He interned Kaya with the healers alongside a slew of other injured. In Rust Tribe many wore multiple hats; the bulk of them were gatherers moonlighting as healers. The injured were carried aloft on cots, two to a person. He left them and went to marching alongside the rest of the Tribe.

Some distance separated him from his supposed compatriots. As he walked about he seemed to repel them as though magnetically. They scrambled away, some looking on with awe, some with fear, none quite knowing what to make of him. Given how he’d shown up, it was amusing but not bemusing. He kept marching, whistling a low tune to himself, and thinking.

Then, hours later, the head of the caravan—a cohort of the Chief, Tuketu, and a few other Elders—called a halt to the march. The tribesmen now milled around, setting up bare-bones tents and living spaces, unpacking the necessities for a night. The three-man unit sent to haul all Hu’s stuff looked dead tired at the end. After lugging sacks upon sacks of nonsense, all of which Hu had declared irreplaceable, they looked beyond relieved to be dragging up tent poles.

Speaking of Hu. The man had plopped himself down in the center of the setup. He’d pulled out a few pots and pans, but he let his designated servants handle unloading the rest. For now he seemed content to let his legs up and settle down, a scroll in hand. It was a good time to pay him a visit.

As he walked up, he called out, “Alchemist Hu! Alchemist Hu!” And plastered a big grin on his face. Hu’s head snapped up, eyes wide. Then he caught sight of Dorian, and his eyes filled up with fat tears.

“My dear Io!” He wailed, stumbling up. “You’re alive! Huzzah!”

Dorian was a little taken aback as Hu drew up his arms and enveloped him in a hug. A week ago it would’ve been soul-crushing, but now it felt like being attacked by a very big pillow. As Hu pulled away, he sucked in gasps of air.

“Do you know how hard it’s been these past few days?” He sniffled, gesturing at the brewing instruments being slowly unloaded all around him. “The Chief expects fifty orders of healing Elixir from me this week. Fifty!”

He wiped a tear from his eye. “With how much we march, I’ve only got three hours a day left to brew! Tell me, what’s an honest alchemist to do?”

His stomach rose and fell with a big sigh. For a second Dorian thought about it, a little baffled. Three hours a day for a week? He did the math. That should’ve been plenty for fifty flasks. Then he remembered it was Hu, and things made a lot more sense.

“Three hours?” said Hu with a frown. “That’s not enough time for me to finish my daily soups!”

…right.

“It’s been two days since and I’ve gotten about three and a half bottles done, heh…there’s still many, many brews left. At this rate I won’t finish, dear disciple…” Hu looked at Dorian expectantly.

Dorian swallowed a sigh. “I’d be honored to help you brew, Master!” he said, eyes shining.

“That’s a good disciple,” said Hu, sniffing. He gave Dorian two encouraging pats on the back and flashed him a wobbling smile. “Oh! What would I do without you?”

That said, Hu left him to shore up the grunt work. Again. The man himself went off in search of pastries.

This time, though, Dorian didn’t mind it. Brewing Healing Elixirs was second nature by now. He let the workers finish their assembly—or, at least, enough of it to resemble a shoddy workstation—and got to work. As he brought out ingredients from a few reassembled cabinets and trawled through the scattered mess of doodads, he noted just how much stuff was lying around unused. Most every alchemist, even in the lower realms, took careful inventory of their stash: Alchemists were by nature a miserly, enigmatic lot, after all. Hu was the opposite. Dorian suspected he could snatch half the stuff here without the man’s noticing. Hells, he’d already filled half the storage in his Interspatial Ring with nifty easy-to-miss trinkets.

He spread out his ingredients with that in mind. This, plus all the gathering the Tribe had done, meant there were plenty of ingredients extra.

The easiest, most efficient way to the heart of a destitute people, he’d long learned, was through their bellies. Give them food and festivals. To ’affirm’ his commitment to the clan, he’d buy some goodwill by feeding them. Especially the ones on the lower rungs; the bulk of the tribe, the gatherers and line cooks and servants and lesser craftsmen that seldom got any shine. Gifting some elixirs and some higher-quality meats was likely more than they’d ever got from the Tribe. For Dorian, one of the upper-crust, to show such largesse meant something.

Dorian was fast. He’d brew for Hu, sure, but he’d also whip up some cauldrons for his own plans. In this little lull stage before the Festival, it was the first of many preparations he’d make.

“Master Hu?” He called over his shoulder with a grin. “Can I buy some ingredients off you?”

A small investment could go a long way.

***

Night dimmed to midnight. He visited Kaya briefly in the wards after his brewing—she was quite ornery and vocal about the whole ordeal—then settled down for some cycling. Sleep came for him very late.

The next day brought its own surprises. First, while the Tribe was still assembling and preparing for the day’s march, Tuketu called up the Chosen for a meeting hundreds of steps outside camp grounds.

The Chosen had dwindled down to ten. Dorian knew only half of them by name; each stood around fidgeting and shifting, uncomfortable in their clothes. Nervousness hung in the air. Dorian could guess what this would be about. He held his arms behind his back, loose, and watched as Tuketu gestured for them to gather.

Tuketu seemed chipper, in good spirits. He nodded to Dorian as they came in, a picture of perfect amiability. If Dorian didn’t know better he would’ve guessed the man was up to nothing at all. But suddenly skyrocketing up the Tribe’s power rankings wouldn’t come with zero consequences, surely. He expected someone to put him in his place—or try.

“We’ll arrive at the Festival in two days,” said Tuketu primly, both hands behind his back. He had a look on his face like he was enjoying a joke only he was privy to. “Besides the usual festivities—the trade, the dances, the ceremonies—we are to send our best young talent to a contest.”

His eyes glinted. “It brings the whole of the desert together in a series of tests of the body and mind. The best among you will represent our Tribe in a special event which the Azcan Oasis will host. It’s a unique honor… and an invaluable opportunity.”

As he spoke he paced around, making eye contact with each Chosen. “One Oasis is richer than all the tribes combined. They’ve monopolized access to major Sinkholes for millennia. To resist the Ugoc threat they aim to sift out and bolster the best of the Tribes’ young talent. If they are offering rewards, you can imagine the benefit to you to win them.”

He stopped, turning up his chin. “Once I call your name, step up. You have proven yourself worthy of representing Rust Tribe at the Festival. You are also the only Chosen promoted to full-fledged Hunter in this cycle. You will carry us in the future and uphold us in the present.”

He cleared his throat and swept his eyes across the youths gathered once more. There was a playfulness to him; he had a flair for the dramatic. He took his sweet time before he opened his mouth.

“First... Hento. Come up.”

Hento’s blinked in shock; his lashes fluttered prettily. “Ah, pardon? I—I mean, of course! I accept, yes.”

Tuketu rolled his eyes. “You’ve always had the talent, boy. You’d simply yet to demonstrate a trace of spine—until now. Even if you’ve had some… assistance…” His gaze found Dorian, and in a flash Dorian recalled chucking Hento into the fray of the fight days ago. Did that really count?

“You’ve taken a step on the right path. A small step, mind you, but you are to be congratulated! You’ve done your father proud.”

Hento beamed.

“For perhaps the first time in your life.”

Hento’s beam wavered. Tuketu turned away, a wide grin still hanging off his face. “Next…” His lip curled. “Kuruk.”

If Hento was shocked, Kuruk looked like he’d been struck by lightning. The giant boy’s jaw dropped. For a few seconds he gaped at his father. Then, at his father’s raised eyebrow, he gathered himself and stomped in to join Hento. A stormcloud of emotion drifted across his face.

“I considered not including you,” Tuketu said, his eyes hawklike. Kuruk cringed.

“You’re boorish. Slow. Hard in times that demand softness. Soft when a harder touch is needed.” He sighed. Kuruk flinched at every sentence.

“I’ve given up hope you’ll become what you could be.” His eyes softened. He didn’t look at Dorian, but Dorian could tell he’d been dragged into that comment implicitly. Tuketu was hoping I’d make for a rival of sorts, wasn’t he? Too bad I’ve grown too fast.

“But I haven’t given up hope on you.”

His lip curled in as he regarded his son. “You are, despite it all…worthy.”

He turned away. That seemed the extent of the praise he was willing to offer, but Kuruk beamed anyways. Something told Dorian it was the most praise he’d heard from his father in a while. Perhaps ever.

In the next few minutes, Tuketu called up another. Dorian let the names and the words slide over him, scarcely paying attention. A suspicion was worming its way up his chest, a prickle of annoyance. Might Tuketu actually snub him? It would be a coward’s move. A way to artificially cut him down a few notches while he was still riding high off the new Bloodline; a way to put him back in his place. It’d remind him of his position in the Tribe’s power hierarchy.

It’d also annoy the Hells out of him.

He wouldn’t… would he?

Tuketu called up someone else and Dorian’s annoyance started to sour. Every run was a delicate balance. Hit certain key points at just the right times in just the right circumstances and he’d flourish. But getting derailed by external events was the far more likely outcome. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d gotten screwed over by an overbearing administrator too eager to maintain the status quo.

Then—“Lastly, Io,” said Tuketu softly.

So! Just mind games, then. Eyebrows raising, Dorian hopped up like any excitable young man would. “Our most improbable new Hunter. You’ve enjoyed a great deal of luck,” said Tuketu, eyeing him knowingly. Real subtle, Tuketu. Real subtle. “The Tribe has great expectations for you.”

Dorian held Tuketu’s gaze as he bowed. There was a subdued but clear sharpness to the man's gaze. “Many thanks, Master Tuketu!”

The promotions wrapped up after that—all-in-all, a low-key affair. They finished packing up. They returned to continue the march. Courtesy of his Ring, Dorian had nothing to pack or prepare. Instead he could devote his mind to figuring out just what that encounter had been about.

There was some friction between himself and Rust Tribe leadership, clearly. Still, he was too valuable an asset to hold back. He suspected it might lead to some issues he’d need to paper over. At the rate he was growing, it’d likely cease to matter soon regardless.

He was always going to decouple from Rust Tribe at some stage. These recent developments had only sped up his timelines. Even the Ugoc invasion was, in a way, a stroke of luck. Wartime made for great training time.

With Kaya out of action and the Tribe’s intentions unclear, he could only rely on himself.

***

At night, he crept out of the slumbering Tribe grounds. Then he took to the skies with quick steps. He ran until he’d put enough distance between himself and the rest of the Tribe that there was no detecting his unleashed Bloodline, even from afar.

In a clearing in the sand, detached from it all, he let it all out.

Bloodline pressure choked the air, thickening it. The mighty majesty of it poured out again in waves. Dorian rubbed his hands, licking his lips. It was still un-molded clay. Excellent clay, true, but without bespoke Techniques of its own. Techniques which made full use of its properties.

His Bloodline’s true potential—even its true nature—were unknown to him. Until he dug them out. Until he molded this Bloodline into a true weapon: a system of Techniques which cohered into something all-encompassing and absolute.

It was time to fashion his own Bloodline martial art.

Time Elapsed: 1 week, 5 days