It was at Jade that Ozmanthus began to notice a problem.
The others his age were still Copper.
That wasn’t entirely true; some of those from wealthy families, or from organizations that focused exclusively on the sacred arts, had been sponsored directly to Lowgold. But the ones he’d grown up with, those who had only recently been his friends, were two entire stages down from him.
He could no longer play games with them, as he would win. He couldn’t study with them, as he had already outstripped many of their teachers in theory. And they began to avoid him.
For Ozmanthus, it was only a minor grief. His Path lay ahead of him, full of possibility, and everyone told him what wonders he would accomplish. With his spiritual perception now open, there was a whole new world bared to his mind.
He had decided the details of his Path by Lowgold, refining it during endless hours in the library. He chose techniques of pure destruction. Why settle for inefficiency?
That led to another troubling trend for Ozmanthus. The sacred arts in Cradle tend to focus on combat applications because of the never-ending competition for resources, but soon, there was no one under the Lord realm who could compete against him.
He was not shunned for this. Far from it; his master and those from his homeland were ecstatic at this young genius.
But he was always alone. When he went into the wilderness seeking spirits or natural treasures, it was easier to go himself. Someone else would just slow him down.
While Ozmanthus was not entirely content with his solitude, he knew it was only temporary. He couldn’t be the greatest genius in the world. Somewhere, he would find someone who would keep up with him.
Until then, he would slow down. He gave up his spear for a broom, but he didn’t mind that. He liked being the only sacred artist in the world to fight with a broom. It had style.
After reaching Underlord, he grew in knowledge, and insight, and power. He studied the nature of soulfire and proved its connection to deeper truths by manifesting an Icon of his choice in front of a panel of renowned scholars.
The Broom Icon.
Rather than impressed, the scholars were crushed. Ozmanthus had made their entire lives into a joke, publicly humiliating them. No less than three of them killed themselves within a week.
This greatly disturbed Ozmanthus.
In addition to advancement, Ozmanthus also turned his genius to other aspects of the sacred arts. He became known as a reliable refiner and one of the greatest Soulsmiths of his generation. He was more satisfied with this avenue of progress, and he began investigating the great Soulsmiths of the past.
This was the path for him, he decided. He would become known as a creator, a researcher. One who built.
His Path was most suited for creating weapons, which did not bother him. He never lost his admiration for those who kept the world clean, and one of the most hideous plagues in the world was the population of dreadbeasts that roamed the countryside, feeding and spewing out more of their kind.
With his weapons, he would clean the countryside.
He found an ancient labyrinth, built by the original Court of Seven before their ascension. He researched their understanding, growing in knowledge and power. And he built weapons.
To better understand his creations, he sought knowledge of death. He even created a device that would kill and revive him.
He did not realize what a catalyst that would be. As the creator of the world’s deadliest weapons, when he killed and revived himself, he instantly manifested the Death Icon.
Not what he had sought to achieve.
Ozmanthus found it now even easier to create deadly weapons. Too easy. He could create reality-warping weapons on the level of the Abidan before even ascending from the Iteration.
And with his every accomplishment, he grew more alone. No one could match his accomplishments, no one could face him in battle, and no one could understand his insights into the world beyond.
He abandoned his weapons. He focused on another of his talents: his sight. When he advanced to Monarch, he developed the bloodline ability to see.
Ozmanthus was so relieved that he wept. This was the ability that he wanted to define his legacy. And he would leave his descendants with the ability to see as he did, to one day catch up to him.
He named his House after the city he had always sought. The Arelius family should always seek greater insight.
And when he finally ascended, he left a beacon behind, a measure of his power like a black hole sealed in a transparent barrier that resembled glass. When someone appeared from his family with enough talent to join him, they would ascend with the marble, and he would know.
He expected to wait a generation, perhaps two or three.
But he was certain that very soon, House Arelius would be a dynasty that spread to the heavens themselves.
Record complete.
Lindon shouted Northstrider’s name into the sky. He begged, he pleaded, he bargained, and he even threatened. Politely.
The Monarch never responded.
Without his help, Lindon’s chances of repairing Dross fell significantly. But Lindon could try again. Until Dross awakened, he had time to research.
In the meantime, he brought Yerin to the Sword Sage’s void space.
Lindon had expected Yerin to follow him out of curiosity, but the more he hinted that he had something to show her, the more reluctant she became. He dropped several hints, expecting her to sprint ahead of him. Instead, the more she learned, the slower her feet moved.
It was as though she dreaded finding something her master left behind.
Lindon marched into the half-destroyed Tomb, a chunk of its roof caved in and one of its pillars cracked. He had to pick his way around pieces of debris that looked like they had been deposited here by a hurricane.
Yerin paused at the entrance, at the top of the stairs where she had once fought her master’s Remnant. The cold wind grabbed the lock of red hair over her eyes, which she hadn’t had all that time ago.
“Is this gonna kill me if I don’t see it?” she asked.
Lindon stopped. He moved back to her, gently placing his hand on her arm.
She didn’t tremble, but her spirit did.
“We don’t have to do this now,” he said. “We can come back later.”
“It’s not his…body, is it?”
This was the first time he had seen her hesitate over a dead body. Even when she’d removed her master’s sword from his corpse, she hadn’t seemed disturbed.
Then again, he hadn’t known her well back then.
He hurried to reassure her. “It’s not. It’s just some things he left behind.” Lindon had waited to tell her exactly what he found because he had expected her to be eager to see for herself, but he had been wrong.
“Do you want me to tell you first?”
Yerin squared her shoulders. “Nothing to be scared of, is there? He didn’t leave a Dreadgod tucked away.”
Lindon thought of a shriveled, gray-white mummified hand and hesitated to respond. Yerin saw that.
“Bleed and bury me, if he really—”
“No, no, nothing threatening. But there’s no hurry either.”
“Doubt either one of us wants to come back into this script longer than we have to. Let’s do what we’re going to do and be gone.” The suppression field hung heavy on them both, and it hadn’t been long since they’d escaped it the first time.
Lindon searched her face, but took her at her word. He focused his will on a barely-sensed indentation in space at the back of the room.
Then, using a finger of Blackflame madra as a medium, he cut through it.
“Open,” Lindon commanded.
The Sword Sage’s private void space expanded in front of them. They looked through a rift into a large room filled with collected treasures.