Manufacturing was only step one.

Step two was recruitment.

Dorian nodded to Bin. “Assuming this all works out—let’s operate on the assumption it does, shall we? We’ll need some soldiers. The army has, what, five hundred left?”

“Something like that,” grunted Bin.

“If we’re to deal with a full-on Beast Horde—and find wielders for all these Sticks—we’re gonna need a lot more men. As in, several times more. This is where you come in!”

Bin squinted at him. “How, precisely?” “You’ll help fill the ranks with Oasis-dwellers! Hells, even Outskirters will do. Think of them as meat shields, so we don’t need to exhaust the bulk of our armies early. You’ll need to do some recruiting, I fear.” Dorian shot him a sorry smile. “At the moment, my relationship with the Azcan Lord and the Rat King is, shall we say, not the greatest. Can I count on you to speak to them? Secure some kind of… deal?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, boy.” Bin crossed his arms, frowning mightily. “Remember: I have yet to agree to anything more than a test batch! And don’t you presume to order me around. I am the General here—not you!”

“Sorry, sorry! You know me! My foolish tongue runs out on me at times. Treat everything I said as a humble, well-meaning suggestion!”

He grinned.

“Oops. I mean—please kindly consider treating everything I said as a humble, well-meaning suggestion?”

“Still a mite irreverent for my liking. But fine.” They crossed out of the secret lab into the long steel hallway leading out. “It is a good idea,” admitted Bin. “Perhaps because it is the only choice. We need all the numbers we can get. But to go through with this means heeding your bidding, which somehow makes the whole thing… unseemly.”

“See, now you’re getting it!” laughed Dorian. “You don’t like taking advice from my smug face? Imagine how the Oasis Lord would feel if I went to him! As for the Rat-King—what’s that guy’s deal, by the way?—don’t even think about it.”

“He’s a nonstarter for me too,” said Bin gruffly. “I run the military, in case you forgot. He’ll take no orders from me. He does as he likes. The Lord, at least, can see reason. I’ll speak to him. Perhaps we can institute a draft.”

“Great.”

There it was. That inaudible clink-clink-clinking, that heaving engine of human misesery sputtering to life: the war machine. Dorian would soon have his weaponry. He’d soon have his men too.

All he could do now was hope it’d be enough!

Well that, and figure out some other heavier-duty ways to prep the Oasis for war. He and Bin donned their cloaks as they neared a discreet backdoor exit. There they bade farewells—he a cheery wave, Bin a curt nod—and they went their separate ways.

And Dorian got to thinking. His big project was set in motion. What would he do now?

The Sticks would be the basis of his ‘Alchemy for the masses’ side gig, but that’d come after they were in high supply. He’d probably whip up some rote recipe for mass production then, something that’d really give the war effort a hearty boost. Like a life sacrifice elixir that’d halve a soldier’s vitality in return for a few hours of turbocharged qi. He’d feed them to the Stick-wielders at the front lines, maybe.

He scratched his chin. It was an efficient idea, maybe, but wasn’t this a little too cruel? Not to him, obviously. But it’d matter to public opinion. What if they got protesters, those most heinous of all killjoys?

In Dorian’s mind the rubes weren’t long for the world anyways, statistically speaking! Why not let them give it all they had? Meh. He’d figure out that nonsense later.

For now Dorian thought of his ‘projects to take on’ in two groups. In one was ‘stuff that’ll bolster the Oasis’ war effort.’ In the other was ‘stuff that’ll bolster myself.’ There was a pleasant sliver of space in the middle there, and that was where he’d shoot for.

Was there some way to ratchet up his own cultivation? Or perhaps he’d invent a new, deadline twist on his Spirit Weapon—a Technique, perhaps, or even a mod?

Dorian tapped his chin, yawning. Hm. He looked up at the sky, where the sun had drifted halfway down the horizon. It hardly felt like sunset, and yet…

It has been quite a day, hasn’t it?

Dorian stretched out his back and sighed, satisfied. He was not often sore, nor exhausted. But his body seldom got abused like it did today either. Even gods needed rest, to say nothing of mortals.

I’ll sleep on it.

He sauntered back to camp, warmed with satisfaction.

***

High Priest Talen stood in the crowd chunked outside the entrance to the arena, hemmed in so close on all sides that if he opened his mouth he’d taste the salt on the sweaty hairs of the man in front of him. He grimaced. Not his preferred way to spend a lovely afternoon. In his position, another man might’ve been indignant—he, the venerated second-in-command of Azcan’s Church of Jez, reduced to this? But he’d been given a task, and he would see it through. He was a hand of Jez; a good hand does not complain when it is told to grasp, no matter how sore it feels. It does as it was made to do.

Nearly all of this crowd were here to see the Hero’s Sister—or, as he heard the teenage boy beside him refer to her—“that crazy savage girl, y’know? yeah, the super hot one from this morning—the one who nearly bit off Leo Ouyang’s nose!” Talen snorted. The Church of Jez was not the only ones to take note of her peculiar antics, evidently. Though Talen suspected his reasons for being here differed from the rest of this rowdy crowd.

…differed by a substantial degree, judging by his neighbor’s comments. Come to think of it—

Why were nearly all of them teenaged boys?

…

Disgusting. He wrinkled his nose.

No—his motives were at once purer and much less pure. He was here to recruit her. And he had an offer he knew she would not be able to resist.

At this time she was battling some low-seeded Young Mistress of the Yun Clan. The Church of Jez were By Talen’s calculations the battle should be finishing up by now…

Aha!

The crowd thundered, there was hooting, and cheering, and a glut of noise pouring out—the fight was done.

“Passing through!” Talen shouted, squeezing between the boys before him. “Make way!”

A few let out annoyed cries, but he was very tall, and very old-looking, and no-one wanted to be the one to brawl with an old man merely for bumping them. He did earn his fair share of stink-eye. He sneered. Believe me, children, the feeling is mutual.

At last he’d cut his way to the front. Here, right in front of the entrance, right as Kaya emerged from the entryway to a blast of hormonal cheers—

—He flipped up his hood. On it, unmistakable and shining and set in huge embroidery, was Jez’s golden hoops against the pale white cloth. He straightened his back, huffed, adopted a suitably wise-looking, pious posture—head downturned, brows drawn together, hands folded neatly—and waited for her to come.

The golden infinity caught the sunlight so well it drew hisses from the boys around him. It couldn’t have been more gauche if it had the words “NOTICE ME!” written there in glowing red print. It was nearly impossible to miss—especially for her.

…. yet nearly impossible was an apt, apparently, since happily she barreled right past him.

He blinked. What?

Frowning, he picked up his robes and rushed off, mowing down more of the crowd as he did.

He had a backup plan, thank Jez. He dashed all the way down the busy street, beating her to a spot two intersections down the road. There he stood, gasping horribly for breath, at the street corner, and flipped up his hood, striking a pose that he dearly hoped signaled ‘mysterious and very wise-looking old man who has the answers to all your burning questions about your new powers’—or at least, something like it. There he waited. A few seconds later she was skipping up the road; she’d pass his spot in seconds! She could not possibly miss him.

And then she did.

Talen’s jaw literally dropped. He stared at her, eyes white and wide as bird eggs, as she barreled straight past him, happily humming along. By Jez’s light—she’s the single most oblivious person I’ve ever seen!

Huffing mightily, he picked up the skirts of his robes again and got to running. His wrinkles weren’t for show—he was nearing his four hundredth year! Things that were four hundred years old weren’t meant to run. They mostly lay still. Under heaps of dirt.

Sometimes he had dreams death had finally claimed him. It happened nearly every night now. And yet every morning he’d wake up, look about his gaudy gold-lined room, pinch himself, sigh, and put on his Priest’s clothes, thinking … drat. Still alive.

And it was moments like these—panting down the street, feeling the sun beating its hot fists up and down his backside, feeling the sweat slaking off him in sheets, his skin shriveling like a dried grape as it was wrung for its last drop of moisture—it was times like this that he wished his one remaining working lung would finally give up the good fight, and he could at last have a nice, long—if slightly eternal—rest.

Alas it did not happen. Damn you, Kaya Rust!

He’d seen grapes less shriveled by the time he got in front of her again.

This time she could not miss him if she tried.

He stood smack-dab in the middle of the road. Right in front of her. Hood on. Golden infinity pointed straight at her face, not twenty paces away.

She got distracted by an axe in a display case. So distracted she bumped into him as he was in the middle of chugging in a gasp of air for dear life.

That nearly did his poor lung in, then and there. He felt his heart literally stop beating.

At least he got her attention. She looked to him, wide-eyed. “Oops! Didn’t seeya there, bud! My bad!”

Then she stepped around him, gave him a slap on the back so shocking it re-started his heart, and kept walking.

His knees buckled. He nearly passed out. His last shred of dignity fled his body.

“HALT! GIRL!” She didn’t turn. “KAYA RUST!” He cried, pointing a quivering, gnarled finger at her.

“I—am—Talen—High—Priest—oftheChurchofJez!” he wheezed.

“Huh. Good for you!”

She turned back around.

“WAIT!” He shrieked, pointing at his cowl desperately. “Don’t you—want to know the—origins of—your powers?! How to—to—control them? Get even stronger?! There’s—so much—you’ve yet to learn!”

She finally clocked the symbol on his cowl. “Oh, nice! You’ve got a contract too?”

He stared. “…how do you know about contracts? Actually, never—nevermind that. Do you know who your contract is with?”

She cocked her head. “Huh. Nope. I guess I don’t.”

“Well, then!” Talen drew himself up to his full height. Even bedraggled, he still managed a dignified air. “Would you care to know?”

“Nope!”

“…”

“Really?” He couldn’t keep the shock from his voice. “You’re not even a little curious?”

“Nah.” She shrugged, smiling. “I’m having a good time. That’s all that matters, right?” Now he was gaping at her in earnest.

What in the thirty-three realms is wrong with this girl?! Is she truly so simple? Is she an idiot?!

As though in response, she wrinkled her nose. “Actually, it’s probably more fun if I don’t know! Lately I’ve been following a new kinda thinking.” She leaned in, as though about to whisper a precious secret. “Knowing things is overrated. Life’s easier if you let things come as they are.”

“Hum,” said Talen slowly. “Pardon, miss. But that makes absolutely no sense at all.”

“I know, right?” She said. “That’s the best part about it!”

Then she scampered off.

“Ah! Halt! Halt, I say!” cried the High Priest. He had one last desperate try, one card he hoped he wouldn’t need to pull until they had her on the hook. “One more thing! Your brother! He isn’t who you think—“

But she was already gone.