“We should leave at once. If this matter is preventing you from fulfilling your Destiny, we should settle it as soon as possible.” Loras uncrossed his legs and stood. “So far, the Wandering Phoenix Tribe has remained neutral towards the Cult of Leviathan. You serving as the Vessel of Behemoth greatly increases the possibility that they can be turned to our side.”

Cyril remained seated. The cultivator’s words annoyed him, though it was difficult to determine why, exactly. At first, he thought it was because of the idea of his people being ‘used’ as fodder in an eternal conflict. Though, perhaps the balance of their struggle was finally about to reach a crescendo. Leviathan bonding with a human meant that there was some plan, some goal, that the Titan must believe would tip the scales.

After a bit more thought, he realized the true source of his concern. This whole time, he had been fixated on returning to his family. Hugging his parents, bantering with his siblings, even some absurd notion of continuing his original Destiny of becoming the tribe’s Librarian. But throughout his journey, he had been forced to confront an obvious truth at every turn: he was a walking calamity.

Perhaps his only real improvement to the world had been cleansing a temporary monster infestation in an abandoned region of the Underdark; traveling through that area of the desert would be safer for a time, potentially saving a few lives.

Freeing Lanazael from her past had been a pyrrhic victory. He hadn’t managed to convince her to stay, to help rebuild Beljeza or aid the desert that Priestess Anadei had once called home. She had abandoned the material world for the heavens, and as far as Cyril knew, no one had ever come back from such a journey.

Since then, he had destroyed oases. Slaughtered cultists. The earthquake--Loras--had killed six locals and injured many more. Rejoining his family meant exposing them to ruin. No matter how powerful his tribe was, they couldn’t compete with Leviathan, let alone whatever empire he had managed to carve out in the last twelve years.

Based on legends, his mother may have been able to handle Lady Firouza, but she hadn’t been forced into combat in over a century. Depending on how much of an outlier Loras was, the individual elders of Fissure would have likely been as powerful as his mother. Their home had still been obliterated in a few seconds, even with the benefit of being protected within Behemoth's physical body.

Cyril took a deep breath and stood up. He couldn’t turn his back on them and run away. Not after coming so far and fighting so hard. But he wouldn’t force them to take his side. If Loras tried to force the matter, their combined forces would turn the cultivator into scrap metal. No doubt their smiths would forge some fine heirlooms from its corpse.

Loras either didn’t sense Cyril’s mood, or didn’t care. “Collect your belongings. Then we depart.”

It took a moment to realize he was talking about the spear. Cyril had almost forgotten about it. Before he could ask where it was, Loras walked toward the opening in the ceiling and leapt straight up. Cyril hurried over in time to see a bichromatic blur ascend the upper levels and land upon the top floor.

Frowning, he crouched beneath the opening. While he could have Lightened himself or harnessed some form of Gravity manipulation, Loras hadn’t appeared to use anything beyond its own physical might. Cyril drove down through his heels and flung himself upward with as much force as he could muster.

The first level passed by in a rush. As he crested the second floor, Cyril was feeling rather pleased with himself. Then the atmosphere grew heavier, more oppressive. He barely managed to stifle a groan as his momentum slowed to a crawl. After he made it halfway up the third floor, the enhanced gravity shoved him back down. Cyril managed to snag the edge of the opening with his free hand and haul himself back up onto the third level.

Earth cultivators sure love their Gravity trials, he reflected with a sigh. He suspected that Loras could have hopped over the seven steps in Lanazael’s temple on one foot.

At least he wasn’t completely hopeless. There was a ragged hole the size of a fist in one of the golden walls from where his spear had broken through. His physical body may have been lacking for now, but he had other abilities to make up for it in the meantime. Weaknesses were simply future strengths that needed a painful amount of rehabilitation to reach their full potential.

He glanced up at the next level, wondering if he could reach his spear if he augmented his body enough. A black-and-white blur plummeted down from above, and Cyril moved aside in time for Loras to land on the edge of the opening, perfectly balanced on his toes. In one hand, the cultivator held its flute, and in the other, the spear of rusted iron and rotten wood.

Cyril caught his weapon out of the air. “Thanks.”

“We do not have all day,” said Loras. “Next time, you will retrieve it yourself.”

The metallic cultivator hopped backwards, falling the remainder of the way to the ground floor. Biting back a childish response, Cyril leapt after it and landed with a heavy thump. Without speaking to one another, they departed the pagoda and began walking southeast.

After a few hundred paces, Loras turned around and reached its free hand toward the pagoda. The nine-story edifice broke apart into separate sections linked by threads of Gravity qi, similar to its appearance when Cyril first stumbled upon it. Then, the floating platforms rapidly began to shrink; within a few seconds, they were no larger than a hand.

The golden plates gathered into a stack, like a deck of playing cards. They flew into Loras’ hand, and the cultivator fed them into a slot that appeared in its forearm.

“Neat,” said Cyril. “You’ll have to teach me that trick.”

Loras’ expression remained as blank as ever. “It is an enchantment specific to the treasure, not a personal technique. The man who made this for me is now a frozen corpse. Let us make haste. I assume you are fastest in that golem form?”

Instead of responding, Cyril began to channel the technique.

“Stop,” said Loras.

Cyril halted the flow of qi, trying not to focus on the wasted energy dispersing into entropy. “Yes?”

“Your internal spirit is hidden from me. Likely a subconscious protection, either from yourself or Behemoth. Unmask it, so I can analyze the flow of your technique.”

“And how do I do that,” said Cyril.

Somehow, Loras managed to convey disappointment through its unchanging facial features. “You are the one who did it. Simply will yourself to stop.”

Right. As if it was that simple. He hadn’t even realized he was doing anything in particular. But despite its quirks, Loras was a serious teacher. If it thought that would work, then it would.

Cyril closed his eyes and focused on his soul. Instead of reading the words etched onto it, he merely examined the surface. Sure enough, now that he was looking for it, he noticed a thin veneer of translucent energy shimmering along the exterior. It was like looking at an object distorted beneath water. With a conscious effort, he banished the shroud over his soul. The ease of it surprised him--it was similar to dismissing a Flicker Cantrip. His core and the qi flowing within his channels appeared brighter, though he felt no actual improvement in quality.

“Can I cover it back up?” he asked.

Loras glanced down at his body, then back up to his face. “Did you make the attempt?”

Slightly embarrassed, Cyril returned to looking at his soul. Reinstating the shroud was a simple reversal of dismissing it. Satisfied, he lowered the defense, once more struck by the similarity to casting and dismissing Flicker. If he had been subconsciously masking his soul the entire time, his mind must have associated it with one of his innate techniques, something he was familiar with.

“Good,” said Loras. “Now, demonstrate the technique.”

Some of his reticence gone, Cyril obliged. Blessed stone began to replace flesh and blood. As the familiar agony blazed throughout his body, Loras offered its guidance, instructing him to alter certain rhythms throughout his channels.

Each alteration brought new pain, but it soon became evident that his efficiency had improved. Once the transformation was complete, his core had drained around a quarter less than his previous uses of the technique.

“The problem with most self-made techniques and Catrips,” Loras explained, “is that a few bottlenecks cause most of the problems. Usually, they are small imperfections, ones that would never occur to the user who made them in the first place. Once these flaws are remedied and the optimal pattern is established, the result is often quite different.”

Cyril bowed his head, though it felt awkward, since he now loomed over the metallic cultivator. “Once more, I thank you for the instruction.”

Loras nodded. “It would be best to continue masking your soul from now on, even among your tribe.”

Without another word, they departed.

Cyril rushed across the ground in great leaps, attempting to outpace Loras. The black-and-white figure matched his pace with ease, gliding through the air beside Cyril and offering more advice on the technique as they went. Conversing at high speeds, wind whipping past their face, made it nearly impossible for him to respond. Loras was happy to monologue in its resonant voice, its words vibrating within Cyril’s ear as if they were relaxing side-by-side.

“You do realize I can sense the vibrations when you speak to me?” said Loras.

The realization made Cyril grimace. Of course it wouldn’t be bothered. In his defense, he hadn’t quite adjusted to the cultivator’s behavior, and most of his thoughts were focused on his family. As valuable as he found the advice on improving his qi circulation, experimenting with creating additional limbs or non-humanoid forms, and so on, he could barely focus.

Time felt like it was rushing ahead and crawling at the same time. The reality of the situation finally struck him when he and Loras detected a man in the traditional orange tunic of his tribe off in the distance. Cyril resisted the urge to run up the Early Foundation cultivator, no doubt a scout along the perimeters of the tribe. Speaking with the man would only be an unnecessary delay.

The scout rushed away, heading in the same direction they were. Moments later, the hulking golem and suit of hollow armor surged past, ignoring the terrified look upon the scout’s face. A white flare blasted into the sky behind them--a beacon, an alarm, warning of intruders. White represented a deadly, unknown threat, requiring immediate attention.

As they charged deeper into Wandering Phoenix territory, the temperature noticeably increased. Even against his blessed stone exterior, the air felt scalding. Heat mirages blurred throughout the landscape. Granny Jasmine was right about those rumors. The ambient environment was never like this before.

Before he could think on it much farther, a new blur appeared on the horizon. This one, however, wasn’t a heat mirage. A party of cultivators was meeting their charge, loose orange clothing flapping about their figures like phoenix wings, their radiant auras blazing.

“Don’t attack them,” Cyril warned.

Loras, flying through the air at his side, turned his face and…raised one eyebrow. It was the first hint of physical emotion the cultivator had displayed. He hadn't even been sure if it was capable of altering its face, though it seemed like an absurd restriction given its control over its physical form.

Cyril halted. The metallic cultivator landed beside him, twirling its flute in one hand. As the war-party closed in, he recognized the figure at the front: a giant of man, covered in more scars than skin, wielding a massive great-axe embedded with a fortune’s worth of rubies.

A mist of earth qi flowed around Cyril as he dismissed his golem form. Loras crossed its arms and stood in place, watching. Cyril didn’t even notice--he was too busy charging forward, a grin splitting his face.

“Uncle!"