The Apprentice

Was man any different than beast? What was their difference, if any? These questions stuck onto Eiden’s mind like plaster upon a wall as he laid down on the ground. His limbs splayed out comfortably, the warmth of the dying, afternoon sun a balm on his skin. Winds tumbled through his hair as he looked through the gaps in his fingers, rays of firelight streaming from the cracks.

That was how he felt; clawing at the light as it fell through the rifts of his right hand. Inexorably, doom would come.

Despite the physical comfort, mental anguish churned within. Eiden feared the mutagens he would be exposed to yet found them exhilarating at the same time. To become more and not be limited, even as a spiritualist. Skill and spirit would not be his only power to be cultivated. It would now be corporeality as well.

His shackles would be removed.

In the end, he would be a sorcerer in all but name and authority.

Perhaps that was why he held some residual fear. Sorcery had been caustic, and to be exposed to a faux version of it unearthed terrors best left hidden away.

Will I become a monster again? Will I be lost in the dark, attacked by all sides with no one to save me but myself?

Am I going to die?

Eiden likened the trial as a means to an end. To fell monsters that prowled in the dark, he would give all that he was. Mind, body, soul, and spirit. He had already lost them all in one semblance or another. What was another sliver?

Limb.

Spirit.

Sanity.

Soul.

How many more layers can I peel away until there’s nothing left?

Only one way to know.

Eiden bent his arms and hands backward, touching them to the ground before bursting forth, and springing onto his feet like the dirt of a tunic being shaken out. The physical conditioning over the past moons had shown their dividends. He was still small of stature, yet now lithe and defined muscle was laid over his frame as he stood. Any amount of his musculature would show, given his previous near-skeletal appearance.

He wore a sleeveless tunic whose bottom reached his lower thighs. Baggy breeches with a leather protector marking the groin went unto his lower knees. From then on, footstraps ended the outfit. It was all made of lightweight and breathable cloth, not much different than what serfs working the fields would use. The only dissimilarity being that he had no sleeves. The damn things had caught fire more than once before he had to cut and sew most of his training tunics.

Gotta do something else. Can’t be thinking.

Eiden formed an aura around his hands, the white mist-steam hybrid bleeding away into his surroundings.

Through the breath of his lungs and the ethers of his spirit, he siphoned the fire of his body into the aura at his hands. The mana holding the quanta of motion looped around his channels, taking that which he wanted. Heat surged into the aurai, flooding it with energy. It boiled yet didn’t singe nor burn Eiden. The spirit-fog turned into steam fully, threads of hot air wrapping around his hands.

His bones turned cold as his blood drowned in ice water. His mind calmed, his senses sharpened—be it the stuff of spirit or flesh.

His eyes closed.

Cat’s Paw: Natha's Breath.

His hand reeled back, his posture shifted.

His hands ignited, the aura needing to vent the influx of energy. The streams of etheric wind turned to spectral flame, the color of firelight filtering through amber.

His eyes opened.

Eiden struck out, expelling pneuma from his core into the aura in his right hand.

A gout of flame billowed out before carrying forward like a wave, being propelled forth by vital breath. It carried both force and fire, spirit and arcane power. A coalescence of leftover sorcery and pneumatic spiritry. Even without an active channeling of an aspect, vibrational energy was his to command no different than the breath in his lungs.

He only had to cusp the arcana, gently nudge it. Not to empower it and cause its flames to soar like an active channeling of an aspect. This was more subtle, like first learning how to move his ears. It required finesse.

Thankfully, he had that in spades.

His hands reversed, one coming back to his side while the other struck out in turn. As they did so, Eiden pulled the blazing mana from the aura in his hands, letting the residual heat back into his body, transmuting flame back into proper spirit. Yet, he did not stop there. He sucked the aura dry of any and all heat, imposing order upon it.

The aura in his hands turned from streamers of spectral steam to fog clouds and northern winds.

Serpent’s Cauldron.

He shifted in between changes of punches into the Serpent’s Cauldron. Instead of straight strikes, he whipped his hands like a falx cutting through the wheat, the heel of his hand becoming a blade of the harvest itself.

As his aura was slowly siphoned of heat, he started pushing pneuma into it. Yet, instead of the customary third of each mana type of life, water, and wind, he split the amalgam into its component ethers to finish the technique. Water ether bled through the veil, crystallizing into jagged blades of ice that extended from the heel of his hand. Wind ether sent it forward as life ether held the whole technique together like glue and protected his body from the extreme temperature fluctuations.

Serpent’s Cauldron: Reaping Falx.

Sickles of etheric ice shot forward, thin and fine enough to rend through flesh like a storm of knives.

A strike of his arms threw a crescent of pale-blue crystal deep into the bark of a tree.

His right hand came down like an executioner’s axe. The semicircular motion started with the tips of his fingers at his left shoulder and ended with his hand extended to the left. The backhand attack sent a Forged blade towards a large outcrop of stone.

The spirit-construct broke apart into shards of ice. The structure destabilized, bleeding away into the spiritual realm as fog.

The Ether took its due. Not even Eiden could deny it that.

Eiden threw his arms backward in a stroke, expelling the residual cold in a pneumatic burst. A haelstrom of icicles the size of spear-tips pierced the ground.

His breathing had degraded from the five minutes of intense spiritual and martial practice. No longer did his mana course through his spirit in fluid and precise patterns to reinforce his body. A monsoon had flooded them from without, stressing the channels to bursting. And as suddenly as the excess came, his spirit was plunged into drought as mana spasmed in scarcity through the etheric circulatory system.

Etheric internal pressure worked similarly to the corporeal kind. Less ether-blood, less pressure. If it got too low, death would surely follow without intervention.

His strength and durability turned back to the mortal realm as his breath turned ragged.

Pain radiated from his navel, the feeling like his insides turning into glass and shattering. It was the white-hot sort of excruciation, as if it was pulled straight outta the Heavenly Forge.

He fell to the earth, his strength flagging.

Forgot not to stress this thing. Feels raw, like boiling tar was cycled through my meridians. Well, that's not too far off. I did use molten metal. And frozen too.

Besides the pain at the core of his being, there was another problem. He hadn’t been able to use the pull of his Center as fast nor strong as he used to, though he reckoned it was because of his spirit transfiguration. The bursts of pneuma through his meridians and spirit-veins were weaker, not propelling the Forged ice as fast as before. He had yet to pierce through stone with the technique, yet it was noticeably slower.

I’ll have to ask Fin about that later...

“Having fun over there, Denny?” Asked Bela, announcing her presence.

It wasn’t needed. Eiden had long since felt her spirit the moment her feet stepped onto the threshold between earth and surface. Her aura was filled to the brim with earth mana and dark-aspected enough for him to tell it was her. Denizens of the Undercity might sometimes leave, yet the Undercity never left them. Their very spirits were scarred by the abyssal place.

“What I tell ya about callin’ me Denny? Ei, Bellyache.” Asked Eiden back, with a smirk as he gingerly got up. Whether she noticed the pain he hid or not, Bela did not comment. The lass had a childish sense of humor. Like all denizens of the accursed place, she matured in some aspects too fast for her age and stayed static in others.

She’d likely fought with others for food, given the silver lines blanketing her skin. She'd seen death. Yet, she had not frolicked in fields before they took her as their ward. She had never played.

After seeing the children in other settlements, Eiden could only feel burning hatred for the lives of the Undercity. To be denied everyday freedoms and enjoyment.

Bela smiled back before her grin broke into a serious face.

“Fin’s awake.”

Eiden and Bela went back inside the cave, making their way towards the Exorcist.

The once rune-marked cavern walls were now also carved with shelves that held alchemic paraphernalia. A bed of stone stood at the middle of the room, grooves cut into it that led unto a basin etched into the floor. It was eerily similar to the blood magic altar back in Arvenpyre.

“Fin, why is there a blood magic altar here?”

The Exorcist got up from his stack of books and scrolls.

“Oh, there ye are.” He responded as if he couldn't sense them from a mile away. “This is just a waste collection system. The Trials will take all manner of tolls on you. Blood will seep from your eyes, ears, nose, and your very pores. This’ll help with ferrying the waste products away from your body. Microbes are apt to devour such things. Best that they don’t get anything to break their fast with, lest you get a nasty infection.”

Fin closed his book with a casual snap.

“Hop on up.”

Eiden laid atop the stone pedestal, not unlike a sarcophagus. He only hoped it would not be his. Yet, he did not fret… much. He trusted Fin with his life. The Exorcist had yet to lead him astray.

“I will have to restrain you with stone bindings.” Said the Exorcist. “You will spasm and squirm under the pain—without them, you might as well break the delicate equipment right now and save us the trouble. I will also cut you off from your spirit as a whole, lest you burn us all alive.”

“Aye. Understood.” Answered Eiden.

The stone from under him ebbed like water, flowing over his limbs and torso in individual coils, binding him with a bit of wiggle room. The rock that came in contact with his skin became soft, like the fur of a game-rug or noble’s blanket.

“I ain’t no monster.” Said Fin with an easy grin. His spirit betrayed him, the worry causing his aura to prickle like a cornered cat. It was subtle, yet Eiden still felt emotions as they flowed through the psychic plane.

“Now, unveil your spirit so that I may fully inspect it.”

Eiden did so, releasing the full breadth of what lay within his ethereal body. Unlike a simple empathic connection that let others perceive what he perceived, he instead retracted the protections of his aura this time. He likened it to deep waters hiding all manner of creatures suddenly becoming crystal clear. Beneath the darkness laid a slumbering behemoth scarred yet left stronger from its battles.

“Maelstrom’s bloody maw.” Cursed Fin. “What’d ye do to your spirit? It’s like molten slag was poured through it.”

Eiden gave him an uneasy smile.

“I tinkered with a new spirit organ?” He quested like a tyke found with his grubby hands in the larder.

Fin brought a hand to his face, dragging it down in an exasperated manner. The stone bindings melted away back into the rock altar.

He let out a suffering sigh before continuing.

“Stabilize the mana structure first and fully integrate it. The Trials are not meant to be administered to a spiritual body under changes that... significant, lest it become tainted by the procedure itself. Best you don’t get possessed.

“Go on… we’ll do the procedure the day after tomorrow in earnest. But, just do this and no more. You’ll have time to tinker once your body has been tempered by the Trials.”

Eiden gave him a nod before closing his eyes and entering the Empty Breath.

The Exorcist

Fin’s face broke out into a restrained smile. Anger and jubilation bubbled inside him. Eventually, the frustration gave out. The lad had always been one to take on risky and unwise shortcuts on the Paths. That was where he excelled, jumping in between branches too far to traverse with intact sanity and wise wits. No matter how much he tried to instill caution and heed, Eiden was unreceptive to such a change.

It would be the death of him, Fin knew. Only a matter of time till the young exorcist took upon another accursed power. He only hoped that he would be strong enough to resist once more. Fin could not forbid him; he could only steer. To have any other notion was foolhardy at best and naive at worst.

The horse could only be to water but not be made to drink. The rest of the responsibility lay in the mentee, not the mentor.

Steel was pounded into shape, folded unto itself, and bathed in acid. Only then could it become a proper blade. Suffering was unavoidable as one climbed the Paths. Be it the sulfur of the soul, the mercury of the spirit, or the salt of the body. All Paths were caustic within and without by their very nature. To ascend to higher heights, one coursed through the path of most resistance, casting away parts of themselves.

Defying the Heaven's Will. A poetic and... garish description if there ever was one.

Travelers among the sacred thorny bushes of adversity. They would bleed, be torn, and prickled. Most would die. Only some would bear the burden until the end of their Path among the pain.

To progress was to change. To change was to kill the past self. From its ashes, a stronger version would be born.

Really, it was all just some dramatic way of saying that to progress, sacrifice was needed. At least, Fin had tried his best to condense all those disparate philosophies, and such was the result and end product. Some meaning was lost along the way as abstraction and simplification cut away much.

His pain tolerance, arcane resistance, and mental reserves have grown much. Given that he achieved something only masters on the Paths would. The feeling of molten metal through the veins of his very spirit. Gods, he’s hellbent on this. Even if he were denied the opportunity, he would chase the Paths nonetheless. Better to have someone to look over him than to leave the lad stranded.

Eiden had yet to veil his spirit, and so Fin took his time going through it. Best to look for any risk of crumbling foundations before the castle proper fell. First, he brushed his awareness over his apprentice’s Center. A ball of steel stood at the center of the etheric organ, argent roots billowing out. Streams of water ether swirled around the core, and eddies of wind danced at the outer edges of the spiritual basin. The flow of the etheric waters was middling and weak like the ocean meeting a mangrove—the water was stopped by the sheer volume and resistance of roots.

Interesting… he used stalwart steel’s sealing properties to create a vessel for essence. Not half bad. And he transmuted a new amalgam, this one blood-tinged as well. A corporeal permutation certainly cycles through the spirit much easier than a pure elemental distillate—flesh to flesh than flesh to stone—compatibility is key. And it seems he even managed to keep some residual vorai intact in the amalgam. That’ll enhance flames like oil or any other accelerant.

The problem, though, is how he’s made the veins. They are random, not unlike roots or branches. It’ll disrupt the flow of his Center. He won’t be able to conjure whirlwinds around him as before. He’ll have to weave the streams of ether like a wicker basket instead. It’ll take a significant amount of time and skill to do so effectively, but it might give him an edge of sorts.

Better fine control over etheric wind instead of raw power. Maybe even a spiritual type of sympathetic telekinesis. The precision will synergize well with his planar attunement magic. A phantom-hand aura won’t be too far off.

After he gets his soul back, his aura will become the hand of a ruler, commanding the very air itself. In a way, the loss of his eternal mind is actually better. Sorcerers are quite strong yet always hold some critical flaw. Like a house built from the roof first, the top-down foundation of sorcerers leaves them unbalanced.

A single, well-placed push could send them tumbling into the Maelstrom to be reborn anew. Another turn of the Wheel for them.

He put phlogiston at the center of his ether-core. Should’ve put it nearer the top, considering he wouldn’t need to cycle it to his legs nor feet. A jack of all trades has an advantage in broad utility but lacks the depth specialization provides. Might have to give him another Form sequence that has kicks to make do with that.

With the core smack in the middle, the concentrated etheric weight should bore through the ethereal. It’ll deepen with time from a small cup into a proper barrel as the planar membrane flexes and congeals upon the added stress. Might do him some good with breathing and cycling techniques to further spiritual pressure on the canister.

Perhaps the Heaven and Earth Purification Wheel? No, no. That won’t do. At least, not for now.

The Blackmoon Boring Vortex? Aye. That one’s better. Might even give him a new mana type to play with. The Atlas Stone Breath will complete the set.

The Apprentice II

Eiden took his time, meditating and reading books of all sorts. He had gained a good deal of technical knowledge over the last year. From basic artificing, different Paths, or even mundane information such as astronomy, geology, and other natural philosophies. He would have to take at least a day to recuperate enough for the Trials. Best that he get some theoretical study in the Arts as he waited for his mental reserves to return.

To use any sort of arcane art, one needed the psychic energy required to twine and stitch strings of arcana and the will to do so. Eiden needed not only to wait for the mental basin to refill but for it to recompose its structure. Arcana was caustic, eroding away at any and all.

Thankfully, Eiden didn’t need the years of preparation required to execute an arcane technique as most did. The sorcerous vestige inside his mind was more than enough to work as a medium. He needed only to tap into it.

It was noon of the next day when Eiden’s Eye of the Mind had achieved half-capacity from practically anything. The basin itself measured at one-hundred-and-twenty-five thaums of total mana capacity. Twenty-five thaums higher than the average reserve size of one hundred. Given he felt half-full of mental mana, he reasoned he had around sixty to sixty-five psychic thaums total.

Probably enough. It takes around two or three thaums to channel a single aspect. The expenditure to then use it to alter an arcane sequence would depend on the arcana compatibility. Though, in practicality, for such a small area of effect, it’ll cost…

I have no fucking clue. Time for some calculations.

Eiden spooled aura around his hands and imbued an arcane spark into it. He tried this with all of his different aspects and separated each etheric and netheric essence to study them further. He calculated how much each element used to both channel and change a mana type. They all rounded out at the same amount of ten expended thaums total, yet differed in the ratio of mental to corporeal cost required to use them.

Ten psychic thaums for ignition of an auric shroud with Azure Ember. No bodily thaums are used.

Five psychic thaums for Scarlet Pyre. The amalgam probably eats away at the surrounding mana to fuel itself as it burns just as much as Azure Ember. Only, this one has a hunger aspect instead of a destruction one. Make that ten thaums, then, just for safe measure.

Two psychic thaums only for Storm’s Breath. Makes sense, considering it fuels itself with pneuma. The other eight thaums come from the aura and vital breath.

And finally, only one psychic thaum for the combined channelling and subsequent ignition with Stalwart Steel. Any imposing wills or amalgams increase the cost, as does time. Concentration is required to keep it active. Strange that it costs so little. Where do the other thaums come from? It measures at one psychic thaum, yet there are nine unidentified thaums of some different essence.

Huh. I can't sense any ether or nether. What's this thing made of then?

Eiden didn’t know what to make of it and couldn’t find any answers to his mystery. So, he consulted the living encyclopedia that was Fin.

“Huh. An aetheric manifestation. Your mortal soul was imprinted with a single element, as all usually are want to do after one delves deep enough in the Arts. You probably don’t even need an arcane aspect to make use of that ability. Though I reckon you’d need a lot more practice to do so. As it sits, the vestige is acting as an overseer between you and your animus. A middle man of sorts that feeds off of the aetheric ability and in turn gives you accessible power.

“Think of it as a sort of spiritual mutation created from stress—like spirit resonance.

"Anyhow, we’ll sort that out later. Now go on. Enough time has been used to sate your curiosity. Just go and finish the damn thing. You don’t need to track every single thaum of expended mana. That’s just for artificing and for works that require robotic and reproducible results. You can do that later for fun.

“Get the show on the road, young exorcist.”

Eiden gave him a mock salute, holding his fist to his heart.

The Exorcist II

Fin sat back down and watched his apprentice work on his spiritual body. As he often did, the Exorcist took the time to ruminate and ponder. To reflect upon the mind and past was to pierce through the fog of the uncertain future. Or so, a proverb of Apollo said.

His thoughts are so scattered and easily prodded in another direction. Yet, when he finds something of worth to focus on, his mind becomes sharp and unbending. A trade-off. Though, perhaps one he does not like.

The Trials will see to that he gets a choice. They do rebalance neurological chemistry and even mental animus.

Though he often errs on the side of instinct instead of conscious thought, his temperament seems more blessing than curse. If he was too reserved and cold, he’d not even reach half of his current progress in the spirit arts. And if he was singularly commanded by base whim, he would’ve died long before his Awakening.

Urchins without wits do not survive an Undercity winter.

In short, the lad’s disciplined yet brash and impulsive. A strange and queer sort of temperament most common in greatest of wizards, though still found oft in the mundane… best that he not get his mittens on that sort of magic yet. Wise that he learns to rely on his own strength rather than to borrow from the world.

If he thinks his soul is caustic, wait till he takes upon the soul of the world itself. The Wellfont is rarely so forgiving as sorcerer’s sulfur. The damn thing’s something else.

If the Eternal Mind is sulfuric acid, the Source Beyond the Veil is the hungry heart of a star.

The Apprentice III

Eiden slowly stabilized the roots and spirit orb of his Center. He pulled the mana together, condensing it and making its spiritual structure more stable.

Draw an ember of stalwart steel and imbue it into the amorphous clay that is my animus. Then, let the arcana eat away at the aether to create argent-steel mana. Condense the etheric amalgam into itself, folding it like a blacksmith does to steel. Rinse away any unbound plaques of impure or superfluous essence, letting it drift away into the Center. Repeat at the intervals where the roots and canister are weakest until the thickness is uniform.

The process was slow and steady, like the potter molds clay. It required the patience of a blacksmith to fold the spirit unto itself without immediate effects. And most of all, it was time-consuming like the work of a miner, slowly chipping away at stone to unearth ore. Eiden couldn't rush it, lest he cave in his spirit.

The roots were stabilized from the wall of his Center going inward towards the steel orb. They were thickest at the edges where they met the wall, petering out as they reached the pyromantic seedling. The tubes were like trees in that they needed a solid base to hold themselves up. As they went deeper and “sideways” into the ethereal, they became smaller. Space acted strangely in the spiritual realms. Though mirroring the prime in that it was a constant facet of reality, space was at times nebulous and plastique in the Ether. The membrane of pressure that held his spirit together like a soap bubble could be stretched. It took time to congeal into something strong, yet it was worth it to carry more mana.

Eiden dared not purposefully extend the barrier of his spirit. He only let the weight of his Center and argent mana do so indirectly. Fin had yet to allow him that particular technique, and Eiden did not push. After telling him a story of some mageling’s spirit bursting like entrails in the mouth of a wolf, the apprentice thought it acceptable to wait. Without proper foundations and strengthening techniques, the expansion of a spirit into the ethereal realm led to an excruciating death via spiritual infection. The unseen entities of the Ether would flood into the mage and eat away at them from the inside out like flesh-maggots.

A shudder went through Eiden’s spine. He thanked whatever lucky stars helped him survive and not get that particular disease in the Undercity.

By night, the spiritual structure was entirely stabilized and set. There were bumps and irregularities, sure, yet they were minuscule in size and few in quantity. Eiden would have to return to those at a later time with arcane fire and a mental hammer to smooth them out.

Now was the time for rest. His mind was exhausted, and his thoughts scattered. Only one-tenth of his mental mana remained after channelling arcana for so long. His high-spirit was ragged from how much aether he drew from it. Though, thankfully, Fin helped him by giving him spirit-coins whenever his energies waned.

They were queer little baubles wrought from mana; usually, life ether made physical. Aether, when plane-shifted into the Ether from the positive spirit plane, usually turned into life ether. If one then condensed that ether into the prime-material as a nether, it took on the visage of an aura, only tinted green if one properly unbound it from the blood and earth.

The reason for that was two-fold, as Eiden understood it. Since the spirit-coin’s surface contained aurai, it had water and wind mana. Wind mana, with enough superfluous energy, emitted light. And, if the aether was taken from a plant, it too would shine viridian. All of these factors added together to give spirit-coins not only rank but also qualities within the hierarchy of rank.

An impure and low-quality, minor spirit-coin costs less than a higher quality coin of the same rank. The hierarchy of spirit-coin rank is more like a roof with chaotic shingles than a ladder with equidistant rungs.

A smattering of four spirit-coins, two each of psychic energy and life-force, brought him back to three-fourths capacity in his reserves from a scarce one-fourth. Fin didn't give any before as he had to use his own mana to properly stabilize his spirit.

Spirit-coins were like strong booze. They needed to be used in moderation and never in the middle of work. Only after a long day of toiling the fields could they be imbibed upon.

They tasted pretty strange. The coins buzzed on Eiden's tongue, sizzling in a comfortable sort of way, leaving a sour taste in their wake. They also left behind a smell of ozone like carbonated water—a typical drink in the Vitaen Republics.

Eiden laid down from his meditative position onto his bedroll. The warmth of the fur brought him immense comfort and joy. Yet, an undertone of hatred still burned in his heart.

Children fought for scraps while those above lived in luxury. If it weren’t for the White Cliffs having natural springs that warmed them year-round, death would’ve been inevitable. Their bodies never grew, forever stuck in the small stature of a tyke. Their bones broke like rotten twigs, and their skin hung taught on their bodies.

The nobles would have Hells to pay when he came back.

It seemed the town’s lumen was a dark omen of sorts.

It would burn scarlet.

Eiden woke up the next day, his stomach shriveling with hunger. Yet, he could not eat. The Trials forbade any imbibement that wasn’t of the mutagenic variety.

After a year of constant meals, hunger now affected him once more. It surprised him how he survived with the feeling for so long. I could kill a man for some freshly baked bread and bacon. And eggs. And some earthly ale. Yum.

He shook his head and breathed out a long breath, hoping the actions would dispel his drooling thoughts.

Bela still slept, and Fin laid down on his own cot.

“Wanna spar some?” Fin asked, opening his eyes. “Might do you some good to forget the hunger and troubling thoughts.”

“Aye.” Eiden answered, already used to his mentor's... eccentricities. “I need to get some of the malice outta me.”

Fin nodded.

The mages made their way outside to the rising, eastern orb of Solaria.

“No projection—Striker or Emitter—techniques. Just Enforcer and Enhancement, we don’t want you using too much energy. Aura and mental manipulation and such tricks are fine as well since their expenditure is middling at worst. You don't have any of their arts that burn through too much."

They took their stances a meter from each other, no more than five strides and no less than a full arm’s length.

Eiden’s stance was that of the Cat’s Paw while at rest, a hand ready to deflect and the other to strike, his body at an acute angle. The Exorcist mirrored the unarmed guard.

Eiden’s aura prickled, surging out like a roaring flame bathed in aggression. The waters of his spirit condensed around him, shrouding him in vicious ethereal vapor.

Pneuma surged throughout the shroud, empowering it further. He stood inside the eye of the storm, a whirlwind dancing around his body. It was not a sympathetic sort of elemental manipulation, instead only a simple Imbuement of wind ether.

A step forward, his footwork fluid like the waves shuffling along and over the sands of the sea. The pneuma enhanced each action giving him grace where he had none and unlikely strength to a frame as small as his.

His hand shot out in the tell-tale form of the Cat’s Paw.

Fin brought up his deflection hand to intercept the attack.

Eiden’s hand turned, his posture shifting to add more of his momentum and weight upon his fist. His back leg went up, and his hips rotated along with his torso and shoulders.

A haymaker, only this one with a bit more bend.

His elbow came down with grisly force as his right hand curled into a fist. If his elbow connected, even Fin would be winded from the fury and power contained within.

Fin pushed up with his Cat’s Paw, throwing Eiden’s strike out of the way while the deflection hand went to the right over his striking hand. The heel of the deflector became a blade, coming down on Eiden’s neck and windpipe.

Eiden countered with a masterstroke of his own, spinning with the deflection and tumbling his weight down. The attack struck him on the muscles of his shoulder instead of his windpipe. With the spin, he strike-kicked at Fin's ankle.

The Exorcist hopped over the kick, letting the excess energy of the attack carry Eiden away into a tumble. The mageling rode out the churning storm of tumbles until the momentum weakened. A foot placed firmly onto the ground shot him up as his pneumatic shroud held him aloft for a breath.

His feet lightly touched back down as the spectral winds dissolved back into his spirit and into the Ether. No bruises made their way onto his skin, his auric shroud having protected him.

“Root yourself, young exorcist. Without proper foundations, your strikes will carry you away like a leaf in the wind. You’ve got enough force to bend steel. And with that minuscule weight of yours, that strength is more of a weakness. The momentum is enough to carry you forth.

“But, the Trials will be more than enough to remove that weakness, given your bones will weigh an inordinate amount. Yet, with the fire-blood mutagen, you’ll have much more force than before, so you’ll still have to nip that flaw in another form. It seems hellbent on chasing ya.”

“Aye. I guessed as much already. That’s why I’ve taken so much time to perfect my Emitter and Striker techniques. They project the excess energy along with the pneuma, letting me stay on my feet.

“Though, not always will I have the mana to use them. Hells, another mage with a better understanding of planar vertices and mana manipulation will be able to unravel them easily enough. Best that I do get rid of that weakness before it becomes a true flaw.”

“And what about the Firmament?” Asked Fin. “Have you been able to tether to it again? Instinctively, that is.”

Eiden shook his head.

“I just don’t seem to have the aptitude for that area of the spirit arts. No matter how hard I try to root myself to the earth, I end up losing concentration, and the lashings break away. If I bend dirt or stone over my feet, the bindings disintegrate under a wind shroud.

“Plane-melding with the Nether is much harder for me than the Ether. I don’t possess any earth-attuned arcana that isn’t metal, so channeling an aspect is out of the question.”

Fin’s face became pensive for a moment before it lit up in epiphany.

“Continue practice in maintaining an earth construct. But, in the meantime, I might have another solution for you. Have you tried using stalwart steel? Forge some roots, and they should hold ye down fine.”

The thought gave Eiden pause.

It could work.

Eiden closed his eyes, letting his awareness bleed into his spirit. The world around him turned black for a breath before becoming more vibrant and colorful than ever under the senses of his aura.

First, he manifested an aura around his hand. Then, he—a wallop came down on his head, disrupting his focus.

“Sorry for that, lad. You can’t use too much mana.” Said Fin with an apologetic expression, his wrinkly face plastered with pity. “I even yelled, but ye couldn’t hear a thing. And if I had used my soul or spirit to browbeat your attention back into line, I might've traumatized you."

“It’s fine. I get it. I really do.” Answered Eiden. “My aura passively blocked most of the force anyway… strange. Why did it dissipate the force? How? I wasn’t manifesting a shroud around my head.”

“Two reasons I can guess.” Said Fin. “Passive arcane field generated by your Vibratiokinesis Arcanum. And planar congealment and attunement. Your aura extends throughout various dimensions passively at all times, and since you’ve got an innate disposition for the Ether, your spirit protected you by reflex.”

Eiden nodded before shifting into a sweeping kick to catch Fin unawares.

It didn’t connect, Fin slipping away with fox-like grace, but this time at least, Eiden wasn’t sent tumbling away.

A half-hour later, both mages returned to the cavern. Bela was now awake and gave Eiden a smile and a head nod when he entered.

Eiden had already taken a disinfecting bath outside, a conjured bubble of soapy water washing away any and all filth from him. He had on himself only short pants, enough to give him some modesty.

“First,” the Exorcist continued, “you will imbibe in an anesthetic of sorts. It will sever the connection between your brain and nerves temporarily. But only for the control of movement. You will still feel pain, as it is a necessity.

“Remember not to dissociate, or else the Third Trial will be for naught. Take heed to the instructions of the mental technique I’ve given you. To become an exorcist is to invite all manner of mental anguish. One must endure it and not give in to base instinct. Drifting away is not endurance but avoidance.

“The pain shall be your crucible. May it strengthen the blade of your mind. Do not let the steel slip through the cracks. Let it bathe you so that nothing else may cause you harm.

“I am proud of all that you’ve achieved in the Paths. But, more importantly, I believe in your success, young exorcist. I believe in you. What makes you admirable is not your talent but your drive.

“If the sorcerer’s sulfur could not claim you, the Trials shall not.

“The step is yours to take.”