“Well, I’m here,” Cyril said.

The metallic cultivator stared at him with lifeless eyes, no doubt sensing the annoyance in his tone. It laid a finger across its lips as it contemplated him. A moment later, a white line bisected it down the middle, then its entire right side transmuted into the ivory material. The light half of its face smiled, while the dark half frowned.

The oppressive nature of the cultivator’s presence dimmed, turning into a curious display of opposites. Joy and sorrow, yin and yang, day and night--distinct, diametric concepts that blended at their twilight borders. He guessed the transformation was meant to make him feel at ease; it only put him more on guard. A being composed of opposites was unpredictable, paradoxical.

“I am glad that you were able to decipher my message,” said the cultivator. Its voice remained neutral and hollow, as if it was discussing the contents of a letter it had sent.

Cyril took a deep breath before responding. “Your delivery mechanism leaves much to be desired.”

The cultivator tilted its head to the side. “I calculated that it would be too great of a risk for us to appear together within hostile territory. Your assault on the southern oases an the failure of Lady Firouza captured the attention of their upper echelons. The two of us may be worth a dozen of them, but I could not risk them drowning us in sheer numbers.”

“That…is not what I meant.” Cyril clenched and unclenched his fist, attempting to loosen some of the sudden tension in his body. “Was the earthquake necessary?”

“I see.” The cultivator nodded, as if the matter was settled. “After your previous display, you wished to eliminate the target location with a more discrete method. My apologies. I believed that I was assisting you in your endeavor of obliterating the settlement. I now see the folly of my ways.”

“Obliteration of the settlement? Why--” Cyril cut himself off as understanding dawned on him.

He was dealing with one of Behemoth’s ardent followers. The Titan had no issue with annihilating rival cultivators--it had even empowered him for the sole purpose of doing so. What did faceless, mundane casualties matter in the midst of their eternal conflict? The settlement was hostile territory, and thus its fate was sealed.

Cyril failed to keep the anger from his voice. “Nobody there was a threat. A few guards in the Foundation Stage. Otherwise, they’re just people living their lives. They don’t care who lays claim to their territory as long as they’re left alone.”

“I care,” said the cultivator. Then it seemed to finally understand his meaning. The light half of its face frowned, while the dark half smiled. “Ah. Though I do not recognize your lineage, you have inherited the misguided ethics espoused by the elders of Fissure. Or, rather, the former elders. After the destruction of our home, I believed I had discovered a kindred soul. Perhaps I was mistaken.”

“Fissure isn’t my home,” said Cyril. “The desert is. We already live our lives in a brutal wasteland, and now it’ll become another battlefield in this war.”

The cultivator nodded slowly. It waved one hand, and the floating platforms began to descend and combine into one another. With all of the sections fitted together, it formed a far more compact pagoda. The building of golden metal glimmered in the sunlight like some opulent temple.

“Do me the honor of joining me inside,” it said. To Cyril’s surprise, there was a hint of deference in its tone.

Unsure how to respond, he simply followed the cultivator through the open entrance of the pagoda. The inside of the building was bare and simple--empty rooms with openings in the ceiling large enough for a person to ascend to the next floor, though without any stairs or other means of easy access. The only decorations were the tiny black and white runes etched into the sections of the golden metal. He hadn’t noticed them until now, either because of distance, or they remained hidden when the pagoda was in its deconstructed state.

Another wave of the cultivator’s hand, and a table and pair of ornate chairs made from wood sprouted from the floor. The material helped break up the monotony of the golden metal, adding some depth to dispel the illusory sense of standing within a seamless cube. The cultivator sat in one seat, and Cyril took his cue to settle into the other one.

He resisted the urge to smile as the E-grade wood was added to his list of Transmute options. The main material of the pagoda occupied the space above it, apparently called sunsteel (E-grade). He would definitely have to experiment with that one and see how it reacted to his Dominion of the Sun.

Unfortunately, the metal forming the cultivator’s body didn’t appear on his list of options. Interesting. It must have exceeded the current limitations of his Transmute Cantrip, putting it on a level beyond the darksteel and rusted iron he had acquired in the Underdark.

“I will be blunt,” said the cultivator, crossing its legs. Despite its uncanny appearance, there was still something reassuring about its human mannerisms. “You have the most pure earth qi I have encountered, and that includes the greatest scions of Fissure. Looking at you evokes a similar sensation to gazing upon Behemoth itself, though far more muted. If Fissure is not your place of birth, there is only one logical conclusion. The Titan of Earth has merged with a Vessel, after all this time.”

Cyril swallowed. Lanazael was the only being he had encountered so far that understood his true nature. He had wanted to hide his bond with Behemoth from other cultivators as long as possible, but it appeared fate had different plans for him. At least the first person to expose his secret was an ostensible ally.

There was no point in denying it.

“That obvious, is it?” said Cyril.

“Then it is as I feared,” said the cultivator. “My name is Loras. Once, I was the master-at-arms for the Cult of Behemoth. After some disagreements regarding my methods and my philosophies of war, I was stripped of my honors and exiled from Fissure. Though it has been over a century since I taught my last cohort, the knowledge remains burned into my soul. And it reveals a distressing truth. Your foundations are utterly lacking.”

Cyril bit down a reflexive surge of outrage. He had half-expected the cultivator--Loras--to prostrate itself before its incarnated god and beg for forgiveness. The reality was proving to be quite the opposite. Worst of all, it was absolutely correct. So far he had stumbled through his training, learning as he went, half-following the advice of a pair of imps that relied on information from ages past.

He chose to ignore, for now, the implication that Loras had offended the elders of Fissure enough to be banished. From the glimpse he had already seen regarding its attitude towards war, he suspected he had a rough idea of why. And yet, for all their nobility, the Cult of Behemoth had nearly been wiped out while Leviathan prospered.

“What would you recommend?” he managed to say eventually. Despite his misgivings, there may not be a better cultivator in the world to offer him advice.

“For an average warrior in your situation, I would say they require at least two centuries of uninterrupted martial training, interspersed with long bouts of secluded meditation. You are neither the average warrior, nor will circumstances permit us to hide you away for hundreds of years.” Loras tilted its head to the side. “As I have reflected that offering praise may assuage the shame of a young cultivator, I will say that you have discovered at least one proper approach: that arm of yours.”

Frowning, Cyril touched the darkalloy prosthetic of his right lower arm. “This?”

“Of course,” said Loras. “The golem form that you faced me in is also, shall we say, an attempt in the right direction. A truly shameful demonstration as of now, but the idea is admirable.”

Ah, thought Cyril. Now I’m beginning to understand one of the philosophical disagreements it must have had with its superiors. This is a body cultivator, through and through.

Body cultivators focused on refining their physical forms through various means. The main use of qi was to augment their personal strength and durability. Fortunately, Loras didn’t appear to be zealous about the path to the point it abandoned every other potential application of qi.

Cyril’s Reinforcement Cantrip and golem transformation offered a facsimile of body cultivation, but it paled in comparison to the true benefits of improving one’s constitution. Loras had obviously abandoned the constraints of his original human form. Even if it lost every drop of qi within its core, it would lose none of its durability. At Loras’ level of advancement, having completely abandoned his original body in favor of a metallic form, it was possible that its ability to rapidly repair itself and switch between colors were innate characteristics of its unique constitution. Even its domain of vibrations may have been an expression of its physical existence, opposed to a spiritual technique like his own.

“I’m not opposed to some of your methods,” said Cyril. “But as you said before, we don’t have centuries. By that point, Leviathan will have spread his empire throughout most of the material world.”

“This is why we trained the scions of Fissure from birth to become the optimal Vessels.” Loras shook its head. “The hope is that one of them would eventually satisfy Behemoth enough for our lord to incarnate. Behemoth has refused countless cultivators near the peak of spiritual perfection. I do not understand why one such as you was granted such an honor.”

Cyril found himself liking the cultivator less and less, but he supposed they didn’t need to be best friends to assist one another. He tried to sympathize with Loras--exiled from home, seeing it fall, waging a lonely war all this time against an impossible foe. Cyril, too, had experienced the numbness of abandoning his humanity, though it had always been a temporary measure. What happened to a man’s mind after centuries of existing within a hollow metal shell?

Still, sympathy didn’t mean he would allow Loras to walk all over him.

“I don’t understand either,” he said. “But it happened. I am now the incarnation of Behemoth. If you’re still dedicated to the cause, then I’m your only hope at this point. Instead of speculating upon the past, let’s consider the future. And in that future, let us treat one another with respect.”

Loras remained silent, its expression a mask of metal. Its fingers drummed on the arm of its chair as it considered his words. “Then I will bestow you with one more compliment. You have what many of those sniveling scions lacked, beneath their arrogance and posturing: a spine of steel.

“Thank you,” said Cyril. He attempted to find a suitable response, despite his distaste over the cultivator’s ideals. “Your dedication is admirable, and your strength is profound.”

Loras dipped its head in acknowledgement. It relaxed as much as a being made of rigid metal could. “Then we have much to discuss. I will need another day or two to analyze our fight. Afterwards, we will put you through a few trials to determine the optimal course of action. I will set aside a room for you to stay in.”

Cyril shook his head. “First, I have another matter to attend to. I apologize for not introducing myself earlier. I am Prince Cyril of the Wandering Phoenix Tribe. It’s been over a decade since I’ve seen my family. They’re a couple hours away at most.”

Loras closed its eyes and reflected on his words for several minutes. Cyril sat there awkwardly, glancing every once in a while at the clusters of tiny runes carved into the wall. What were they meant to accomplish, exactly? The spiritual symbols had always fascinated Cyril, though the Runewardens kept their secrets closely guarded.

Loras eventually opened its eyes. “I have calculated that, based on the new information you have provided, the risk of me accompanying you is lower than allowing you to be captured by the Cult of Leviathan. I have also heard some interesting rumors regarding your family and their strength. They cannot hope to stand against the Cult, but their assistance would greatly benefit our endeavors, especially within the desert.”

Cyril suppressed his initial desire to refuse the cultivator. He nodded once, then grew quiet. However, it wasn’t a solemn or awkward silence. A thrill surged through his chest, warming his heart.

Finally, he was going home.