As Dorian reached down to his core, ready to drag out the firebomb in his stomach, he paused.

Was he really comfortable risking the lives of his tribe?

Well, yes, obviously, in the most basic sense. He had many flaws but sentimentality was not one of them.

More importantly, he had no clue how much friendly fire this might bring about. There wasn’t much point being a Chosen if there wasn’t much of a tribe left to heap glory and treasure on him, was there?

Around him the battle raged. Only the Chief had any success; Vordor strikes whittled down the rest of the tribesmen. They were well past the point of emergency. There was no time to mull.

It was a game of percentages. A roll of the dice.

Shrugging, he rolled.

First he peeked around his dune. Nobody in his direct line of sight; a few tribesmen off to the side, but their eyes were all trained up high. Perfect.

Now, for a veteran’s trick.

Hunching over, using his body as a shield, he drew his qi like a veil over the glut of qi, and started to spew. It was anti-cycling; expelling; drawing out rather than assimilating, and it was a nasty sensation—like his soul itself was puking. What he did was the mental equivalent of sticking a finger down his throat, then catching the vomit that came out. His head spiked with pain as a ball of Elixir’s qi congealed, brightening, heating up, in his palm; it felt like he held a throbbing heart. More and more retched out; his lungs burned. The pain in his head became white-hot between his eyes.

Then it was done. A small nova of sheer qi in his hand. He’d carefully wrapped it in a layer of his own qi; underneath, the Elixir’s violent energy screamed for release. It was like he’d filled a thin, rapidly corroding container with the world’s strongest acid.

It wasn’t even a real technique. All he’d done was apply a crude wrap.

[Level-up!]

[Qi Manipulation] Lv. 1!

Huh. Apparently, barely a real technique.

What followed was even less of a technique.

He glanced around again to make sure no-one was looking his way. Then he twirled, building momentum, and chucked the makeshift grenade with all the oomph his spindly body could gather.

It flew like a shooting star.

For two seconds that seemed to drag on forever it arched in a gorgeous parabola, dropping straight to the center of the tribe.

Then the volatile Elixir qi ate through Dorian’s flimsy cover, and the mother of all bangs tore the world asunder.

It felt like Dorian had suddenly lost his vision. His world became a fierce, unblemished white. A wall of sheer heat knocked him flat on his back; he gasped for air. His ears rang with a high-pitched whine. Through the noise, he barely heard a cacophony of pained shrieks before a wave of scattered sand had him choking.

In theory, that was a big enough disruption to totally undo the Shaman’s strained juggling act. If it worked, it should disrupt her to the point of mental backlash.

In other words… blinking the spots out of his eyes and wiping the sand out of his mouth, he listened.

From far above came nine low wails. Yes!

These weren’t the crisp whips of sleek bodies in aerodynamic dives. These dropped like nine misshapen, off-kilter boulders.

He had only a second to duck his head into his chest, shielding his eyes, as a second wave of sand blasted out and smothered all.

Only one sound filled the space that followed. A distant, high screech. He wiped the grit from his eyes and looked up to see the Shaman collapsed on their Vordor, which had gone into a spluttering tailspin; after a monumental effort she managed to seize back control, righting the creature mere yards from the ground. Even from here, Dorian saw the blood dripping out from under her mask.

Then the people of Rust Tribe threw off the effects of the blast to find nine Vordors prone and motionless on the sand. The Shaman’s control had been snapped. Stunned silence.

But the loss of control was temporary. Mere seconds later the Vordors began to stir again; their wings flapped weakly and their heads jerked up from side to side, as though trying to shake off a weight.

That was all it took to shake the tribesmen from their stunned stupor.

The hunters pounced instantly, screaming battle cries. Until now the Vordors had dive-bombed to avoid direct confrontations, leaving only slivers of a second of vulnerability. But grounded, they were easy targets.

The hunters threw up a barrage of [Palm]s and [Ray]s which crashed over their Vordor enemies. The massive beasts keeled over, pinwheeling, before they could take back to the sky. To Dorian’s right, Kuruk leapt up and smashed at a Vordor skull with abandon, great, guttural booms rattling out of his throat.

Dorian staggered back, his blood pumping fast. It felt like his head had been filled with wet sand. In the center of all the fighting the Chief had summoned a two-man-tall spear of icy qi, hard as crystal. In swift motions he tore into the resuscitating horde around him, spiking them through the wings and chests with brutal efficiency.

The Shaman never had a chance to recover.

One Vordor went down, spewing acid, as Chief Rust speared it through the eye. The hunters had disposed of another and crippled a third. Kaya now sported two massive wounds down her side and chest, but their own Vordor was looking even worse for wear. At last it took flight once more, but on uneven, damaged wings.

The Shaman’s cry was like a ghoul’s.

She coughed up blood; a glob of it dribbled out under her mask.

“Heathens!” she screeched. Her voice warbled, half-soft, half-loud. “Your reckoning is yet to come! Chief A’kan will gut you where you stand!”

Her few remaining Vordors made one last-ditch try to return; only three managed it, all wounded—the tribesmen shot the rest down. Her sorry fleet regrouped with her in the distance.

She gave Rust Tribe one last baleful look. Chief Rust returned her gaze calmly. He said nothing. The rest of Rust Tribe was soaked in blood and ash and poison, but other than a few scrapes, he barely looked like he’d been in a fight.

Swerving around, the Shaman rode up with her Vordors into the cloud layer and was gone.

Half a minute they all stood there. Watching the sky, bracing for a return. None came.

At last, Rust turned to survey his tribe.

His shoulders loosened up. His arms sagged. Where seconds ago he’d been a picture of calm, now his breaths came in harsh spurts; sweat trickled down his brow. It seemed like he held himself upright through sheer force of will.

Dorian cracked a wry grin. The bloodline use must’ve taken a deeper toll on him than he dared to show with an enemy still present.

Even in his frazzled state, though, the man kept his emotions under lock and key. There was no indication of his thoughts as he swept the landscape, taking in his decimated fighting forces, the destroyed property, the quarter of his tribesmen wounded, another fraction dead, a dozen nursing burns from Dorian’s firebomb. His gaze only grew more intense.

“What was that flash?” He barked. “From where did it come?”

He glanced to his hunters. “Which one of you? Speak!”

They turned to one another, blinking. Silent.

At last, Rust sighed. His eyes narrowed, but no answer seemed forthcoming. “Hmph. Rest assured, we shall address this later.”

He turned back to the rest of the tribe. “Healers! Set up wards in the center of town. Treat the wounded. Alchemist Hu shall provide the salves and elixirs, free of charge.”

Hu looked befuddled. “I… will?” Then his face scrunched in horror as the second half of the sentence hit him.

A second later, the Chief’s glare nearly knocked him over.

“Err, of course! It’s my honor, dear Chief, my honor! I am but a humble servant of the Tribe…” he spluttered, bowing low.

Rust turned back to the sky. “Ugoc…” he breathed. He closed his eyes.

When he opened them again ten seconds later, he spoke with conviction.

“The northmen shall learn that the west is not so easily taken,” he spat. There was a tinge of anger to him now. His aura grew feral.

“Rust Tribe, we are now at war. Make no mistake. That assault is only the first of many.”

His eyes swept the crowd like spotlights. Healers rushed to the wounded, but for the most part the tribesmen were frozen. Most shivered as his gaze glided over them.

“Our enemy is great,” he said. “But we are not their only targets, and so we are not alone.” He thrust his chin up. “The Oases shall hear of this. Likely they already have. Our allies shall hear of this, too. One unruly clan believes it can upset the balance of the Desert? Pure hubris.”

The beginnings of a snarl slipped out from his mask of calm.

“Warriors! Come,” he snapped. “I shall address you first. As for the rest… heal. Rest. Rebuild. Report today’s damages to an Elder, and I shall subsidize them from my own chest.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled into fissures. “We are now at war,” he said once more, as though to drill it deep into the minds of his men. “I expect each Rust tribesman to rise to the occasion.”

He waved a hand. “To me, warriors. All else—disperse.”

The Tribe moved like a horde of cattle waking from a long slumber. They fell back in streams, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Voices rose from low murmurs to fearful gasps. As he joined the stream, Dorian spotted Kaya among the Chosen. Wounded, haggard, but alive. She shot him a meaningful glance, then joined with her brethren as the Chief led them off.

Dorian limped his way over to Hu, who looked near tears as he ordered the healers around. Several lugged crates stacked full of healing elixir. Dorian felt like he'd been run over by a caravan; he was in no condition to do much of anything, but as the apprentice it was his duty to help. Or, at the very least, to ask to help.

Time for yet another veteran move: the non-offer offer.

"Master, how can I help?" he whimpered. His back drooped. He hunched in. He blinked tired, black-rimmed eyes. He batted his eyes slowly, as though even that took great effort.

Hu looked at the bulky crate, eyeballed Dorian's stick-figure frame, and rolled his eyes.

Which was how Dorian found himself trudging home at last after a far-too-long day.

***

Kaya would return. Dorian returned to his tent to wait, and to rest.

He was dead-tired. Bone-tired. After all that fast-paced rush, his body seemed ready to shut down. Sleep and physical fatigue! Such ungainly, irksome sensations. He’d be glad to be rid of them. Soon, he hoped.

On the surface, all this seemed an awful development. But—but—tribes at war also unlocked their reserves.

Tribes at war which had just lost a huge chunk of their fighting force, and that needed to train up a new cohort fast? Even more spoils would go to the stars that shone the brightest. He only needed to focus on shining.

For the umpteenth time today, he chuckled ruefully. My shit luck this run is getting unbelievable.

Today, right now, it was too early to tell much of anything. Things moved too fast. He’d need to plan things out when the dust had settled—when he had settled. Fatigue dragged on his thoughts; sleep threatened at the edge of his mind.

He stifled a yawn. He refused to succumb.

If today had shown him anything, it was that he’d need to move faster than even he’d anticipated.

Before he’d thrown out the rest, he’d assimilated a good quarter of the Elixir’s qi. Now that sat in his core. Even with most of the Elixir thrown out, he was well on his way to finishing the second layer. It’d only take one more solid push, he sensed.

So with a metaphorical middle-finger to sleep, he plopped down on his cot, crossed his legs, and started to cycle.

With the poison gone, it felt like a meridian had been unclogged in his body. Qi trickled down the path of the modified [Pure Yang Sutra], then in a stream, then a small torrent. His body felt in sync with the world, a small node in a great system which spread across not only the desert, but all of this plane. Warmth filled his spirit. He kept cycling, batting back his body’s cries for rest.

Either minutes or ten hours could’ve passed by the end of it. All he knew was that he was running totally on automatic. Fatigue had all but shut his brain off. But one strong strand of will held out, still cycling, waiting for that signal—

[Level-up!]

[Origin] Lv. 2!

He bathed in satisfaction. He didn’t even have the energy to cheer. His smile was short-lived. Ten seconds later his eyes swelled shut, and he was out cold.

***

For a while, he drifted in sleep. He'd packed a year into a day. Especially in this body, some rest did him good.

But not even in sleep would the world leave him alone.

From the darkness floated a vision. Not a dream; dreams were the random machinations of an idle mind. Visions had intent. Sent from somewhere or drawn through a bond of the spirit.

The tiny part of Dorian’s mind that was still lucid—as much as anyone could be lucid in this state—loosed a string of lurid curses. Oh, for Zenith’s sake! What now?

The vision resolved fully.

The first things he saw were the figures in the void cloaks. Not dark cloaks; just nothing. Light seemed to pass through them, and only the faintest of outlines gave away their presence. Dorian wouldn’t have caught it if not for the symbols embroidered over the hoods—a golden infinity which arrested the eye. Eerily familiar…

They stood in a loose circle around the room’s only other source of light.

A massive tank filled with liquid which shimmered with pent-up qi. The density was astounding; the fabric of reality seemed to bend around it. It wasn’t the fluid that caught Dorian’s eye, though, but the creature inside.

Demon King Yama. Half a wing was missing, and a leg was replaced by what looked like a Glacier Drake’s, but the corpse was unmistakable. Each body part had been stitched back together by an expert hand; Dorian could scarcely see the seams. What?!

Then the figures raised their hands as one, palms open. Each wore a glove which sported that same infinity. Someone spoke a word.

Light flooded the room.

Power thrummed on the air as each infinity became a seething swirl of molten gold. They fed to one another, in resonance, like strings to the same tune. Qi rushed in a loop, hand-to-hand-to-hand, building to a cresting wave. Craving a sudden, furious release.

It leapt to the tank in the center and jolted the fluid to a frenzy.

The tank vibrated, straining at the seams, struggling to hold in the power. The liquid seemed ready to evaporate, or explode, or both; it distorted, crystallized, flitted between phases of matter.

Then it ceased so abruptly it gave Dorian whiplash. All of it had been sucked away in an instant.

Yama opened his eyes, and Dorian stared into two orbs of sheer gold light.

Time Elapsed: 1 day, 3 hours