.
Ki Song studied the result for several long seconds before her lips curved into a smile.
The potion had fulfilled its intended purpose, and the hidden mechanism had worked precisely as she had designed it. There were still refinements to be made, of course, but those were minor concerns compared to what she had just accomplished.
She turned away from the glass and issued a silent command to her butler. The vessel immediately set about disposing of the spy and the Nightmare Creature both, leaving the chamber as spotless as it had been before the experiment began.
Ki Song's thoughts, meanwhile, had already moved on to the next stage of her plan.
The potion was a tentative success, though it would require further refinement before it met her standards. Both its visible benefits and its concealed effects needed to be perfected, and she had no intention of rushing the process simply because the first trial had yielded promising results.
The initial batch would be delivered to her forces in Antarctica soon, accompanied by strict instructions that it was to be used only as a last resort. The benefits would be undeniable for anyone in a precarious enough situation to need it, and the side effects would be an acceptable price to pay for keeping one's life.
And most importantly, that first batch would contain none of her blood.
Neither would the ten batches that followed.
She would allow the potion to circulate gradually, giving her soldiers and the inevitable smugglers ample opportunity to grow accustomed to its effects. Reports of its successes would spread, and with enough time, its use would become just another aspect of the war against the Chain of Nightmares.
Little by little, vial by vial, she would start introducing the real one, until not a single Awakened remained free of her blood.
And then... then it would be time to get rid of Anvil and the Dream Spawn.
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Asterion whistled to himself as he took a walk through the city.
It still felt strange to see intact buildings and people walking around. Used as he was to the desolate surface of the moon and its ruined colonies.
He had no destination in mind, nor any objective to fulfill. It was merely a leisurely stroll, meant to let himself be seen and spread the word of his presence.
The reason eluded him, but humans seemed to like the idea of their superiors being like them. They liked to believe that, for all their power and influence, they still ate the same food and had to deal with the same problems that plagued their lives. It was a foolish conception, and one that he intended to exploit now.
Plus, the way Ki Song's and Anvil's agents kept desperately trying to keep up with him while avoiding detection was rather amusing.
Halfway through his walk, he passed by a park where children were playing. Their laughter rang out, echoing throughout the park and its vicinity, filled with the joy and carefree abandon so characteristic of the young.
Asterion, contrary to what his former companions believed, quite liked children.
They were just so... simple.
Children wore their hearts on their sleeves, liked what they said they liked, and hated what they proclaimed to hate. Even their lies, common as they were, were straightforward enough for him to catch without aid.
It was quite refreshing.
Adults, on the other hand, were strange and baffling creatures. They were capable of loving and hating the same thing at once, lying to everyone and themselves as easily as they breathed, and, most frustrating of all, rarely meaning what they said.
It had confused him to no end in his youth, back when he had just awakened his Aspect and had been confronted firsthand with the sheer falsehood that surrounded him.
The members of the Path of Ascension, the Cult into which he had been born, were the worst offenders in his mind. They concealed their ambition and lust, both for power and for carnal satisfaction, behind righteous proclamations and exalted ideals. They preached the need for unity and harmony in the trying times they faced when all they desired was an obedient flock to guide and shape as they saw fit. Spoke of the glorious paradise they had walked into in the Dream Realm, yet hid behind thick walls of the dangers awaiting them in said paradise.
Even his mother, the very same woman who had always said there was nothing wrong with him, had lied. She had considered him defective. A Nightmare Creature wearing the skin of a human.
Asterion had killed her first.
One of the children kicked the ball they were playing with too hard, and it went flying, its trajectory carrying it straight into his chest. It bounced off harmlessly before he caught it midair.
The lead child, a small boy no older than six and missing a tooth, hurried over.
"Sorry, Mister Awakened!" he said exuberantly, hopping from one foot to the other in that excited way so characteristic of youth.
Asterion leaned forward and, with careful effort, molded his face into a gentle smile that put the child at ease. It had taken countless tries to perfect it, so many that little Nephie used to hide behind her father's leg every time he visited, but the result was well worth the effort.
"There is no problem, child," he said gently, then placed the ball in the boy's outstretched hands.
"I'm not a child! I'm seven years old already!" the boy complained. Ah, so he had judged incorrectly. How irksome. "And my name isn't Child! It's Anthony."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Anthony." He ruffled the child's hair the way he had seen other adults do many times before, much to the boy's chagrin. "My name is Asterion. I hope I haven't harmed your ball. I'm quite strong, after all."
The little boy shook his head. "Nuh-uh! It's fine!" Then he looked at Asterion again before glancing back at the gaggle of children still waiting for him. "Do you want to play with us, Mister... Aszarion?" He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "My team is losing."
Asterion chuckled, genuinely amused by the idea. After determining that he had plenty of time left before the Realm would banish him and that his pursuers were watching, he accepted the offer.
He couldn't wait to see what kind of devious scheme they would come up with to justify the fact that he was going to play football with some children.
Smile had told him once to enjoy the small things in life, and he certainly enjoyed messing with his fellow Sovereigns like this.
-------------------------------------------
Nephis watched without moving as her Cohort battled the Nightmare Creatures pouring out of the Gate.
It was Category Two this time, and she could have handled it on her own without much effort, but Effie had summarily decided to ban her from fighting after she had gone off on her own the day before.
She found it faintly amusing, especially the way everyone else had immediately backed Effie in what was clearly a planned move, and so she had decided to acquiesce to her demands.
Nephis took a step to the left, moving just out of the way of a flying Nightmare Creature. Its corpse crumpled against that of another that had been covertly trying to sneak up on her, without much success.
"You owe me one!" Effie shouted over the din of battle.
Nephis snorted but said nothing.
Seeing that they had things well in hand, she allowed her attention to drift toward her training.
Her Will was coming along nicely, already far stronger than it had been days before. Her Shaping was improving, too, her control and flexibility advancing by leaps and bounds thanks to the relentless practice she subjected herself to. Swordsmanship had stalled somewhat, as she lacked opponents good enough to help her improve. Experiments with her Aspect would have to wait until her Cohort deemed it time to lift her "punishment" or a sufficiently dangerous threat presented itself. Then there was her domain, which kept shrinking at the back of her mind, the stars growing dimmer every time she looked at them.
It was something that she knew she had to do something about sooner rather than later, but at the moment, she still couldn't bring herself to play pretend the way it required.
Which left only one thing.
Nephis glanced at the Nightmare Creature at her feet, the same one Effie had struck moments earlier. It had been grievously wounded by the collision, most of its bones broken on impact, leaving it completely incapable of moving.
Judging it to be as good a test subject as any, she reached for [Hopebringer] and planted a seed in it.
The Awakened Beast, being two whole ranks and many classes below her, could not resist as the seed took root throughout its body and spread without her having to spend even a single trickle of essence more. In no time, it was as though an entire forest had sprung up inside the creature. A forest of hope. One that left the vicious creature as docile as a pet.
Nephis studied how the seed spread, considered how she could accelerate the process against opponents of equal strength or against people and Nightmare Creatures stronger than herself, and tested just how fine her control over the Beast was. It was a long and tedious process, made all the more unpleasant by how much she disliked [Hopebringer].
It reminded her far too much of the Bond for her to feel comfortable using it on anything other than Nightmare Creatures.
Minutes passed quickly as she tested her theories, discarded them, and came up with new ones. Eventually, the noise of the battle died down to nothing, and she turned around just in time to see Rain smacking an Awakened Beast unconscious with her bow.
"I'll let you do the honors!" the girl shouted smugly.
"How considerate," Nephis replied dryly.
She turned back to her test subject, about to put it out of its misery so she could go kill the other one and be done with the Gate.
Had she not checked her domain just moments earlier, she would have missed it.
There was a new star among the constellations. It was small, almost imperceptibly darker than the rest, and carried a faint tone of madness that she had never seen before.
Her eyes drifted back to the Nightmare Creature. The possibility that came to mind was so absurd that she almost dismissed it on principle before deciding to double-check.
Nephis killed it, and at that very moment, the star winked out.
She blinked in surprise, despite having expected it. Then, just to make sure, she walked over to the Nightmare Creature Rain had knocked out and planted a seed of hope in it. The seed took root just as easily, and sure enough, moments later, a new star was born in her domain.
No matter how long she observed it, it did not disappear, and despite its source, it behaved just like the others.
Now that she was looking for it, she could also sense the faint connection she shared with the Nightmare Creature, which had seemingly become part of her domain.
[Hopebringer]... [Hopebringer] allowed her to induce Nightmare Creatures into her domain.