The Hundred Reigns

Chapter 161: The Sanctuary in the Sky (10)

Astromancy spells tended to be very powerful at the cost of being highly situational.

Anaximander, for example, could fire devastating beams of sunlight deadlier than a Light Manalith-powered Kindling Prayer during the day, but he had to switch to more defensive sorceries at night, like conjuring a magical shield of woven moonlight. Simon guessed this was why this field of magic paired so well with chronomancy. Both relied on timing.

“Do you sense something looking back?” Anaximander asked as he and Simon peered into the night sky from the Forbidden Keep’s roof; he was gazing at the stars, and Simon at the darkness in between. “A presence?”

“I feel… something cold,” Simon admitted. He felt it in his bones, in his mind, a grasping emptiness sucking the very warmth out of his soul. “Nay… a void.”

Star Call was a Tier V astromancy spell that involved calling ‘otherworldly formless intelligences’ to provide single word answers to specific questions. Anaximander himself struggled to explain what those forces were exactly, besides the ‘wisdom of stars’ or ‘radiance that answers,’ which made Simon’s attempts to create a Darkness-aligned miasmic variant difficult.

He had attempted to focus on the void and darkness between stars to achieve the same result, but to no avail so far. The nothingness between the stars wouldn’t react to his inquiries, either because there wasn’t anybody to answer him, or at least willing to answer.

It’s no use. I sense nothing besides a vague, invisible dread. Simon decided to change tactics and turn his gaze on something he could grasp. If I focus on Abraxas…

He searched the darkness of space for the comet that granted him his powers, and soon a warmth came over him; an impression of having his crystal skin flayed by the distant light of stars, casting off fragments of his body into the void. A force echoed his call, his reflection staring back at its twin.

Simon had wondered if Abraxas was self-aware the same way its fragments were, but the malevolence his mind now touched was more akin to a force of nature than a demon capable of talking back. It was a baleful star irradiating the cosmos with the unlight of malice. The Overlord Archetype was simply evil in its purest form: the instinct to dominate, harm, and destroy.

Could it answer questions?

“What are you?” Simon inquired.

The same answer came from both the distant comet and the Class spirit within him, less a word than an instinct. Overlord.

As Simon suspected, Abraxas and the Overlord’s will within him were one and the same. Either Mardok would suffer no competition from a comet-sized demon, or an archetype was too great and complex to develop a personality beyond its purpose.

“Can you be destroyed?” Simon inquired.

This time, he only received silence; either because his Class refused to answer or didn’t know how to answer with words rather than purpose. Other questions, like how it had been created or where it came from, fell on deaf ears too.

“It’s useless,” Simon informed Anaximander. “My spell touches the black comet, but it does not or will not answer my questions.”

“You are wrong, Simon, it is useful,” Anaximander reassured him. “Connecting with the comet will let us pinpoint its position and then observe it.”

Simon’s eyes widened slightly. “Do you have a telescope capable of observing it?”

“Yes, as soon as it approaches our atmosphere,” Anaximander confirmed. “Otherwise, the Keep’s sarcophagus works by siphoning Nodens’ miasma to prevent it from weakening the seal. We could use some of it to pierce through the veil of darkness.”

Interesting. Mastemo used Exodeos’ crystal to power his telescope, so Simon’s Devil Forgemaster should let him craft a similar device. Draining more of Nodens’ miasma would also weaken him and reduce the spawning rate of dangerous demons.

“I must confess my puzzlement with Abraxas’ movements,” Anaximander said. “You said that it was visible in the sky in your visions?”

“It was,” Simon confirmed. He would never forget that night he and Cassandra gazed at it blazing across the sky in Whispermire, a bright purple mote whose tail set the heavens on fire. “No one could miss it.”

“Interesting.” Anaximander stroked his chin. “I’ve heard from my old mentor that the Oracle herself was one of the first people to look at the comet over eight hundred years ago. The astronomer who would eventually give Abraxas its name had caught it with his telescope, which surprised the Oracle, who never saw it in her visions.”

“Her visions?” Simon frowned. “I thought the Noble Crestones were created after the Zodiac Fiends appeared?”

“The Oracle is a Visionary, as befitting a daughter of the Mana Goddess herself,” Anaximander replied with a smile. “She could see into the future long before she obtained her Crestone.”

“And her Class no doubt sharpened her gifts,” Simon guessed. He wondered if the Oracle had accidentally spawned a Zodiac Fiend when she looked at the comet through a lens, fearing a shadow she could never predict. “What bothers you?”

“The comet was barely noticeable in the sky when it first appeared eight hundred years ago, and while it heralded the coming of the Zodiac Fiends, it didn’t cause a disaster on the scale of the Doom either,” Anaximander said. “It became more visible in the sky during the Doom, but not to the degree you describe in your visions.”

Simon frowned. “It’s getting closer with each revolution?”

“It would seem so, which bothers me. The Second Doom may hit harder than the last due to a greater influx of miasma on Brimir, and so will the Third four hundred and twelve years from now.” Anaximander nodded to himself. “Would you mind reshaping this Keep so I could raise an observatory over the clock tower? Your new spell would let me calculate its trajectory with far greater accuracy.”

“I’ll help for sure,” Simon promised him. This might be his chance to observe the comet and its secrets more closely. “If you don’t mind, I would be interested in learning about interactions between astromancy and chronomancy too.”

“I will gladly share my knowledge with you. Your ability to adapt my spells into miasmic variants helps with my own research into cosmic phenomena.” Anaximander always sounded peaceful and serene, but a hint of excitement always shone through when they discussed the stars and magic. He and Remedia would get along well together. “Speaking of research, did you find anything useful in Nodens’ treasure vault?”

“Sort of.” Simon summoned a handful of objects stored in his Inventory, from the wayfinder to the hourglass and the Scream of the Soul. “From what Agnes and I gathered, this hourglass inflicts a vicious kind of Stasis effect on anyone in the vicinity, freezing their body but not their mind. If fed blood, the wayfinder will track down the person it belongs to, which I assume Nodens used to hunt down its victims. As for the book, I almost threw up halfway through reading it.”

“Nodens was loathsome, even among his vicious kind,” Anaximander commented with contempt. “I shudder to think what would have happened had your ancestor not stopped his ritual.”

“All he does is sing,” Simon replied. The Goatfish appeared supremely uninterested in talking back so far in spite of his attempts to establish contact, which was rather notable considering how the other fiends treated Simon the moment they mistook him for Mardok. “It’s the book that intrigues me the most. It reeks of miasma, yet it’s just a very detailed study on music and noises as a method of psychic torture, as far as I can tell. It doesn’t seem to possess any supernatural properties beyond its ghastly content.”

Anaximander studied it closely. “It is said that the Librarian could summon the soul of a book. Perhaps that is what you sense.”

“A book’s… soul?” Simon’s heartbeat quickened. “You speak of libromancy?”

“I am not familiar with that form of magic, but I do wonder, yes.” Anaximander returned the book to him. “Keep this grimoire with you, Simon. However vile its contents, I have the intuition it holds a truth yet to be revealed.”

Peaceful weeks turned into months as Simon settled into a new routine.

The Contest of Champions concluded in Germinal after a long series of physical tests, drills, and magical aptitude exams mostly inspired by Simon’s own experience in the Templar Order. Since they lacked the time to be too severe with the entry requirements, the selection eventually culminated in a one-on-one tournament, followed by team fights against minor demons summoned by Simon to test each applicant’s capacity to cooperate with others. Twenty candidates were selected in the end: ten elves led by Anaximander, seven harpies led by Zeal herself, and Eole’s family to represent the kish.

The results didn’t surprise Simon all that much. While elves had the benefit of sharpening their skills for centuries and harpies enjoyed hunting experience, decades of peace and pastoral lifestyle didn’t exactly breed warrior seeds among the kish. Lady Junon was still pleased with the results and invited Simon and Belzemine to join the group.

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“You will be twenty-two Champions, like the Noble Heroes of old,” she told Simon with a smile. “A lucky number.”

“Am I to fit in for Elios Magnos?” Simon replied to that.

“Who could be worthier?”

If only she understood the irony of an Overlord replacing a lich…

Either way, Simon wasn’t done rearranging the Forbidden Keep into a training ground that wouldn’t kill all their new recruits in the first room, so the new Champions were sent to participate in hunts on the eastern islands or tasked with killing a handful of minor summoned demons. Simon even allowed Eole to slay his dracozombie without a fight, since he could revive it one hour after its death. His friend did gain experience, but only the first time she destroyed it. Simon guessed that Classes would not reward killing the same mindless creature twice.

Still, Eole gained fifteen levels out of the experiment, so it was time well spent.

Otherwise, Simon spent most of spring splitting his time between slowly turning the Forbidden Keep into a training dungeon, trying to perfect his miasma variant of the Recall spell—which proved frustratingly difficult—and hanging out with the Sanctuary’s denizens. Queen Zeal hadn’t dared approach him again, and Simon would eventually learn from Vayan that she did come clean to her allies about her plans.

“She still insists I should form a contract with you,” Vayan told Simon. “She argues we should at least allow you to contract with Culebre, but I do not know if it would be wise.”

“Culebre?” Simon repeated. “Is that the harpies’ eidolon?”

“More like their pet. Culebre is gluttonous and obedient to Queen Zeal.” Vayan grunted. “However, he does have some strength, and he is willing to form a pact for power in spite of my warnings.”

“You don’t risk much if I form a contract with him,” Simon admitted. “I will not channel him unless we have no other choice to defeat Nodens.”

“True… we would need to debate this.” Vayan studied Simon. “I wonder what would happen if you were to contract one of the Five Sovereigns or the Genie… they might very well become calamities.”

“The genie?” Simon’s head perked up in interest. “I thought they were a legend.”

“Ah, and what are we eidolons but legends given form?” Vayan chuckled. “There is only one genie: a lost eidolon of phenomenal power born of men’s wishes. Their strength invited wars, but they ended up sealed in a container and lost when the mad king Chrom Cruak misused their power. I do not know where they are now.”

But Chrom Cruak might, Simon thought, placing that information in the back of his mind. He had much greater priorities than hunting down a lost eidolon forgotten by time right now. “What do you know of the Five Sovereigns?”

“They are the oldest and most powerful of the eidolons, who have existed since the first human settlements. Azulbolla, the Azure Dragon; Phoenix, the immortal Vermillion Bird; Shura, the White Tiger; Mother Nuwa, the Black Tortoise; and Basileus, King of Eidolons. My power is but a pale imitation of theirs, and I have no doubt they will rise to protect your kind from the Doom as they did in ancient times.”

“Could you tell me where to find them?” Simon inquired. “I know you are wary of my power, but if anybody could help me refine it, it would be the Sovereigns. I’ve only met the Phoenix and Azulbolla so far.”

“I admit that I have not kept in touch with them since the Doom,” Vayan confessed, “However, they are always spread out in a square across the cardinal points to keep the great Basileus at their center.“

Simon raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“King Basileus is power incarnate, above good and evil. Not even the Mana Goddess can command him. His might is so great he leaves disasters in his wake, so the other four Sovereigns keep him pacified in an eternal equilibrium.”

“He must be a terrifying sight,” Simon mused, having seen the power the Phoenix and Azulbolla could bring to bear on their own.

“He is.” The respect and awe in Vayan’s voice was palpable. “He takes the shape of a great wingless dragon with golden scales radiating with sunlight. He shakes the earth with every step, and his breath brings blessing and destruction in equal measures.”

Vayan’s brief description of the King of Eidolons convinced him that he had to be the golden creature Norbelle had bound to her service in past reigns… which meant he had to be located in a territory within the Church Party’s reach.

“The Phoenix is the most ill-tempered of the five and likely to reduce you to cinder if you annoy him,” Vayan warned him. “Shura is noble, but only respects strength, and Azulbolla is as aloof and distant as ancient trees. Mother Nuwa is the kindest and the most likely to help you.”

“And Basileus?”

“I doubt he will deign to grant you an audience unless you have formed at least one pact with the others.”

Was that why Balzam pushed for Norbelle to form contracts with Azulbolla and then the Phoenix? To ensure she could then approach the King of Eidolons? The mere fact that his sister managed to contract Basileus meant he wasn’t that unapproachable.

Otherwise, Simon mostly spent the months practicing astromancy and performances with Eole, to the point she was spending more time at his house than with her family. They managed to rope Belzemine into their band, and she proved to be a talented flute player. She didn’t crack a smile—she wasn’t there yet—but Simon could tell she was slowly starting to enjoy herself. The Sanctuary’s peaceful atmosphere was slowly winning her over.

Or so he thought.

Simon looked at the garden of ash with dismay.

Simon had visited this grove many times since he tasked Belzemine with cultivating it. It had been one of the most splendid places in the entire Sanctuary, which was saying something. A bloom of vivacious and colorful flowers had formed vast circles surrounded by a canopy of trees, their petals blooming in the morning dawn. Belzemine had tended to them with care for months now alongside a handful of Lady Junon’s caretakers.

Only smoldering ashes and memories remained of that garden now. All the flowers had been incinerated in a single blast, and the nearby trees would have suffered the same fate had Carbuncle not intervened to protect them. He was currently patting Belzemine’s back as she cried in the middle of the ring of dust, her tears so numerous that a puddle had formed at her feet.

“Such a loss,” Lady Junon muttered as her hand caressed the ashes with sorrow. “My heart mourns for these flowers…”

“What happened?” Simon asked Lady Junon, though he had an inkling of the situation. He had rushed over as soon as Anaximander came to inform him.

“I… I’m not sure,” Lady Junon admitted. “According to Minthe and Clytemnestre, the three of them were watering the plants when Minthe mentioned her parents were remarrying after two hundred years of separation. Young Agnes… then burned the garden. She has been crying ever since."

That comment must have triggered a bad memory, Simon thought grimly. And she was doing so well.

Simon had only periodically checked on her lately outside of their music sessions with Eole, since she had been improving so much. While she continued to keep to herself, she often struck up polite conversations with the caretakers without external coaxing, and Carbuncle swore he saw her nearly smiling at one point. Even her usual demands for Simon to reapply the brands had grown few and far between in the past few weeks.

So many months of work, and it only took a single misplaced comment to open up her scars again.

“I’ll talk to her,” Simon informed Lady Junon. “I don’t think she’ll confide in anyone else.”

The dryad stared at Belzemine with pity and compassion. “I wish I could heal her wounds with a wave of my hand,” she said, her voice heavy with sorrow. “Her scars run so deep.”

So did Simon. He walked up to Belzemine and Carbuncle, the eidolon taking a moment away from hugs and gentle words of comfort to look at him.

“Can you give us a moment, Carbuncle?” Simon asked softly.

“Are you sure?” Carbuncle hesitated, his eyes full of concern for Belzemine. “She’s… not well.”

“I know, and I’m thankful for your help.” Simon smiled at the eidolon. “It’ll be alright.”

Carbuncle hesitated, but eventually nodded and left. Simon looked at the crying Belzemine kneeling in her own tears, then sat next to her.

“Agnes?” he called to her, and received only sobs for answers. “Belzemine, what’s going on?”

“I can’t… I can’t take this anymore, Your Majesty…” she sobbed, her face buried in her hands. “I can’t…”

“What’s going on?” Simon asked, her hand moving to her shoulder. “Is it something the others said that upset you, or–”

“Please put them back,” she pleaded with him, her hands moving away to grab his own and revealed eyes red with sorrow. “Please put them back!”

“Belzemine, we talked about–”

“Don’t call me that… I’m Agnes… that’s my name…” She gripped his hands so hard she nearly drew blood. “Please… I don’t deserve to be free… to think, to act without your guidance, it’s unbearable…”

“You do deserve to be free,” Simon reassured her. “You deserve so much more than chains, Belzemine.”

“I don’t… I don’t deserve it, Your Majesty…” New tears rained down her cheeks, her voice breaking. “I… I killed them.”

Simon’s blood froze in his veins. “Whom?”

“My parents.” She gulped, her sob agonizing to hear. “I killed my parents.”

By the Light… A wave of horror and pure compassion overtook Simon, as he realized what triggered this episode, and the likely cause of it all. Mardok, you monster…

Simon gathered his breath, then moved to embrace Belzemine into a tight hug. She rushed against him like a child finding comfort in her parents’ arms, her head resting on his chest. He kept her close as she calmed down, stroking her hair and holding her tight.

“Tell me everything,” he asked softly.

“A year after… after Lord Mardok captured us, on my birthday… he brought me to his table, where he was eating a lamb…” Belzemine’s nails sank into Simon’s flesh, her body so weak and frail to his touch. “He said he was in a good mood, so he would… so he would grant me the gift of freedom… if I would do a simple thing…”

Mardok’s words echoed in Simon’s head. “By the way, about what I did to Belzemine… please tell her…”

“He brought my parents nailed to a pyre, gave me a torch… and said I only had to light my cake’s candles.”

“That I would give everything, to do it all over again.”

“I… I couldn’t… my parents begged me to do it, but… I couldn’t…” Belzemine tightened her grip and crouched like a wounded animal. “Lord Mardok lost patience… he said that since I wouldn’t sacrifice my parents to claim my freedom, then I deserved neither, so… so he had me… had me take the torch and…”

She was fourteen when this happened. Fourteen.

“You don’t need to say it…” Simon reassured her, the sympathy he felt for Belzemine being matched only by the sheer hatred he felt towards his monstrous predecessor, who had more than deserved his Bloodthirsty epithet. “Mardok was a monster.”

“He told me… he told me I was an ungrateful daughter for wasting my parents’ sacrifice, so I didn’t deserve the name they gave me. That in truth, I enjoyed being his slave.” Belzemine gulped and sobbed. “Then he finished his lamb, looked at the fire, and… and decided I would be Agnes now… his little firewand.”

I wish I could go back in time and burn him to death, Simon thought with all of his fury and hatred. His disgust at her slave name only grew greater. She is reminded of this hideous crime each time someone utters it.

She was fourteen when this happened. Fourteen.

“Belzemine,” Simon said as he cradled her. “You are guilty of no sin.”

“But I–”

“I am the Overlord. I know my predecessors’ thoughts.” He had heard them from their very mouths. “Mardok lied, that’s what he does. He deceives everyone he comes across, from his victims to his own fellow demons.” Simon gently took her face into his hands and looked into her eyes. “He wouldn’t have let you go even if you had done it out of your own free will. Refusing his order wasn’t a sign of weakness, but love and virtue.”

Belzemine breathed heavily, her mind troubled by centuries of guilt and shame. Mardok had cruelly enslaved her soul with chains thicker than hatred, forged from remorse, sorrow, and pain.

But all chains could be shattered with time.

“You deserve to become the woman your parents wanted you to be,” Simon reassured. “You deserve to be Belzemine.”

“I’m… I’m Firewand…” Belzemine looked down on the ashes at their feet. “Everything I touch burns away…”

“Then let’s replant. We’ll start over, until it sticks.” His forehead met her own, binding his oath. “One day, I’ll find a way to make you happy, Belzemine. I promise you that.”

No matter how many tries it would take.