Blood, like red chrysanthemums, bloomed out of the sheet of white he laid over. Each and everything he knew of did hurt—and that was the problem, for numbness creeped in, sat down and bumped shoulders with Grisla as if it’s always been around. And the sky, with all its grey, had sudden tendrils of black streaking across, which started from his head, continuing to meet the other leaks at the base of his chin. He had nothing to look to, nothing to look for, and, it has felt like an eternity since his body stopped responding to his commands.

The clan was half-right—he will die here. Alone, but he wouldn’t be dying in unmitigated agony. No, for he had accomplished something not many could. To fend off a pack of Shade Beasts, outclassed and unequipped was a feat nobody will ever know of. The victim and his story will be buried alongside him. Nature will claim him. The rot will sink through the soil and be feasted upon by the undergrowth; the forest’s inhabitants, Shade Beasts or no, will take their pickings in varied bites. Whoever’s most lucky, or truthfully the strongest, will be able to claim his core, regardless of how undesirable it may be.

Soon, the moon will fall, and the sun will take its place. To repeat as it always has, and always will. Amid this, through repeated cycles spanning time that he won’t ever be able to count again, the cultivator that was is now a pile of bones, used as a cautionary tale for future generations of the Grittus clan on foolishness bleeding into arrogance. He won’t be talked about, for long. The disappearance of Grisla Orlith was a tragedy—for one, or maybe two. After which the knowledge that the walking, talking, and head scratching beacon of the Grittus’ inadequacies was but a memory, the despair of the few would turn into joy for the rest. And, as humans know, memories that they prefer to forget are tossed down the well to be forever forgotten, then they stay forgotten. The lasting reminders of his existence would be the Orlith family, and Grittus clan’s registry.

And that would be the end of it.

But—as the boy kept his hand on the amulet, which was dunked in more blood than one could clean in one bath, it glowed with a soft light and shined no matter how much filth it was caked with.

In the end, the boy, with the last scrapings of strength, made out a small, sorrowful smile to the heavens as he fell into sleep, hand clasping the amulet as if he’ll never let it go, in this life or the next.

A man, a wanderer to be exact—traveled from place to place— often stopping to exchange tales and snippets of wisdom, to mingle with coy women and be entertained, with either voice or inviting behavior. Some didn’t take fondly to it. They liked it even less after an embarrassing defeat for trying to prove something that nobody cared for. Despite their rudeness, the man could only smile back in reply. Before, during, and after these troubles, he smiled.

He traveled where others would not. To journey out carrying the bare minimum; coming back, plunder in tow and the smile he always carried. The sanity of such an individual was always in question—by friends, by companions. It was of no concern, for he did what his desires demanded of him, and surely, they responded back in kind for his efforts.

However, one day there was a modest exception to the rule. This man found a whiff of something—a something that would pay back in dividends for the risk involved. He couldn’t resist. During the adventure the man suffered battles, battles that set long-lasting damage upon him, and lost out in opportunities because of the numerical disadvantage he was put against, the plunder he gathered from prior adventures began to whittle down as he expended them in life-saving, or life-taking measures.

At the end of this road, in a temple room that the dead and dying share, stood the man. He looked like he’d been through ten thousand gladiator battles and had no such room for more. The wind threatened to topple him. His eyes though, they did not falter from his objective. An altar at the center of the carnage, with no frill or impressiveness, had a hand—not a hand, more of an amalgamation of one from various creatures of strange descent on top of it. Within its grasp held an amulet who shamed diamonds in comparison.

The cleanest thing inside the room, and the man felt unworthy to touch such a thing. But it was his right, he had killed and butchered for it, and would do countless more, had he the means and strength.

Upon touching it, the world shook, was the heavens angry, that such a profane hand dared to brush on a sacred thing? Or was this the reaction that would come about, if the chosen hand were not his, and sat here, among the corpses? “No matter,” the man thought, he will take it away and there would be nothing to prevent him so.

But not only did the world shake—it… evaporated, to describe frankly. The bodies and broken cobble and shattered swords and murdered beasts and even all different shades of filth which colored him—evaporated, and the man was born again. He was not where he thought he was. Somewhere different—isolated if he had to think.

His ceiling was a blanket of white pinpricks. Who sat an infinity away from him, and the closer his vision edged to the horizon, the black backdrop behind them tapered off to gradually become a royal purple. The world in which he could participate in, was no different than a placid lake, actually, he presumed he was on one, but this one stretched endlessly onwards, and the further out his vision went, the denser the fog became.

He was long used to strange sights like this. For he was accomplished in strangeness himself, and it was more of a comforting welcome home than a burgeoning feeling of panic. The amulet was still in his hand too.

After a moment that was neither long nor short, the mist rolled in from their distant isles. From the four cardinal directions, in fact. And before whatever’s to come, the man was frozen at his location. There were presences here—four of them, monstrous; unlike anything he’s ever felt before. The man was an expert in his own right, a powerhouse to rule as he saw fit, but to these approaching clouds… he was but an ant dancing proud.

There was an idea to run, but to where? And from what, exactly? Just the idea of running itself would be insulting to some of these peerless experts, and he would die, right here, without even knowing what hit him. The terror paralyzed any sort of resistance. Only hope, will save him here.

A cloud in the north, a cloud in the south, a cloud in the east, and a cloud in the west. They blotted out his vision leaving the only passage he could take would be above. These four presences boxed him in. Heart shriveling, as these clouds settled here. Unmoving.

To honor and respect your betters, that is the way of civility in their world, and it wouldn’t be neglected even while he sits in a realm of nothingness, it just might even save his life. The man took a bow, deep, if he hadn’t a spine there would be no doubt he’d try to fold himself inward. They replied with graveyard silence.

While he exhausted all the fluids in his body from his sweat, the mists began to disperse, like the winds have picked up, and carried them elsewhere. But… what they were hiding, who they were hiding—their silhouettes were coming into being.

The man had never seen creatures like these. The North, The South, The East, and The West—beasts whose size wanted to compete with mountains. He shivered. These things looked nothing like any Shade Beast he’d ever seen. Their presence, the power which radiated from them, was not propped up by mere Juva. No, not something so vain. Better put, they were power, and he felt they had coexisted as part of their world for a very long time. And here he was, standing in front of them.

The one in front of him—A Black Tortoise from the north. To his left, the west—A White Tiger. The right? A dragon, an Azure Dragon from the east. And behind at his south was a bird dipped in a rich vermillion, the Vermilion Bird. Four directions. Four Beasts. Their power was roughly equal. None regarded the other’s presence though it seemed.

Instead their attention was affixed to one individual—who was still dwarfed by any of their claws. The man under scrutiny caught on that they radiated no hostility, and instead waited in perplexed anticipation.

The Black Tortoise bowed its head. The White Tiger bowed its head. The Azure Dragon bowed its head. The Vermillion Bird bowed its head. And, together, like they had rehearsed this part all along: “Sage…”

The man looked down at the amulet, who he swore said it too in silence. And what did he do immediately after? He did nothing but smile. Smiled he did.

“What… was that?” Grisla whispered.

Lances of pain shot through his everything, and despite that, he regained a flicker of consciousness. Thinking that thinking, or trying, would only serve to agonize his passing over to the afterlife even further, he figured it would be best to blot out it all, and it worked, for a time. But something didn’t seem to like the idea of his death. A metallic thing of rust, grime and filth from anyplace was forgotten in his hand, and he’d forgotten he had a functioning limb at all. Reminded, by the sizzling feeling that traveled up from it. It wasn’t painful, nor did it take itself as a soothing guide to the otherworld, it merely gave off a lukewarm wave up his limb. Traveling to through his heart, to his dantian; below which was his core, the source of his Juva.

A thing only a child’s breath away from shattering, the bath of energy that came from nowhere was greedily drank without pretense. Knowing this, a hope was born anew for Grisla.

  Jadeflower… Hands.

An hour later of sticking his hand inside himself for do-it-yourself surgery, literally reversing the damage done from before the encounter, Grisla limped his way over to the nearest outcropping he could find, a momentary reprieve from the snowfall. Now, the Sage’s Ornament was in his hand all the while, absorbing his solemn stare as Grisla deliberated.

  “You saved my life.”

  The amulet swayed.

  “But what was that? What did I see? Did you make me see that?”

  It swayed again. A half-answer, and Grisla knew that was all he was probably going to get, because if the amulet wanted to tell him something personally, it would’ve done so like the first time.

  He shook his head, “Good enough, I suppose. For now.”

  “I can presume that from now on you’re an ally of mine, somewhat. A sentient piece of jewelry, it’s like I have a friend, and yet he’s imaginary.”

He gazed at the winter wonderland, hiding the unknown, with dangers he became acquainted with early. To say he’s afraid would be an understatement. The stark difference between himself and that wolf pack—the only reason he’s alive is because of exploiting that which they did not know, and that which they lacked in abundance of. Had it been three human cultivators…

Grisla’s eyes widened. “I’m an idiot! The corpses! Their cores! I need to go back, right now.” He took four steps before the light of the amulet came again. Before a word, the boy lost consciousness in the snow.

He was here. He was there. He was nowhere. Somewhere that he would have no comprehensive understanding of, intended or not. The boy looked up, and stars were there. The surroundings were desolate, and his feet had him standing on water. He figured if he wasn’t dreaming, then the infinity below would swallow him.

There was a mist coming. From four directions. Grisla could feel himself paralyzed; anchored into place. By his fear of the unknown, by the godlike presence which surrounded him. These mists pulled themselves back, and Grisla, a fresh newborn to anything of this sort—never knew there was a deeper level to the terror inside him.

Four Beasts watched him.