The Festival was sound asleep. It was that time of night, so deep and so late and so silent that the ambiance felt like a physical thing, a thick wool blanket lain atop all the tents and huts and stands. A few revelers slouched home on wine-weak legs, but that was that. Even the geyser’s roars were subdued, seeming more to Dorian’s ear like snores.

Dorian sat wide awake. There’d be no sleeping tonight, and not just because of Kaya’s ground-shaking snoring. What was there to make of Fate’s speech? Need he heed any of it?

Standing, he pushed his way out of the tent and set a course for Hu’s stores. He’d think this through over a kettle of Hu’s rare brews. A few minutes later he’d snuck into the Alchemist’s store-tents, unpacked a handful of fangweed tea, and set the stuff to brew in a small iron pot over a small flickering fire. All the while, he thought.

By the time the tea had finished brewing, he’d come to a few decisions. First—whatever grand designs the other gods had on this world or others, Dorian had no interest in them. That hadn’t changed. Besides, he’d never been convinced of Old Man Fate’s far-future predictions; true prophecy was impossible, even for a Godking. Dorian should know—his chief specialty as a Godking was time, and the best future-sight could offer was to present a vast array of possibilities. The multiverse was stochastic.

All that said, the closer to the present, the easier it was to tease out likely futures. And though Fate was senility embodied, he wasn’t so far gone that he’d muddle up a day-ahead prediction… right?

Cautious skepticism. That was the attitude Dorian would take, he decided. He checked his Interspatial Ring and made sure all his valuables were tucked safely within. He spent the rest of the night patching up the last of his soul. Then he went outside to meditate. The moonlight was especially intense today, a warm caress on his skin. The moons, overlapping, burned with vitality. Streams of qi rushed into him with each breath. Above, the sky was a wild tapestry of sharp purples and melancholy blues, and the stark-white streak of debris was nearly corporeal tonight—in another life, Dorian might imagine it as a path on which angels tread. On nights like tonight Dorian could see how mortals made their myths. This was one benefit of smallness: in this state Dorian was capable of a sense of childlike wonder, a rarity for most deities. It was much harder to be in awe of the stars, after all, when one could pluck them from the sky.

The evening passed. The sun rose. Dorian’s body, marinating in the qi of the universe, bristled with vigor. Under the rising sun, his skin looked like that of the other Vigor masters: pure, marble-like, supple and hardy at once. As he opened his eyes, he was greeted with a new notification.

[Level-up!]

[Vigor Realm] Lv. 2 -> 3

He met the sunrise with a smile. All was well—for now.

***

“You’re not coming?” said Kaya, a brow raised. She had a barrel of northman beer under one arm and a garish fur hat on her head.

“Not this time,” said Dorian. He waved. “You have fun. I’ve some final training to do.” He really meant if Fate’s right and there really is some attack, I can’t be caught piss-drunk.

Kaya didn’t press. Instead she shrugged and simply marched out the door. A few seconds later Dorian heard a loud whoop.

***

It was the last day of the Festival, and the most unstructured of them. A few, like Dorian, chose to take advantage of the unusual qi concentrations to further their cultivations. Mostly these were Elders or Clan Leaders, who held the bulk of their celebrations in smaller, private circles. The rest of the Festivalgoers were embroiled in a sea of limbs and wines which ringed the geyser. In one corner, a few thespians had set up a stage; drunken onlookers whooped and jeered at equally drunken actors. In another, singers, voices amplified by qi, sang to cheering crowds.

Dorian spent the morning lashing Yama’s Chains to cacti and looking on with a measure of jealousy. He hadn’t been properly drunk in some time, and today was as good an excuse as any—but instead he was wrapping smoke-chains around the bases of plants and watching them wither. Practicing his qi-techniques. He felt a pang of mild annoyance which grew as the day went on and noon was upon them. Even in a speedrun, Dorian didn’t deny himself a few hours of plain fun every so often, especially on a day with little to do but wait and cultivate. After all the nonsense he’d gone through this Festival he deserved it. In sum these bouts of relaxation would total to a year or two across a run, hardly a difference-maker. But there would be none of that today. Thanks, Fate.

Then it was the afternoon and there was still no sign of blood. No attacks. No doomsday riots. And a suspicion grew in Dorian alongside the annoyance. He got the distinct feeling that maybe Fate was wrong all along. Maybe he’d been standing here, sober out of his mind, for no reason at all. By now he’d withered a few dozen Cacti. At least he’d leveled up Yama’s Chains in that time—now, at level three, they were the consistency and color of smoldering coals. Blackness drifted off them like ash in a winter wind.

It neared evening, the partying showed no signs of stopping, and Dorian’s irritation—at Fate, at other gods’ meddling, at this—head peaked and was now slowly ebbing. By chance, in search of more cacti to practice on, he’d circled near a section of the festivities. Men and women were draped over one another. Some were out cold on the floor, saliva and dark liquids dribbling down their cheeks. One woman had even pinned a man to the ground, straddling his chest, and was kissing him so fiercely it looked like she was in the process of devouring his face whole.

Wait. Is that…? He squinted, got a better look at the woman, and then a look at the man. He pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

Really, sis? This is a new low.

Hento Rust was pinned underneath her, his cheeks redder than red. His eyes looked about to pop out of his pretty little face. His silky locks were spread out about his head in a tangled mess. He looked like he scarcely believed what was happening. She must be smashed to bits.

That unpleasant image was enough to get Dorian to retreat to his tent. As night fell and the qi-thick atmosphere started to wane, he’d absorb all the qi he could, he decided. He threw himself at the next layer of refinement: the inner organs. All the while, he kept an eye cracked for any mischievousness.

And as the hours wore on, as day gave way to night, still nothing. The fiercest of the partying went and passed, and as the moons arched up the sky on a collision course, the incessant drunken shouting started to wane. A good half of Rust Tribe had returned to camp by now, nearly all drunk—even the children.

Then, an hour later, Hento dropped by. In his arms, nestled in a bridal carry, was a snoring Kaya. Dorian greeted the scene with another sigh.

“Err,” said Hento, whose face was still aflame. He looked down at her, then up at Dorian. “Good evening! I, ah, happened upon your sister here. She’s had a bit of a drink—or so I gather. I supposed it was my duty as a self-respecting man to escort her home. We wouldn’t want any, ah, deviants to try anything, ah, naughty.”

“…Right.” Dorian said. Isn’t that ironic. “Thank you, Young Master. Very thoughtful. You may set her down on the leather cot over there.”

Nodding, Hento stepped in and did just that. Dorian didn’t miss how his gaze lingered on her as he made his way back to the doorway. This time he did roll his eyes. Children. Hento lingered at the edge of the door-flaps, clutching his arm with a hand, uncertain. Moonlight spilled over him.

“Anything else?” Dorian said brightly.

Hento bit his cherry-red lip. In the silver light, heart-shaped, irritatingly symmetrical face looked like a line drawing. “You don’t think very highly of me, do you, Io dear?”

Dorian thought for a moment. “Nope!”

At least Hento had the decency to cringe at that. “Ah! You wound me!” He cried. “Alas—perhaps… perhaps I’ve deserved it in the past. But lately, my eyes are open anew! I see now there’s more to life than merely the aesthetic or the pleasurable. You’ve helped teach me that, in fact.”

Dorian blinked. Inwardly, he thought I… have? Outwardly he said, “That’s… good to hear! I’m glad for you. Anyhow, it’s getting late—“

“My past behavior, why—now that I look back on it, I see it was the confused muddling of a dilettante, a child!” Hento shook his head vigorously. “The Hento of today laughs—nay, scorns—such foolishness.”

“I see.” Dorian wasn’t quite sure what was happening. All he knew was that he had zero interest in it.

“I’ll be a better person!” declared Hento, shaking a dainty little fist. “A man worthy of fame. A man of virtue, not vice! Gone is my decadent self, shed like the frost-dragon’s molt on first winter—“

“Very good! Thank you!” said Dorian, edging closer to the door. He could feel some long-winded autobiographical self-reflective speech quivering on the horizon. If he didn’t move to stop it now he’d be stuck here for hours.

Sure enough—“I—I’ve not been fair to you, or your sister, in my pursuits of her,” said Hento, tears bringing to his eyes. “But you must understand why I was the way that I was! Ever since I was a boy, my father’s always been harsh, austere. The aesthetic was my only escape from his—“

“Uh-huh. Goodnight!” Dorian slid the doors shut.

For a second Hento stood still, silhouetted in the door-frame; Dorian could imagine the dumbfounded look on his face. Then, with a shrug, he walked off.

***

The day came and went, and it was night-time, and Dorian wasn’t sure what to make of it. Had Old Man Fate truly gone senile? The moons had almost finished their slow treks up the sky.

Tuketu's old warning crept to mind. What had he said? Something about the twin moons crossing. Things get strange when the Heavens fall...

Dorian frowned. Surely not--the solstice is all but done! As they neared each other, he watched with bated breath. If anything were to happen, it'd be now. An awful premonition crawled up his spine. Surely not.

The minutes trickled by.

High above the moons finally met, overlapping one another perfectly. Red and white crossing to a perfect, shining pink. A beat. Dorian heard his heartbeats thumping wetly, hot in his ears.

Nothing. He let out a breath.

Then a ripple of qi hummed from the heavens to the earth.

Slowly, the ground began to tremble.