Tuketu barked a command. Instantly the Hunters leapt into formation at the front, arranging themselves into a human spearhead. Each cycled as they did, alert, tensed for action. Nobody threw a strike. The air was charged with qi, pent-up and begging for release.

The sandwolves washed over the dunes like a surging tide of shadow. Their feet were nearly soundless on the ground. The only sounds which marked their arrivals were gravel growls and gnashing teeth.

The Hunters settled into square stances, flexing their qi in formation.

“Hold…” breathed Tuketu, his eyes locked onto the tip of the wolf-wave as it drew closer. The closer it got the more it seemed a massive wall of fur and flesh and muscle, swallowing ground with unnerving ease.

“Hold…”

Now Dorian could hear them clearly: the gushing breaths, the muted pitter-patter of paws. Their eyes were wild as they came. They were known for their claws: gnarled but sharp as crescent moons.

At a second away from impact—“GO!” Yelled Tuketu.

The entire Hunter line detonated a string of fully-charged [Flashed Palm]s. In one blinding collision sheer light met sheer dark. Yowls screeched out; the smell of roasted skin surged through the air and the line of sandwolves broke on the spear formation like a wave crashing on shore. Their pouncing forms, so sleek in the air they betrayed not a hint of drag, were torn asunder, twisted up, battered back. The wolves at the forefront, blasted away, rammed straight into the charging pairs behind them. For a second all was chaos, a confusion of colors and screams and flailing limbs.

Then the dust settled. Man and sandwolf found themselves thrown into the mess, side-by-side, both their ranks broken.

They tore into each other with fury.

Up front, Dorian saw Kaya charge bullishly into the fray. She wore her qi like a battering ram, a custom bloodline technique she’d invented just this week. She stress-tested it with relish; the sandwolves before her, a scant few levels into the [Origin] Realm, were flattened in mere moments. Kuruk charged alongside her, tearing off his bloodied bandages as he did. He still seemed pale from the aftermath of yesterday but his expression was fierce as ever. Dorian marveled at the sight. Dumb as he was, boy was the perfect fodder soldier. His brawn-brain ratio would’ve made him ripe underling material… if only he didn’t hate Dorian’s guts.

Dorian surveyed the rest of the battle. Rust and Tuketu were taking on the biggest of the wolves; Rust rained sleet upon the lot of them, summing spears of ice which blotted out the sky. They caught the waning afternoon light and burned sheer orange, a crystalline starscape in miniature. To his right Tuketu was set ablaze; he ripped into what appeared to be the Alpha of the pack, a great [Vigor] realm brute of a beast bearing a crimson mark on its head. With a few blinding flashes it was driven back, yowling.

It was as Dorian had suspected. The fight was no existential threat. He hung back and observed with mild interest. Soon blood soaked the sands—unlike with the Vordors, this was red blood. Likely not poisonous.

Then Dorian saw Hento. The boy was huddled in at the edge of the rest of the civilians, looking very pale. In theory Chosen were expected to join the fray. Dorian would need to throw up some offense soon himself, make a big show of it to pretend like he cared.

Hento, on the other hand, looked like he had no intention of moving from his spot. Dorian smirked. Trembling arms, half-open mouth, heavy breathing… he’d seen a hundred cases like this before. Milquetoast terror.

He wasn’t sure if Kuruk was a lost cause, but now that he thought about it, Hento might prove a useful asset in future—if only he got over his crippling silliness. He mulled it over for a half-second before sauntering over, amused. What the hells. Can’t hurt.

“You got your wish!” he said, throwing up a fake-pumped-up grin, the kind a red-blooded young man might sport in the heat of battle. “I’ll join you in battle. To arms, Young Master Hento! The left flank needs help—let’s defend the tribe together!”

“B-battle?!” Hento had graduated from trembling to near hysterics. “I—“

He swallowed and looked to the fight. A wolf fell to bits in a spray of blood; he cried out, cringing. “I can’t.” He breathed in and out. He drooped with shame.

“I-I’m not like you, or like Kaya, or even that blasted Kuruk. Dear… go without me.” He sniffled. “I’m not a fighter.”

“Nonsense,” snapped Dorian. “Come with me!”

“I can’t,” cried Hento again.

“Why not?”

His eyes shifted around. He clutched at himself, like he was in danger of falling apart by the second. “… I’m scared,” he whispered at last. It seemed to take something out of him to admit it. He scrunched his eyes shut. “It’s always like this. I… I think I can, but I never can. It is beyond the bounds of my temperament. Go without me. As I am… I’m naught but dead weight.”

All around them, the battle raged; the wolves were rallying now, holding back the Hunters’ assault.

Hento choked back a sob. Dorian rolled his eyes. In response he just raised an eyebrow. “How’s being scared an excuse?”

Hento’s eyes jerked back open. “Huh?”

“Who isn’t scared?” said Dorian, looking at him funny. “Everyone is! I’m scared right now, but I’ma still go out and fight.”

“You…are?” Hento’s brows were steadily migrating upward.

“Of course!” Not. Fear of a fight was a psychological reaction Dorian had long since conquered—though admittedly it’d taken him a few lifetimes to do it.

“Did you think you’re the only one?”

“I…” He seemed at a loss for words.

“That’s how it works,” said Dorian, shouting now to make himself heard over an explosion. “That’s how it always is before every fight. You can’t just wait ‘till you’re not scared to start! You gotta jump into it!”

He looked around at the raging battle. “The fear’s always greatest just before you start. Make yourself go—that’s bravery too. C’mon!”

Hento took another deep breath. “You’re right,” he croaked. “Is a life lived cowering… really a life?”

“No.”

“I will fight!”

“Good!”

Dorian held out an expectant hand. Hento stared at it. Behind them, two sandwolves tore into a Hunter; his screams rang across the battlefield.

Hento just stood there. His eyes were red-rimmed and wide. His lips trembled slightly.

“Well?!” said Dorian, impatient.

“I…can’t move…”

“Oh, for—“

Dorian grabbed him by the hips and hoisted him straight up.

“EEEEEE!!” screeched Hento in protest.

Then Dorian licked his thumb, felt the direction of the air, whirled around like a champion javelin thrower, and launched Hento screaming and kicking right into the fray—a brood of three low-level Origin wolves about to break through the perimeter.

Dusting off his hands cheerily, Dorian dove after him.

***

The rest of the wolves were killed off without much of a fuss. They sustained only two Hunter casualties, with more wounded—some heavily so. For an attack of this caliber it was a smashing success. Hento suffered a small scratch to the arm by the end of it but held it, hissing, as though the limb needed amputation. As the tribe regrouped Dorian caught him chatting up one of the wide-eyed gatherer girls with a charming grin, gesturing to it. When he saw Dorian he threw a thumbs-up and mouthed a quick ‘Thank you!’ Dorian rolled his eyes.

Kaya returned with only a few more scratches on her, looking as though a careless painter had splattered her with red paint. Her grin was filled with atavism.

“Fuck yeah!” She breathed, mashing her fists together. Bloodline aggression leaked out of her, in untamed waves. “Let’s do it again!”

“Maybe lay off, sis. You’ve had enough for a night,” said Dorian dryly as he chucked her a spare tunic from his ring.

Soon the wounded were patched and healed up. The dead were cremated by Tuketu’s own fiery qi, smoking into the setting sun. The other Tribesmen had regained their courage; the gatherers in particular were primed and at the ready, toolkits by their sides. Dorian squinted at the horizon.

The once-distant roars of Spirit Beasts were now growing more insistent, more real. “Stay alert,” were Chief Rust’s only two grim words.

The Tribe regrouped. On they marched.

Not half an hour later and they were getting close. There was a hum of qi in the air; power soaked his skin like humidity. Dorian could feel himself amping up. This was the first real treasure-trove he’d found since arriving on this sorry plane. In theory Sinkholes were this land’s best sources, weren’t they? This was a minor one, but he still expected to reap quite a reward.

Another sign of their closeness was the fauna. In the distance he saw eyes peeking out of the sand; Endspiders, he knew, whose massive bodies hid under the surface like icebergs. They ignored the Tribesmen. After a few hundred more steps he made out the blurry shapes of Sphynxes loafing on the sands. Far out the dunes seemed to shift, admitting the presence of massive bodies burrowing beneath the sands. Wyrms, which sometimes dug deeper to the Sinkhole’s edges to suckle its qi-infused waters.

The sounds struck him most. Screeches, roars deep as a canyon, groans so great they seemed tectonic. All of them were centered around one thing.

The Sinkhole appeared at last as they cleared a series of dunes, vast and tranquil as the moons. The waters were still shockingly transparent; it was the very same Sinkhole he’d dashed to mere days ago. The pulses of qi grew stronger and stronger until he felt them crashing and receding all over him, sending goosebumps up his skin.

The near edge of the Sinkhole, barely underwater, was studded with all kinds of aquatic herbs. Ripe for harvest. It was enough to make an Alchemist salivate.

But what caught Dorian’s eye was the commotion on the other end of the Sinkhole.

Rust Tribe had arrived to a strangely empty shore. All the action, all the gruesome sounds, stemmed from the far edge, where a black cloud blotted out a third of the horizon.

It was a thundercloud brought to ground level, if thunderclouds spat purple and red and black lightning. Qi of all kinds blazed through the black, briefly illuminating the warring forms of beasts whose statures were unthinkable in the Izod Desert. Beneath tussled the shadows of familiar Spirit Beasts; a murder of Vordors circled high above, patient, waiting for the battle to clear, for the flesh to pass to them.

Rust frowned and halted the Tribe; he looked to Tuketu and began an intense dialogue. Dorian wasn’t listening. He’d sensed something else.

Beneath all the spectacle and flash, there was an undercurrent stronger than them all. Stronger than the auras which buffeted Dorian even here; stronger than the storm of qi hidden in the chaos. If Dorian wasn’t mistaken there were beasts battling there above even the [Vigor] Realm.

“What the hells…?” gasped Kaya.

They were battling for the source of the undercurrent.

Dorian’s mouth went a little dry as he felt it, sussing out its nature. A terrible and awesome suspicion bubbled up in him, rooting him to the ground. His heart thumped like a jackhammer in his chest. A crazy grin threatened his lips. He almost burst into laughter then and there.

In every good speedrun there was a strong element of luck. Dorian’s closest runs had luck galore. Thus far his luck had seesawed back and forth—more back than forth, if he was frank—but if this was what he thought it was… landing in this realm might’ve been the luckiest thing to happen to him after all. He buzzed, electric.

Puzzle-pieces slowly started coming together in his mind. The graveyard of beasts, the bones, the Sinkhole network; it all pointed to far greater things than this piddling realm should’ve been capable of.

The undercurrent which seeped over to him was full-on proof. It was in discord with the very Realm itself; it was something that not only should not have existed in this realm, it shouldn’t have been possible in any of the Lower Realms.

A Prime Bone—but not just any Bone. This lineage was special.

This was a Bone which hummed to the same tune of sheer power as the Sinkhole itself. Its harmony rang far deeper, too, resonating to its very farthest depths; now Dorian was certain. It was a bone of a god.

Time Elapsed: 1 week, 2 days