“So what if my fighting style only consists of me going to a berserk rage? It is much more better than that of Damien’s! If I will fight, it will not be for any of you who took me from my home! I will fight to live or die, and my rage will help me in that!”

- Benedict after his defeat against Damien

‘This is fucking stupid.’

He cussed in his mind as the dozen or so beings formed a circle that trapped him. The possessed armors began to slam the side of their axes against that of their shields in a methodological rhythm. It was obviously that of a war-beat, used in some tribal manner that related to the situation he was in.

With each thud it was made more clear that it was indeed a war-beat, as he could hear them chant. A chant that reminded him of the many warrior cultures of his original world, and that of fictional warriors from the novels and games he liked. But there was something else to it, as it caused the air around him to grow cold with excitement.

“Hearken to the olden days! Hearken to the olden days! When the lands was cold, and the elves did not swore! Hearken! Hearken!”

Each word that they sang and bellow had weight upon it, with it being magically charged to be clearly an act of invoking an Incantation spell. In this instance it was an obvious magical chant, with their words directly being an indication as to what kind of spell was being invoked. One would be wary of what they were chanting, one with a rational mind would prepare for the worse.

“When brothers turned from the womb of the void, to the blood-soaked tears filling the lonely homeland! Hearken to that times! Hearken!”

But Benedict whose anger was rising, he felt no need to be wary. The need to preserve his life was gone, as if his instincts screamed that he could survive this. Even when it was clear that without armor, his bare flesh would be naught but soft meat to the axes of the armors. If that was not enough, their obvious flesh-less nature rendered it quite impossible to win properly, as he had no knowledge at how to kill these kinds of beings.

“To the fires that consumed, to the blades that tear! To the brothers lost to the treachery and despair! Hearken! Hearken!”

Their chants flew over his head, as the mana around him began to grow heavier each moment. It was like the air being thinner, but instead of having problems breathing, for Benedict he had problems in actually thinking. It was like his mind being muddled with, being forced to feel excited with the thought of coming battle and vengeance.

It made him remember what he went through in the past days, being chased for a crime he did not commit, to being dragged into a situation he had no say in. It made him more than upset, it made him irate and furious. Who were they to judge him? Who were they to demand him to prove himself? He was not under their will, not their subjects

“As the doom drum beats, hearken to it! Hearken! When the final son of the eternal seekers rests, a successor shall be put to the test! Umbrage to the heart and soul, blades shall clash and bells will toll!”

He was his own person, and he snarled at the thought of being controlled by another. It was a distasteful thing for him, with his distaste coming out in the form of him growling at the armors. The gathered armors seem to be excited, and in fact he himself was too with anticipation building up within his veins.

“Hearken! And hear the beating of drums forgotten! Hearken! As the battles continue! Hearken! When the forgotten ancestors watch! Hearken! As this new child is blooded!”

Their chants soon crumbled into that of throaty rumbles, with bassy booms accompanied with a slowly rising cacophony of metal on metal, steel to stone. It was like the clamour of battle, and the excitement was rising to the point that the gathered warriors, Benedict included shook with desire.

As if to take advantage of the excitement one of the dozen or so armors step forward, and like the rest they all looked the same. Similar to the Forlorn, but much more metal than anything else. With their armors being heavily decorated with scripts upon scripts of strange runes, alongside that of the same designs on their shield and weapon with a dull silver finish to it, with a couple of tentacles replaced with stylized chains. Their helms looked nearly the same, only having a much more curved horn than the one found on the Forlorn.

With one stepping to stand within the thick encirclement, it was clear that it was meant to be a duel as the other armors made no move in stopping their actions. With a clear target in sight, Benedict tensed as he crouched a bit to stand on his toes. It was clear that he was intending to pounce at the approaching warrior, though he would wait for a chance to do so.

“I will grind your stupid metal bodies to dust!”

He yelled in his angered state, the approaching enemy of his shrugging as the black mist within it vaguely formed a smiling face. He was being carried away by his anger, and the excitement all around him. The clanging sounds seemed to be like music to his ears, urging him to battle, urging him to give it his all, even when he was in a clear disadvantage.

“If you live, then try it.”

It replied, its voice being that of a mocking male. This caused an angry twitch from Benedict, who witnessed his adversary raise the shield on its left hand, and the axe on its right. With his shield raised to protect most of its center, the axe was held closer to his side and raise for a quick strike. Benedict however remained in his stance, making the armor approach him instead.

With the approach, Benedict’s scything blades raised themselves to rest their first segment on his shoulders, whilst the second and third straightened in a way that gave them a true scythe-like formation. This did not stop the armor to stop his approach, instead it would actually sped up a bit, before suddenly dashing forward with sudden speed.

With a clear show of its supernatural nature, it moved its shield a bit further away from its chest, before its right hand would bring down the axe with the intention of cleaving down at Benedict’s left shoulder. It was clear that this warrior was more intent at ending this fight quickly, than dragging it out. As the thin smile on its face turned to a cruel grin.

Benedict in reaction to this would shift his posture to lean in forward, as if allowing himself to be directly in the line of the attack. But as it neared, he would push against the floor with his toes to let him spring backwards. It was done so quickly in a manner that should be impossible for one such as him, but the way his body was changing allowed him to do just that.

And in that quick spring, the axe missed him and would slam its blade to the floor. It caused sparks to surprisingly fly out, and for a brief few seconds allowed him a clear spot to attack. This he took as he was yet to land on the floor, with one of his scything-blades springing forward like a bolt of lightning. Its tip was heading for shoulder of the armor, just to the left of the pauldron upon it.

But his strike did not connect, as just as he landed on his feet the armor moved his shield just in time to intercept his strike, tilting it just in a way to let the lower half of the scything-blade skid off the surface of the shield. This caused Benedict to click his tongue in disapproval as the armor reeled its axe quickly to strike, but to stop that he would take his blade back and quickly leap at him.

But that proved stupid as he brought down his scything-blades to strike down at the armor, but just as he did that the armor took a step forward to meet his leap. And with that step it was quickly followed by a bash from its shield, hitting Benedict squarely on the face with great force. Though it would also allow both of his scything-blades to hit the armor on its shoulder, though much more shallow than it should be as he was thrown away.

With a loud thud he landed near the feet of the still chanting armors, and without paying them any heed Benedict hurriedly push himself up. It was a quick action, despite the momentary disorientation such a bash in the head should give. Though blood did drip down from his nose indicating that he didn’t come out unscathed from that strike.

The warrior would let out an amused laugh, looking as if he was about to say something. But Benedict’s furious face made him reconsider, and instead he would shrug before striding towards Benedict. From the angle given, the warrior showed no true outward reaction the small rent on its shoulders. But it was notable that blades made from bones could even tear such a savage cut upon steel armor.

Without any idle thoughts, Benedict would begin to run towards the warrior. Not even trying to find a proper way to defeat this armored foe. Only being guided by his ire, he would meet the warrior head on, just as his adversary raised his axe to strike. He was like a beast, his thoughts only being composed of ones that seeked to bring pain and domination.

He did even pay attention to the fact that his body was heating up rapidly, with what seems to be steam coming out of his mouth. It was as if his body was trying to push his actions further, and it was slowly showing as Benedict seemed to be a bit faster.

With him nearing the warrior raised his axe again and tensed, obviously preparing for the clash they will have. And seconds later the warrior would strike first when he was in striking range, opting for a defensive strike that would not give an opening like minutes ago.

Though Benedict would see the strike in the form of a vertical cleaving sweep that targeted his side on the right, fully intent at taking advantage on his armorless nature. Through instinct and the many information about battles he had seen, his mind would articulate these thoughts into a way of battling, producing a strike that would meet the cleaving axe with his right scything-blade to meet it in a clash.

But as they clashed the axe would hit the bone of the blade, thudding against it uselessly as if it couldn’t dent the naturally grown bone. The armor would have a look of surprise on his misty face, only to be replaced with that of elation. The cause was that of Benedict’s arm darting out to grab the armor’s wrist, putting much force on the grip to the point that the metal visibly started to dent.

“Such rage..”

The armor commented as Benedict would let out a guttural growl as he would violently pull the armor towards him, quickly followed by his free scything-blade being brought down to a slam towards the gorget of the armor, piercing through and causing the armor to let out a blast of black mist. But this would make the armor kick at Benedict, forcing him to back away with his scything-blades and hand being brought back to his sides.

“Savage, truly savage!”

Gleefully the armor would seemingly shake in joy, with a large tear on its gorget which acted as the neck of its armor of a body. From there including the tears at his back, black mist would be furiously leaking out as if it was blood. With another joyful chuckle, the rapturous chants and discordant music that had been playing out seemingly grew louder.

“But it is only against one! How will you fare against many?”

To Benedict however, the sound was annoyances, his mind and body was boiling with unrestrained desire to simply attack. If one would look at the armored wrist of the armor, they would see it to be both dented and surprisingly partially melted. Even the mana around him was slowly beginning to actually burn, with Benedict being the source, a source that was clearly impervious to it as he only showed mild discomfort. With what can be described as instinctive manipulation of Mana, Benedict sprung into action.

But just as he tried to swipe to the side with his scything-blades, an unexpected strike from the right would come, forcing him to use his blades to instead push him backwards just in time to dodge one that came from his left. With a gasp of irritation there he saw two more armors, the first one he faced smiling smugly.

“COWARD!”

Benedict yelled in rising indignation as he felt more angrier at the additional enemies. His martial pride, one instilled in an early age had always told him that conflict between men must be between them alone. As it was a most common thing in his home to settle disputes between males in one on one fist fights, for it was ‘honorable’ that way. Especially if it could not be settled without violence at all.

But with what he had initially thought was a duel, had turned to a one on three fight. Something he should be desperately avoiding or running away from. Instead he would fume at this, shaking with the need to simply rip and tear. The two additional armors noticed this, as their faces formed that of a male and female, looking on apologetically to him.

“Cowards! All of you! Dishonorable fucking shits!”

He howled in disdain as he witnessed the two new foes sprint at him, both of their shields raised in an obvious attempt at a shield bash. He would meet this head on with his scything-blades, but this time he took advantage of their total length and hurled them forth like a spear to clash with their shields. If one had paid attention to how Benedict fought, they would discover that it wasn’t wholly primal.

There was a strange purpose to each strike, as it is shown next when the hit connected with a loud clang, forcing the charging armors to skid to a halt. The blades acted like a hand pushing against the shields, with the armors finding it actually hard to push against it. Though this halt in the battle would not last long, as Benedict would display how further he could use the blades, even when it is simply the thrashing of a child.

Quickly he would pull his blades back before the armors could do anything else, causing them to stumble forward. Rudely the scything-blades would strike again, but this time it was not to puncture or lacerate, but rather to swipe away the two. It came from the left and right respectively, both scything-blades hitting them with staggering force that caused them to actually be thrown away.

But this action would reveal the initial armor, who was now rushing towards him. Benedict growled towards it, finding the dishonorable wretch to be the most preferable target despite the other two enemies was still not disabled. With another clash Benedict would have one of his blades occupying the axe of the warrior, whilst his hands would dart out to tear the shield away to reveal the main body of his adversary.

“I will tear your limbs off and let you rust! I will not be stopped you bastard!”

As he said that however, the two enemies that he had taken his attention off would reveal themselves in the way of a surprise attack. One decked him in the face, the other actually hacking down at his right arm. Reacting to this too late, Benedict could only gasp in pain as the first armor backed away a bit before kicking him squarely on the belly, pushing him away.

Benedict’s malevolent thoughts would be at its highest peak now. The most evident cause of this would be the large gash on his arm that began near his wrist, and ended near his elbow. Normally an individual such as Benedict would have begun shouting profanities as they writhe in pain, but he strangely looked only irritated and displeased at his wound. Even when it was bleeding.

Disturbingly, the large gash revealed extreme deviation to what one would expect to see from an open wound on the arm. The wound was surprisingly not deep, and in fact, what can only be described as several tendrils writhing would be seen as blood dripped from it. There were even signs of other strange growths within the wound, most of them being that of chitin like bones alongside thick muscles that seem to try and form a layer.

It was clear at this instance that he was already something beyond human, something greater for better or worse. And without realizing that he simply pushed himself up, letting out a low growl that rang out slowly.

With a lurch that was driven by his desire to inflict pain, Benedict leapt at them again. With two additional foes to fight, it was clear in the way he jumped that he was adapting to this quickly. As if he was processing this in a much more keener way than his animalistic way of battling implied. But he was one monstrous being, against three animated equipment. It was akin to flesh against metal, man versus machine.

One will tire, the other will simply push on until it was naught but dust. And yet in this battle, Benedict showed to be a bundle of furious rage. Lashing out with his scything-blades as the three blocked each strike with their shield, or completely dodged them. It was a sight of legends, as the surrounding mass of chanting and clamouring armor made a grand event out of it.

To the participants however, it seemed to be a tense battle. With it being a brawl of offense and defensive attempts. Benedict was a flurry of slashes and primal hate, his scything-blades coupled with his rapid adaptation was starting to show its great advantage, with him being able to block or dodge most of the attacks dished out by the three armors.

But being one boy he was unable to dodge or even block all, only those that would prove fatal he was successful in stopping. This caused him to have cuts all over his arms and hands, with those wounds surprisingly barely bleeding at all. However they looked particularly painful, as it was obvious that the axes had a hard time tearing through them for some reason.

With increasing volume of attacks being exchanged, Benedict is seen like a flurry of slashes. With each leap and sprint being accompanied by erratic swings of his blades, and daring feints that allowed him to rend and tear small wounds towards the armored shells. But his pure animalistic tactics allowed the armors to defensively match every attack.

Punishing him for each one, forcing him to limit himself in a limbo of defense and attacks. The armors worked well in consort with one another, forming a thick shield wall with each other, as their shields was the only ones aside from their weapons that could withstand the blows of the scything-blades. They easily deflected, or even outright caused the scything-blades to skid off their surface.

This frustrated Benedict, who couldn’t find a proper way to gain the upperhand in the fight. As a boy who did not know how to fight with his limbs, save for what his instincts says, he should have lost already. But tenacity and a berserk rage allowed him to simply attack. His body held on, with parts seemingly trying to knit-itself but couldn’t due to the obvious strain placed on his body.

This battle went on for minutes without end, the song around them growing deafening and thunderous as their actions mimicked it. Benedict’s own mind once again swam between that of the waking world, and a perpetual state of bloodlust and madness. In that state, he once again felt the writhings of his body, with it being more obvious on the large lacerations of his arms. As the source was obviously that of the tendrils, which disgustingly glowed a sickly red, followed by steam beginning to come out of his own wounds.

It was a painful experience, one that pushed him even further to the point of self destructive attacks. The armors noticed this, and strangely they began to slow down at the sight of it. Benedict on the other hand began to move with less coordination, as he slowly heard a strange voice crawl its way into his mind.

Rend and tear my Apex. Thine art is unpolished, but in this test you have passed, you are free to fall to the succor of sleep. So that you may dream of me, and not of that false plane. Listen my Apex.

It was familiar, that very voice he had heard before he faced the Forlorn. But what it said only made him want to not sleep, to not give up. It made him attempt towards the armors, but strength from his legs would left him. Making him stumble and fall to his knees, only supported by his scything-blades.

Do not resist me. You will not die here. You will not waste your rage to them. You will survive my Apex. Your better half will not have it. Apex, listen.

The voice annoyed him greatly, but as it spoke he felt himself actually begin to feel his body properly again, whereas in the battle he was in a trance. Unable to properly feel the wounds he felt with coherence. Now however, he felt it clearly and he wanted to badly scream out. But for some unknown reason, he could endure it, albeit with growls.

The armors would begin to approach him, their shields raised high and axes at the ready, except for the first one. The first would go and point his finger at Benedict as they neared, standing over his clearly tired body. But they themselves did not look better, as a majority of their arms and torso had clear tears at them, with their mist badly leaking out.

“Hearken. We have heard the rage within you, it chants out in voices unheard of our people. You have pass the test.”

At the end of the sentence, the two armors next to him would drop to their knees, kneeling respectfully towards him. With the other dozen or so armors doing the same, but not stopping their chants. The first armor would chuckle, preparing to kneel himself.

But Benedict would suddenly lash out with both of his scything-blades, with it embedding themselves into the first armor that he had fought. With a sickening crunch they pierced through before he reeled it back in, further damaging the torso.

Amusing. This path of rage, Apex, this rage.. Apex, you have already passed the test.

The response of the other armors surprised him, as they made no move to avenge their ally. Which was still standing, who then would kneel with the black mist within him slowly lessening as they escaped out of his metal body.

“The aspirant has been tested. We have hearkened.”

Then the surroundings became quiet, as the cacophony that once engulfed the area suddenly died out. Replaced by one shout.

“Benedict! Get out of my way! Let me pass!”

It was Salia’s voice, and from then on she would be seen barging through the kneeling armors, before she would quickly and worriedly run to Benedict’s side. But her arrival barely caused a reaction, as Benedict’s body was profusely heating up. With the steam all over him indicating that his mana-burn had reached a level that should have killed him.

“Oh no.. Oh no.. Stay with me Benedict, stay awake!”

Her voice was like a distant whisper, one audible enough to make him look at her. But his state of mind did not allow him to reply, only to attempt at lashing out at her. Which obviously did not work as all he could do was slump against her as she hugged him.

“It’s okay.. It’s okay, let your rage calm.”

Attempting to sooth him, Salia tightened her hug around him, arms careful in not touching his obvious wounds. Whilst her fingers would move to begin magical runes upon his back to obviously heal him, as her face and voice expressed worry, more so than one would expect from a person that had just met Benedict hours ago.

Below him however, the blood that he had spilled throughout this battle had discretely pooled outwards. Being influenced by some magical force to form a strange variation of a magical circle, one that had the Ancient’s runic letter of power that coincided with the word ‘Despot’. When it had formed properly, it would begin to glow for a scant few seconds before disgustingly gathering into circular orbs that would crystallize into red crystal-like things.

Slowly his consciousness would return, as the mere touch of her skin brought peace to him like before. Driven by pure instinct he would hug her close, nuzzling her neck as his eyes closed. But he did not fall asleep, instead he simply closed them as he felt tired.

The rage within him would calm down, as with the heat that was wrapping around his skin. Curiously, Salia did not seem affected, and instead she would be clearly seen fussing over him. Her hands forming a multitude of magical runes just to siphon the excess mana within him, and to heal the wounds on his body.

The effects on his body and mana was not notable yet, save for the fact that his wounds were indeed re-knitting themselves, but also rapidly regenerating. Whether or not this was due to his mutation or it was Salia’s doing, it couldn’t be discerned.

“I hate you so much grandpa.. To make me watch Benedict suffer..”

She would mutter that, and Benedict would open his eyes again to look at his hands. His hands which had the miniscule growths of bone to have spread to his fingers and the back of his palm, forming a sort of incomplete shell. His mind did not register the sudden change of the growth, instead he would lower his hand and simply continue to hug Salia, compelled by their link.

--

“Truly despotic.”

The Warborn’s voice rang out, his tone being that of surprise and approval. Though her iron clad face did not let him show this, she felt quite surprised at what he had just witnessed. The other Lords that gathered shared the same look upon their faces, with the Elder’s showing only that of a small smile. The Weaver who was projecting what can only be described a video through his helm, would be shaking with anticipation.

“To think he would survive the Blood Canting. Look at his arms, he had managed to actually direct all the damage to them, but they show no sign of well.. Falling off! The wounds barely even bleed, and the mana around him is furiously being absorbed and expelled as.. Heat? I am baffled as to how he is still alive!

And his blood, the Blood Canting of Zhalvagan had caused it to crystallize into dozens of blood crystals! Dozens! This is unheard of, they would have normally formed three or four, but dozens? This is something else, he is something else!”

His voice carried that of excitement, glee and utter shock. As if he wanted to see more, to know more. The other Lords did not share this sentiment, as the Forge Brother spoke with a hint of concern.

“With all due respect, I think it might have been a mighty blunder for us to send the Seekers of the Forlorn to test the kid this early.”

It had only been hours after their argument about Benedict had ended, and for him to be suddenly tested without him being acquainted with his new purpose caused this Lord to feel a bad feeling. One which he vocalized, as another would speak.

“Early or not, the Despot shows strength and power. Normally it would not be necessary for a Blood Canting to need more than one bloodletter, but for three to be needed? This is tantamount to ineptitude for the Seekers. That or they were trying to really kill the young Lord.”

The Caretaker said her piece with a shy, her mature features showing how much she disliked what she saw.

“Kill? They were trying their best not to get themselves killed, as if they have forgotten they no longer have physical bodies. Those scythe-like limbs of the Despot, they so easily tore through steel, but not through mana-enchanted equipment.”

The Father spoke in contempt, obviously not liking what he saw, but there was a hint of admiration behind his words. The Lord Mender who was the most vocal among the Lords was strangely silent for a few minutes, whilst the others began to speak regarding what they witnessed.

“Akin to a whirlwind of hate and madness, his claws tore through metal like a vengeful patriarch, burning with the fires of infernal hate. The song of mana was discordant as the chant of the Blood Canting, and yet his hymn, his discordant hymn rang out so clearly.. He wanted blood. But the Despotic Child will not receive it, as the Lost Seekers of the Forlorn have lost everything that they are, save for their armor and purpose..”

The Master of Hymns sang her part, her lips frowning as if she disliked the show of violence. But there was an obvious tinge of worry and mirth in it.

“A show of grand endurance that’s for sure.. I wonder if his bloodlust is similar to his lust? Primal, domineering and so utterly unrelenting.. Hnng, I’d wish to have a taste of him.”

Of course the Mistress purred her words with lust visible on her face. The other Lords chose not to mind her, but the Warborn couldn’t help but reply to her.

“You would most likely suffer the wrath of Salia, Mistress. That or you may be penetrated in a different way, depending on how you approach him.”

Despite how lewd it may have had sounded, the Warborn’s voice carried it in a way that spoke of a wholly dangerous penetration rather than a pleasurable one. The Lord Mender would speak next, his voice carried that of a disappointed individual.

“While I agree that our young brother has shown himself to be exceptional in this ceremony of succession, he was not warned about this. We are brothers and sisters here, a family. We must not plot among each other like the other races do.”

He would shoot a glare to a particular Lord. One that did not speak after all this time, and only then would this Lord speak after the other Lords looked at her.

“I was simply honoring the way of our people, Lord Mender. This was the way of the Forlorn, and it shall be the way the Despotic Child shall be welcomed.”

Her voice was mischievous, as her form resembled that of the Mistress, similar to the Master of Hymns. But she instead wore an armor made out of scales, which seem to shift in and out of the shadows that was strangely abundant in her platform. Her eyes glowed violet, playfully showing her inner nature, letting her horns crackle with the same violet light as they seem immaterial.

“The Despot would have been given an appropriate test later on, when he had been made aware of his rank. This, despite it coinciding with the way of the Forlorn and our people, it does not change the fact that the Despot was not aware of this.

You shall not do something similar Lord Umbra, without your brothers and sisters knowing. This shall not be tolerated a second time, even if it is harmless or had allowed us to see the skill of the Despot.”

Like a cold knife stabbed behind her back, Umbra tensed as she smiled fearfully at the cold voice of the Conduit. Despite not showing any emotions, the Conduit’s voice managed to show disdain and anger through how cold it was to them.

“Alright alright. I won’t do it again! I was simply following the wish of the Forlorn, nothing more nothing less!”

Though as she said that, the Conduit did not seem to be convinced, as it did not reply to her again. The Elder would speak up next, his smile still plastered on his face.

“The Despot will be among us now. Salia shall reign him in, being the voice of rationality to his dissonant hymn of rage. But as this test is among the first, when will the second one come?”

“Don’t act as if you do not know Elder.”

The Warborn quickly interjected, his finger pointed at him accusingly as the shadows allowed her to look as if she was smiling.

“You have seen it no? You have been smiling ever since the Weaver had shown us the start of the fight. Was it you that instructed one of the Delvers to stop Salia from helping the Despot?”

“Naturally.”

The Elder replied proudly before he would grimace.

“Though the next test for him will be… More hands on. May I suggest that we quickly bring him up to speed my brothers and sisters? Of course, after he heals from his wounds.”

The Lord Mender would be seen moving backwards slightly, as did all other Lords. He spoke as the plants around his body glowed for a moment, as if there was something that called for his attention.

“I agree with the Elder. If this matter is over for the time being, I have something to deal with. The Aberrations have.. Begun to claim the area they are in. I will have to quickly notify my Menders to avoid them for the time being.

The sooner we confirm that the Despot has control over his brood, the better.”

The Conduit would slam the butt of its stuff on the wooden floor, before it spoke again. This time it directed its voice to everyone.

“This conclave is dismissed for now. The matters regarding the war in the lands of the fae shall be discussed once the Despot is among us. Forge Brother, make sure to create an appropriate armor for our young brother, made out of the Dreg of Frost, as willed by the Forlorn.

Warborn, Lord Mender and Master of Hymns, your purpose is clear. Guide our brother in the path he will take.

The rest of you, you may return to your duties. But for you Lord Umbra, do not toy with the Despot. This is a warning for all of you. He is the youngest, but he is a brother.

We must stand together.

Dismissed.”

Then without ceremony at all, the circular platforms they stood upon would descend to the lower levels, letting them off once they had reached the bottom floor after a minute. But it would be revealed that there were three gigantic doors for them to take. The Conduit would take the door that was below its platform, whilst the others chose the other two, which would open to reveal the large trees of Malvirek, leading to different areas of the large forest city, with some clearly leading to the lower most region.