“So?” Receptionist Tao sniffed. “What will it be?”

Dorian took a shallow breath. This little stunt might be risky…

His first move had to be off-balancing the mob. They were so hardened-up in rage no words had a hope of getting across to them. He had to jerk them out of it. Phase 1: sow a seed—just a teensy little seed—of uncertainty.

So he thrust out his chest, held up his chin, and curved his lips into a severe frown. His demeanor shifted in an instant, as though his vast reserves of patience had finally worn thin. One of his eyes twitched, as though he was offended—offended!—that these fools dared accost him.

“Firstly, Receptionist, remember who it is you are speaking to,” Dorian snapped. He stepped forward, unleashing his aura to its fullest.

His blood sang a primordial melody in his veins, coming suddenly and ferociously alive. Shadows snaked down the room, radiating off him like rays off a black sun. His Bloodline loomed like a mountain of gloom, crushing in on the crowd. The men suddenly found it hard to breathe. More than a few faces paled. It was an instinctual thing, a heart-skipping, dry-mouthed feeling. A feeling of smallness, like they stood in the palm of some unfathomably vast, ancient creature.

“Urk!” The receptionist took a step back, swallowing. A dozen mouths gasped at once.

Dorian smirked. It was a nice quick-and-dirty way to gut-check blabbermouths, but in the end it was still a cheap tactic—reliant on the element of surprise. It was merely momentary. Already he could see the resolve of the crowd re-forming, could see the shock of the Bloodline wearing off. Soon they’d remember that spooky Bloodline or not, they still had the numbers to beat the shit out of him.

Dorian had to seize momentum before they could reclaim it.

“What’s the meaning of this, savage?!” The burly Tier-1 artificer said, gritting his teeth. His face was still pallid. “This is a threat!”

“Not at all. I’m simply reminding you who I am.”

He turned to each man, looking them square in the eye.

“I am Io Rust, Tournament Competitor, a guest of this Oasis,” said Dorian slowly. “I am also a Tier-2 Artificer of this Guild, approved by the Martial Elder Kal himself. I do not need your approval. It is not your place to give me your approval. I wish for us to get along, true. But if you think this gives you license to tread over me, you are sorely mistaken.”

First I must set a base-line. I must prove I’m no pushover. I must force them to take me seriously.

There was always the solid chance they’d be so spooked they charged at him—in which case he was royally screwed—but no such attack seemed forthcoming. Phew!

The crowd was still reeling; he’d put them on the backfoot. He’d shocked them out of their mindless anger and given them pause for just a moment. Hopefully, that moment gave him just enough wiggle room to squeeze through their glut of rage and fear.

Time for phase two. Time to wiggle for all I’m worth.

“I must admit, though, some of your concerns ring true.” Dorian relaxed his frown into a wan smile and spread his hands spread his hands, shrugging. The pressure vanished. A plethora of mouths gulped for air.

“I’m an upstart who’s accomplished nothing—I’ve had no experience, no accolades, no training, no lineage. I’m a nobody! In one afternoon, I’ve vaulted over hundreds of would-be Artificers of high breeding with long years of grueling training. How’s that fair? In your position, I’d be furious too!”

Just as the crowd was getting its fire back, he hit them with this little discombobulation. Frowning faces dotted their ranks. Artificers glanced at each other. ‘Is he…agreeing with us?’ Their faces read, perplexed. ‘What’s his game?’

Excellent. Dorian grinned. They’re confused! Confusion I can work with much better than rage. He kept going.

“And I’m an Outsider, too. The collective knowledge of my people wouldn’t fill a page of the Compendium of Artificing! How could such a primitive people spawn any Artificer of worth? Why should I deserve this badge? It’s madness!”

“That’s p-precisely right,” gulped Tao, still pale. He looked like all his bones had softened to mush. Some men fold under pressure…

…but others harden. “So you do know your place, savage!” roared a bearded Tier-2 Aritificer. “Your Bloodline doesn’t scare me. Your words don’t either. I don’t care what the Martial Elders says—you’re no true Artificer!”

A smattering of voices echoed him, but with much less verve than a minute prior. It seemed most of them weren’t sure what to make of him. Progress!

“I respect your feeling. It’s only natural,” said Dorian, nodding smoothly. “My entrance into the Guild was very unusual, after all. But why?” He paused.

“For the simple reason that I am a once-in-a-generation genius. Your standards of an Artificer’s qualifications simply don’t apply to me.”

A flurry of cries rose at that. He raised a hand to forestall the crowd’s outbursts. “I know, I know—what an extraordinary claim! What arrogance! Why should you believe me? An extraordinary claim demands extraordinary evidence, and as of yet, none of you have seen any.”

He felt the qi-residue drift over him again. Well, everyone except Kal and you, my mystery observer.

“So, here. Let me give you some. These are fresh off the anvil—I’ve forged them earlier this afternoon…”

Dorian tapped his Interspatial Ring, and out clattered more than two dozen of his Wizard Stick prototypes—one for each of the small crowd—and a scattering of rune-stones. Each Stick was as a lovely staff, a sinewy pole of sleek, pearly silver etched with esoteric runes. Half of the battle in designing the artifact was in its aesthetics. Who’d wish to use a Stick which looked like misshapen debris?

Gasps rang out among the crowd as they took in the Sticks; they were gorgeous objects, gleaming ember-orange in the afternoon light, arresting the eye. These Sticks made up two-thirds of his stock, but Dorian didn’t mind. If this went as he thought, this might be a most lucrative investment in my reputation.

Dorian gingerly picked one up and treated the crowd to a showman’s smile. “You, my friends, are the first to see new-and-improved Wizard’s Sticks! I finalized the blueprints today, in fact. Here’s the third Rune—flamethrower.”

Flame roared out from the tip of the Stick in a seething inferno, licking the air in a furious white-red, blasting the crowd in gusts of heat. He saw its fervent, scalding red light reflected the crowd’s wide eyes.

Then he picked up another rune and fitted it to the Stick. “Rune four—thunderstorm.”

Black clouds rushed out from the tip of the Stick; there came the deep-throated gurgle of Thunder. White, shivering trees of blinding lightning carved the air, cascading the room in sparks which tingled as they brushed against the skin.

Two dozen slack faces stared up at him.

“Each rune stores a different spell,” explained Dorian. He spread his arms, still smiling.

“My gift to each of you, gentlemen! Try them. Keep them, if you like. They’re yours. Spread them around for others in the Guild who need proof, if you wish—it’s up to you. You be the judge of their worth. You judge whether I deserve my badge or not.”

“Heavens…” whispered the bearded artificer. He looked like a caveman witnessing the invention of fire.

“D-do my eyes deceive me?”

“Lightning! That—that stick spat lightning!”

“Impossible!”

“Trickery!” cried a little old Tier-1 Artificer. “Demon-work!”

Dorian cleared his throat. “I’m sure you can throw a hundred such accusations at me. For instance, I could’ve hid men in the rafters to perform these Techniques. Perhaps I employed some slight-of-hand, and they haven’t come from the Sticks at all. These would be valid critiques—but remember, I am leaving these Sticks to you. You can study them all you wish. I need no tricks. My work speaks for itself. Tell any in the Guild who doubt my work that they only need to come to me. I am more than happy to provide them a sample.”

Stunned silence.

Dorian paused, a finger on his lip. “Am I a fraud? A peddler of nonsense? The Martial Elder vouched for me because he saw me invent and forge the Wizard’s Stick with his own eyes. Does the infamously no-nonsense Martial Elder Kal sound like a man who stomachs wyrmshit? Or rather… am I just that good?”

They all seemed to be at a loss for words. Dorian shrugged. “You decide. Please, enjoy my offerings! Dissect them. Test them at your leisure. If any of you still have doubts, I should be more than happy to expound on my insights during my next visit to the Guild. As it is, the dusk is fast arriving. I must be gone. Good day, my fellow artificers!”

Then Dorian bowed to the gobsmacked crowd and strolled out the door.

There was a few terse seconds of silence. Then the lobby exploded in shouts and cries.

Chuckling, Dorian went on his merry way. A few things could happen from here.

It was possible this crowd chucked out the Sticks on sight.

It was much more likely that they tried them out and saw the wonders they brought. Dorian might as well have brought a steam engine to a society which had just discovered the wheel. It was an innovation which was impossible to deny, no matter their antipathies toward him.

With this, I’m not simply distributing a few Sticks to a small crowd; I’m circulating my inventions for the rest of the Guild to see. And these fine folk will help me spread the good news.

If he was lucky, a few might even convert to ardent supporters, evangelists, even; it was strange how easy hate could turn to love in some men. The effect this little unveiling had on the Guild remained to be seen, but Dorian was optimistic. The power of word of mouth could not be underestimated.

Reputation-building was a tricky business, but this was a good first step. He had no illusions that this little display would solve his unpopularity issue for good. He’d still need some grand demonstrations to really prove himself. Perhaps the next time he came, he’d give a public lecture on Artificing to prove his knowledge further—and advance this plane’s shitty Artificing a few centuries in the process. Or maybe he could challenge and outdo one of the Guild’s top artificers to cement his credibility. He’d figure it out later.

For now, nobody chased after him as he left. No-one was calling for his scalp. Plus, he got some free publicity for his Wizard’s Sticks! All in all, he counted today as an unequivocal win. He was humming as he traipsed his way home.

The eye of the scrying-glass vanished at last.

***

Somewhere miles away, the view from a scrying-glass faded; the glass was reflective again, and in its dark surface there was a middle-aged lady in a billowing dark-gray dress. She was plain-faced, with stern, sharp features, but none were sharper than her eyes. Her gaze plucked out things from that glass which no-one else saw. It was as though she could discern its history, its makings, its inner workings all from one glance. Hers was a gaze which always seemed to know too much.

Guild President Zhang regarded its surface coolly. She could see why Kal had made such a fuss about him. Such big plans for such a young man.

She’d seen enough to convince her. This matter deserved the Council’s attention.

“See?” her daughter grinned up at her, bristling with joy. “I told you!” Lin Zhang was a vision in her white silk dress tonight, stunning beyond compare, but she’d been steadfastly rebuffing her stream of suitors all evening. Now President Zhang knew why.

“Calm yourself, dear,” the President said. “Nothing is decided as of yet.”

If anything, the girl only grew more feverish. Lin would’ve jumped up and down if not for her high heels. “He’s perfect, isn’t he?” She swooned. Then she put her hands on her hips. “Mother, you must support him in the Council! You simply must!”

“I shall bring the matter to their attention. That is all I can promise.” Then the President gestured at the door to her study. She gave her daughter a strained smile and ruffled the girl’s hair. “That is enough for you. Go mingle with your friends at the Ball; go be among the young. Leave Guild matters to me, alright?”

Lin pouted at her, but the girl knew better than to argue. It was a waste of time; against her mother, she never won. Spinning on her heel, she strutted out the door. President Zhang’s smile faded in an instant. She was left to ponder, alone.

Something about the boy bothered her.

President Zhang prided herself on being a student of the human condition. In most every conversation she could pick out her interlocutor’s thoughts by the slightest expressions of their face. She could physically feel their emotions of anyone she met, as though in that brief window of connection they shared the same beating heart.

Which was why it was particularly strange that when she looked at Io Rust, she felt nothing.

There was something strange to the way he smiled, like he knew exactly which muscles made up a smile and executed them with mechanical precision. There was an artifice to him. It was in the way he laughed, or spoke. It was as though he didn’t mean any of what he said. Like he was a puppet, not a man.

Perhaps she was reading too much into things. It was a double-edged habit of hers, but it’d also steered her right more times than she could count. By now she’d learned to trust her instincts.

Then she thought of her daughter’s starry eyes, and she sighed. “Oh, lass. What have you gotten yourself into?”

The boy was clearly gifted, and slick of tongue too. His Stick had great promise—and after today, it’d undoubtedly achieve a measure of fame too. It would serve the Guild well, and whatever was good for the Guild was good for her.

Still, she resolved to keep an eye on him. There was something ever-so-slightly off about him…

***

As Kaya sat down to cultivate that night, she was more amped up than ever. She pumped her fists, grinning. This was her night. She clutched her Jez’s pendant tight in her hand. It felt nice and comforting. Maybe it would be her lucky charm.

Mid-Vigor, here I come!