The dying day bled out in furious reds and stark yellows. At the horizon, the sunset melted to a mournful violet as night crept up the sky.

Assembled on a battlefield was a most curious scene: a Patriarch, eight warriors, and a child. A very peculiar child.

Perhaps a little too peculiar—sobbing, stranded in the desert, kneeling beside a grave. But the Patriarch was touched, and so he reached out. He held out a hand.

“What is your name, child?” he said.

The boy smiled, blinking tears from his eyes. “I have many names. Which would you prefer?”

“Whichever you would like to give,” said the Patriarch, smiling back.

“Hmm…” The boy touched a finger to his lip. His brows scrunched. “My first name was Jez,” he said. “It meant sunrise in my tongue. Here, they call me Nijo. I think I like Jez better.”

“Alright, then,” chuckled the Patriarch. “Well—Jez, he-of-many-names. Whoever you’ve lost is with the Dweller. I’m sure they’re proud of you.”

Then the boy glanced up at him blankly. “Whoever I’ve lost?”

The Patriarch shook his head. Must you make me say it? “The deceased,” he sighed. “The one you bury.”

He gestured to the grave.

And frowned.

He’d been focused on the boy. But now that he craned his head in for a closer look at the grave, he saw it all the way to its bottom. It was filled with nought but shadow. There was no body.

Why dig an empty grave?

A rush of nausea churned his stomach.

The boy must’ve seen the look on his face.

“Ah,” he said, blinking. “I see. You misunderstand, I fear.”

The boy stood, brushing the sand off his patchy cloth robes, and the feeling grew stronger. What was wrong with him? Perhaps he’d had bad oysters. The Patriarch tried on a smile, tried to brush it off. “Oh? How so?”

Then something else came to the Patriarch. It was like he’d been viewing a scene through darkness all this time, and suddenly the lights flickered on. Things stood out to him—things he’d somehow missed all this time.

This child had been out here, digging, in the scorching heat. He must’ve been here for hours.

Why was there not a single speck of sweat on him?

The feeling knifed at his gut.

Come to think of it—the boy’s demeanor had changed, now that he stood up. His chest straightened. His tears dried up. Something about his aura had gone from enfeebled, trembling, to nothing. Vanished. The boy didn’t feel like anything or anyone at all. There was a shift in him—something subtle, yet utterly drastic. And the Patriarch could not quite put his finger on it.

Then he took a step back, gasping.

He saw what gave him pause. It was the face. The expression. It was no longer that of a child’s. In those placid, watery eyes, in that soft, wistful smile, was an ageless serenity. All of the emotion had drained from him. This child looked at peace with himself, but not as children do; he looked how certain wise crones look when they have made peace with death: a very old look on a very young face. It felt deeply wrong. The Patriarch was struck by a terrible instinct. It came from somewhere primal, deeper than bone, and he felt it in the same way an infant knows to flee from the serpent despite never having seen one before. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to run.

Preposterous! He shook his head, struggling to clear his mind. He, second only to the Lord himself in strength among all the Oasis, spooked? By a child, of all things? A child who had shown no malice? Madness. Utter madness!

But he couldn’t unsee the strangeness of it all. A boy, kneeling alone. Hundreds of li from the nearest Plateau settlement. A flower the color of ice, sprouting lively from dead sands. An empty, shallow grave.

“You see,” said the boy softly, slowly, letting the syllables sway like hanged men in the hot air. “I do not weep for the past. I weep for what I am about to do.”

“Excuse me?” croaked the Patriarch. There was that smile again. This time the Patriarch was struck by the boy’s eyes. So innocent, yet they held within them that ancient aura, that timeless grandeur he’d seen only in fossils of the Old Gods.

His question came back to him, unbidden. Why dig an empty grave?

Because you expect to fill it.

An icy fist closed around the Patriarch’s heart.

“Please believe me when I say I take no pleasure in this,” said the creature that called himself Jez. Those big watery eyes were still as the depths of the night sky. He smiled, and the worst thing about it was its innocence. He really meant that smile. He really was sorry, and yet his those eyes were also as hard as cast iron.

“It is as you say. We do what we must.”

The air was very still.

Jez’s finger touched the air, drawing a line. Where his finger passed a weapon was unsheathed, like he’d drawn it from nothing at all: a blade whiter than white, older than time, incandescent in the light of the dusk.

***

Azcan Oasis.

The Artificing Head made an offer no-one could beat, and everyone knew it.

Or so they all thought.

The Finance Minister bit his tongue. The Alchemist had her head shunted to a side, eyes closed, arms crossed. She wasn’t stepping in.

Dorian brightened. Is this it?

Apprenticeship? Funding? And the full backing of the most powerful guild in the Oasis?

The silence stretched on. Dorian had a feeling this was it. It was a hell of an offer—certainly better than he deserved.

Then a grave voice cut in.

“Alright.”

Dorian’s head snapped up. It was the governor who spoke. He stood there, arms clasped behind his back. He sighed. “I grow tired of this. Very well, child. You’ve forced my hand.”

Dorian tensed. Is he reneging on the agreement? Now?! Surely—

“I refuse to alter the slave clause,” said the Lord. “I simply give you this as my final offer.”

He swept a stern gaze around the ring, as though daring anyone to challenge him. Then he spoke.

“Four Bloodline Scales of the Evernight Basilisk.”

The man might as well have detonated a bomb in the center of the crater.

No-one said a word. Eyes popped. Jaws hung from slack faces. It took everyone a second to register just what, precisely, the man had said. Even Dorian wasn’t sure he heard right.

Four scales—four?!

Just the qi alone from four scales would be enough to boost me to at least the early Earth Realm!

But that was nothing compared to the true benefit.

Four scales would grant me over 10% Bloodline purity.

Forget the Earth Realm. That would meet the requirements to ascend to godsdamned Sky Realm!

That was the highest realm in the lower planes. Which meant that if Dorian said yes, right here, right now?

All he would need was qi. It would be a huge amount of qi, true, but as long as he chomped enough treasures, there would be no bottleneck between now and Godhood.

If he agreed to this, he was set.

Shocked silence gripped the crater. All Dorian heard was the thump-thump-thump of his heart blasting in his ears. He had to think straight. He had to. But he was find it rather hard, with amid all the clamor in his head, amid that little inner goblin screaming at him TAKE IT! TAKE IT NOW! WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR!?

He tried to sort out his thoughts. How much did he value his freedom? The loss of it would likely be temporary. This place wouldn’t survive long anyways after the Ugoc came through—right? And those scales—those damned Scales! Sky Realm. Right there, within grasp. Godhood would be in striking range!

Dorian gnashed his teeth. Damn! His inner goblin, screaming bloody murder at him, was making it hard

And Dorian was almost ready to give into it. Almost.

“So?” The Oasis Lord raised an eyebrow. I await your decision, Hero. What will it be?”

Dorian forced open dry, cracked lips. “I—“

He didn’t even have time to complete the sentence.

For a bald man had run headlong into the crater, bowling through the crowd, shoving citizens aside. His tunic, black embroidered with light-blue, marked him out as a messenger.

The Heilong family crest was stitched on the robes’ front.

“Make way! MAKE WAY!” He cried. “EMERGENCY! EMERGENCY OF THE HIGHEST ORDER! FOR GENERAL BIN HEILONG’S EARS ONLY! MAKE WAY, DAMN YOU!”

Dorian stared, speechless, as the man half-dashed, half-stumbled his way to a mystified Bin Heilong.

He whispered a few words in Bin’s ear.

Bin’s face turned a shade paler.

He whispered a few more words, and Bin’s face drained of blood.

A few more, and his face was as white as the bones they hid. His mouth slowly drooped open. His eyes stared blankly at the air, wide and shivering, as though he was staring at some unspeakable horror only he could see. His thin body started to tremble. The man was an Earth-Realm warrior, and he looked like he was about to faint! He staggered back a step, gasping, one hand clutching at his chest.

It was so peculiar that—for just a moment—they all forgot about the auction.

“Bin?” said the Oasis Lord, frowning. “Are you alright?”

Bin opened his mouth. No sound came out. He stood there, mouth hanging open, frozen except for his trembling.

“Speak to us, Bin,” the Alchemist Head. “What is it?”

“If this is a ploy to disrupt the auction, it is an exceedingly ill-considered one,” sniffed the Finance Minister. But even he looked disturbed.

Bin’s breaths rattled up and down his chest. His gaze whizzed about, face blotchy, somehow pale and flushed at once.

His eyes settled on Dorian. Dorian felt like a criminal under a spotlight.

“YOU!!” roared Bin, thrusting a finger at him, and Dorian cringed, bracing himself for impact. Qi leapt to his fingertips. His Bloodline powers thrummed under his skin. The General had been too mad for too long—he’d cracked!

But what was with his face? Why did he look so torn? He’d developed an unseemly twitch up and down his brows, his cheeks, his quivering lips, his trembling eyes, spasming between expressions. The man looked like he wanted to storm off in a rage, and break down in tears, and beg for help—all at once. And he couldn’t decide which to pick.

This was not the look of a man with murder in mind.

If Dorian didn’t know any better, he’d say it was the look of a beggar. A man at the end of his rope.

“You want to be treated like royalty?!” cried Bin Heilong. “Fine! You shall have it! I offer you the same treatment as a Young Master bound to the Heilong Family!”

Dorian could’ve fallen over then and there.

What the hells is going on?!

“You also get access to our best Martial Texts! And three of our top-grade elixirs!!”

The entire crater was gaping openly at him now. Dorian felt like he’d been struck by a hammer. Is this real?! Has he gone insane?! Thirty seconds ago the man had been so mad he didn’t even deign to make an offer! Ten minutes ago, he nearly murdered Dorian then and there! What could possibly change his mind this much?

Dorian swallowed. It was shocking beyond belief, Dorian would give him that. But… “General Heilong,” he said, struggling to keep his voice even. “Thank you for the offer, but compared to those of the Guild Master and the Patriarch, it’s simply not enough to—“

“I’M NOT DONE!” roared Bin.

The man stomped over to a pile of rubble. With a scream like the death throes of a dying animal, he smashed his hand into the mess. There was a deafening CRACK, a blast of scalding heat, and then the stones were rent apart. Sediment sprayed the air—a splattering of rock that had them all covering up.

When Dorian dared look again, he was faced with a familiar sight. Bin Heilong held up a weapon.

“My last offering,” he croaked, holding back tears. “An artifact with the same powers as three Scales of the Evernight Basilisk.”

There was a chorus of gasps. Then a storm of indignant cries, furious roars, shrill protests—all from the ranks of his own family. Even his own lieutenants looked scandalized.

“The Heilong Family Heirloom,” continued Bin, ignoring them. “A Spirit Weapon of unmatched power. I offer the single most fearsome weapon in all the desert, the weapon of our founder—“

He took a shaky breath. His words came out in a whisper. “The Heilong Javelin.”

There it was, clutched in his two hands, as gorgeous as Dorian remembered the first time he’d seen it in the Chamber. Its head was one huge fang, stark-white, shining like the crescent moon on a clear night sky. One look, and Dorian knew that thing could gore any creature on this plane. It was attached to a rope of inky midnight, curling up to another, smaller Scale at its tail. It served as a handle of sorts, completing the look.

A Spirit Weapon! And a hell of a Weapon at that.

A weapon that grew as its user grew. A weapon that would only be stronger the earlier you got it.

In this plane, at this stage in a run? Once Dorian got his hands on it, grew it, modified it, customized it, made it his very own roaming dart of ivory death?

In that moment Dorian could not name a single thing in this Oasis—nay, in this plane—worth more to him. His mind had gone utterly blank. He could hardly believe what was happening. He couldn’t stop staring at the thing. The bone winked white, as though it spilled starlight into the world from some higher plane.

He had to have it. He had to. If he wasn’t thinking straight before, now he could hardly muster a coherent thought. He was quite certain he was openly drooling.

“On one condition,” said Bin.

Anything. Anything at all. Name it, fool! It’s yours!

“You swear to wield this weapon… to vanquish the Ugoc threat!” screeched Bin, eyes shot with blood, angry purple veins bulging out of his neck.

Dorian froze. …say what now?

“You promise on your Soul not to rest until every last one of those fuckers is dead!!”

…okay. I was wrong.

Apparently there was still one thing in this world, just one thing, that might stop Dorian from saying yes on the spot. That could give Dorian even a moment’s pause.

And the General had named it.