Cyril took a quick inventory of his remaining options. His breakthrough had absorbed the entirety of the amethyst dust, propelling the Dominion of Gravity to 271/10000. Again, Gravity had managed to surpass his primary Earth affinity, but its conceptual flexibility had proven its worth time and time again.

Outside of that, he had Hunger-Made-Alive’s soul gem; it had fallen to the ground within arm’s reach during his breakthrough. Somewhere in the distance was his spear. He hadn’t found an opportunity to reclaim it after using it against the cultist. Johan. For some reason, the name stuck with Cyril.

Neither of them seemed of much use against this new threat. The drow radiated dark lethality in contrast to Firouza’s savage divinity. At least none of his hostile aura felt like it was directed at Cyril--though, strangely enough, it didn’t seem like the drow bore Firouza any ill will either. Only the wicked obsidian knife in her throat betrayed his hostile intentions.

The two cultivators remained locked in place for several seconds, as if they were reflections trapped within glass. The spread of necrotic energy through Firouza’s neck ceased, and the drow appeared unable to twist his weapon deeper into her throat.

Cyril considered how he could lend the drow aid, his mind frantic. He grasped the soul gem, hoping to perhaps deliver it to the drow to empower one of his techniques.

Before he could lend his assistance, a ripple distorted the space around the pair of terrifying cultivators. They vanished, presumably teleported to whatever destination lay on the other side of Firouza’s technique.

A mix of emotions washed over Cyril at their disappearance. While the drow had acted in his interests against the Cult, the sight of one of Hosjin’s people seemed like a massive coincidence after his experiences in Beljeza. The perfect timing as well, leaping in when Firouza was most distracted. He doubted a random cultivator capable of surprising the cultist elder had stumbled into their fight by chance.

The drow must have been stalking him, which meant he wanted something. Whatever it was, it was no doubt a distraction from Cyril's goal of returning to his tribe and defending his homeland. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what fate awaited the male drow. And if Firouza survived, word of Cyril’s existence would spread throughout the cult. If the drow managed to finish her off, he would count his blessings.

The roar of rushing water broke Cyril out of his reverie. He glanced up, and realized that Firouza’s grand working hadn’t disappeared along with her. Her qi dissipated into flurries of cerulean motes, but the physical water she had gathered remained overhead. Without Firouza’s will to shape it, the water construct had begun to lose cohesion. Raging waterfalls leaked through the sides of the colossal orb, cascading in number until the entire construct collapsed into a descending tidal wave.

Cyril closed his eyes and sighed. A moment later, countless tons of water surged into him and blasted him off his feet. Roaring filled his ears, and he found himself tossed about in a dizzying whorl of conflicting currents. The water retained no hint of spirituality, incapable of truly harming him, but the raging tide swept him away. He surrendered himself to the journey.

The wave deposited him several hundred paces from his starting location. He lay on the damp ground, Hunger-Made-Alive’s soul gem clenched in his hand, and opened his eyes. The sun blazed overhead, glorious and beautiful, reinvigorating his soul with his mere presence. The damp earth formed a soft bed beneath him.

All of the sudden, exhaustion settled deep into his bones. Behemoth, no longer sensing any cultists in the area, turned its attention away from Cyril’s worldly concerns. The Titan had the courtesy not to fully withdraw its additional assistance, trickling more than the normal amount of qi into his core.

Cracks began to spread throughout Cyril’s form. The fractures widened into gaps and fissures. Sections of blessed stone and bronze armor sloughed away, crumbling into entropy and feeble wisps of earth qi. It left behind his old flesh-and-blood body, more or less intact; the darkalloy prosthetic remained for his left lower arm, and his right hand was mangled from the amethyst dust. Surprisingly, he had actually managed to hold on to Hunger-Made-Alive’s soul gem; he squeezed it just to assure himself of its presence, and that he was still alive.

Cyril groaned. It felt as if Behemoth had stepped on him again. His entire body felt raw and battered. Without Behemoth’s focus, the world looked empty, bereft of much spirituality beyond the lingering hints from their conflict.

The mystical auras of the oases had been consumed, as well as all signs of life besides himself as far as the eye could see. Devastation had fundamentally altered the once-verdant landscape. Massive gouges in the earth shredded sections of the land. The lake beds of the oases had been reduced to puddles courtesy of the tidal wave’s backflow, and withered traces of foliage had scattered far and wide.

Cyril couldn’t help but think once more of one of his tribe’s main tenets: to leave areas better off than when they found them. Had he left these lands better off? Killing other cultivators, wreaking havoc on the environment, destabilizing the local water supply. It was difficult to feel triumphant or relieved in the face of the devastation he had caused.

He forced himself to his feet, conjuring a bronze walking stick to maintain his balance. Holding it within his mangled hand was a fresh agony, but the bones had already shifted back into alignment. He could feel the fractures sealing together, flesh knitting back together. As impressive as his healing factor was, the fight had exposed a glaring flaw in his own cultivation: most of his abilities relied on augmenting an unimpressive physique.

The bizarre golem technique had served as a fusion of both Transmute and Reinforcement, allowing him to forge himself a rough body out of one of his available materials. Even that relied on using his base form as a framework to build off of. With a proper constitution, the transformation would demonstrate its full potential.

He noted his improvised technique hadn’t appeared on his soul under his list of Cantrips. A sign that he hadn’t mastered the ability enough for it to be properly etched onto his Destiny. It was far too inefficient to warrant such recognition. A problem for another time.

Cyril cracked his neck and rotated his shoulders. Much of the pain already had faded away to a dull annoyance. Purple bruises discolored much of his body, and he watched their shade lighten before his eyes. His core continued to refill, though not quite as fast as he would have liked. Behemoth’s metaphysical weight had left its marks: tiny cracks throughout his smaller channels, a heavy fatigue upon his thoughts. Like his hand, those blemishes slowly mended, but not fast enough for his taste.

For a moment he considered returning to his golem form, but even if he still had Behemoth’s full assistance, he doubted he had the mental energy to reconstruct and maintain the transformation. Altogether, the fight couldn’t have lasted for more than a couple minutes, but his mind felt like he had been locked in a contest of wills against Lady Firouza for hours.

Finally noticing that he was as nude as the moment he was born, he formed the lower half of his bronze plate armor. He stored Hunger-Made-Alive’s soul gem on the side of one of his greaves, sealing it beneath layers of metal to ensure it wouldn’t fall off.

Cyril wanted to leave as soon as possible, but first, he ran over to collect his spear. With so much of the ambient spirituality extinguished, its energy signature stood out like a beacon. He scooped the weapon off the ground without stopping, his metal boots squelching against the damp earth. After a slight correction of his course to resume his journey home, he kept charging without a backwards glance.

Soon, the muddy ground segued into sand once more, and he was escaping into the desert. As Cyril ran, he experimented with Lightening his Mass, testing to see if it assisted his movement speed. It did for a while, then he exceeded some specific threshold and felt himself slowing down, unable to drive enough force behind his movements to propel himself forward as efficiently as before.

After a minute, he settled into a smooth rhythm. He allowed his mind to fall into a semblance of a trance, reflecting on the situation.

Dominion of Gravity:

Third Sphere- improved rotational manipulation and understanding of vectors. (271/10000)

At first glance, the boon granted from his breakthrough didn’t seem all that impressive. It didn’t even grant a Cantrip, likely because he hadn’t entered the sea of knowledge in order to receive a vision. The breakthrough had relied on ancient memories hidden in the shadows of his subconscious, forcing them into an immediately-useful concept: the spirals he’d used to undermine Firouza’s technique.

He still didn’t fully understand their use, only that he could sense certain defects within other techniques and attempt to exploit them. Utilizing the spiral was one way to do so; he imagined others existed, but he figured he may as well perfect this technique before attempting to understand the deeper concept it represented. Without Behemoth actively enhancing his spiritual senses, he wasn’t confident he could replicate the same feat he had performed on Firouza. Due to the circumstances of his forced breakthrough, the foundations of his Third Sphere of Gravity were lacking. Fortunately, he had the ability to purify his flaws and impurities, which would hopefully smooth over such fundamental gaps.

Another thing I have to improve on.

Cyril was so lost in his thoughts, it took him several moments to realize someone was running across the sand dunes beside him, matching his pace perfectly. A slender young woman, nearly as tall as he was, with moonlight-pale skin and a banner of sleek white hair whipping in the air behind her. Her silk clothing hung loose to her body, voluminous sleeves flapping in the wind like the gossamer wings of a dark butterfly.

“Hello,” the young drow woman said in the language of spirits, wearing an eager grin. “Running was an excellent idea.”

Cyril stared at her wide eyes, then formed the rest of his plate armor, obscuring the lean lines of his physique. “Is that a threat?”

Without breaking stride, the drow touched a finger to her lips and glanced up at the heavens. “No, I don’t believe so. Merely an observation. I have to admit, I’m quite unsure how to proceed now that my Spirit Guardian has been…entangled elsewhere. Soren always enjoyed a dramatic entrance.”

Cyril forced himself not to lose his footing and embarrass himself. His mind whirled as he tried to analyze her words without stumbling across the sand dunes. He tried to keep the fatigue and exertion out of his voice, to convey as much effortless grace as she did.

“I know that you’re drows,” said Cyril. “So, what is it you want with me?”

“Of course you know we’re drows!” The woman shook her head, laughing. “You bear the Mark of Hosjin. You will return to the Underdark and answer for your transgressions.”

Cyril suppressed a grimace and stopped in place. “I’m afraid I have important business elsewhere.”

The drow swiveled in his direction elegantly, coming to a halt in front of him as if their movements were part of a choreographed dance. “Don’t be absurd. I’m on the cusp of the Fourth Sphere of Darkness, among others. As impressive as it is that you’re still able to move after that display earlier, you are in no shape to challenge me.”

Cyril narrowed his eyes. Humbling this arrogant young mistress would likely incur the wrath of the terrifying cultivator she referred to as her Spirit Guardian. On the other hand, it seemed they did intend to capture him. He had no desire to be paraded about as the hostage of a foreign civilization. Of any civilization, really.

He knelt down and lay his spear beside him. Her dark eyes lit up, her smile growing more genuine.

Does she actually think I’m bowing toward her?

Cyril sent earth qi into his greave, opening up the slot containing Hunger-Made-Alive’s gem. The one packed with an incredible amount of Darkness energy, attuned to the Underdark--a natural treasure that any cultivator of her sort would kill for.

She noticed the sudden aura of the soul gem and, to her credit, reacted immediately. An obsidian dagger materialized in her hand. Before she could follow up, Cyril crushed the soul gem and flung it at her.

Bless the foolish girl, she caught the largest chunk in her free hand and frowned down at it. An instant later, potent Darkness qi washed over her, encasing her in a cocoon of dense energy. Her core flashed into existence as it absorbed the congruent qi, revealing the level of her cultivation--Peak Foundation. Impressive, but Cyril thought he still would have defeated her if he had to.

“Consider it a favor owed,” said Cyril, before returning to his feet and running away as fast as possible, spear in hand.

Behind him, Darkness exploded outward, engulfing the world. But it was only a spiritual blackness, without violent intent, and soon he broke out the other side. He kept running, and running, without looking back.

Behind him, the young drow woman began ascending to the Fourth Sphere.