Chapter 24

Just eight days till Scorio could see his friends again, but heading back to the ruins, it felt like a year. If anything, their encounter had driven home how squalid his life had been up to this point. Suddenly Helena’s old, tattered robes felt indescribably grimy, his skin filmed with dust and dried sweat, his hair long, his face rough with a half-grown beard.

Hand wrapped around the octs Leonis had gifted him, he stepped out of the main rush of traffic heading south and to crouch in a doorway to survey the ward with a speculative glance. He was still in Ward 7, a bastion of wealth and privilege and center of Hydra’s power. Sufficiently so that as he crouched in the recessed doorway, a prim lady in pink and silver robes stepped up to drop a copper oct into his hands.

She was gone before he could respond, never having looked directly at him.

“All right,” he muttered. “Definitely time to clean up.”

He rose and approached a food vendor’s ornate stall. Piles of exotic fruit were heaped in perfect pyramids, each so beautiful as to be the ideal of its kind.

“Hey, you—get away from those dusk melons!”

Scorio raised both hands to show he meant no harm, but this did nothing to assuage the vendor’s ferocious scrutiny and obvious disapproval.

“Apologies, good sir,” said Scorio, giving the man a half-bow and his best grin. “I’m in need of a bath. Can you recommend a quality establishment that’s close by?”

The man pushed back his cap and sneered. “Places around here cost money, sir. If you want to be hosed down in a back alley, head toward Ward 1.”

“Money’s not a problem,” said Scorio, keeping his tone light. Knowing the man wouldn’t believe him otherwise, he hefted the money pouch. “So, if you could kindly direct me to a suitable locale?”

The vendor’s eyes widened then narrowed. “That information’s not free.”

“Then perhaps it could come with one of these… ah, what are these called?” And Scorio picked up a crimson fruit whose skin was flecked in gold.

“That’s a dawn apple, you mooncalf. Three copper octs.”

An elderly woman, her iron-gray hair pinned behind her head in a tight bun with ornamental sticks, gaped at the vendor. “Temeteo!”

The vendor colored. “What? He needs to pay for all the potential clients he scared away.”

The old woman gave an outraged tug at the collar of her iron-gray robe. “Take the dawn apple, young man, with my compliments. I’d like to see Temeteo charge me that much for it.”

“Madam Voras, I would never—”

The elderly lady sniffed at the vendor and turned away from him. “Now. Excuse my overhearing, but you wish a bath house?”

Scorio bowed his head. “Yes, madam.”

“Then head two blocks radially east, one block—no, two—south. Search for the Brightest Lotus Bathhouse. Their basic services cost two gold octs, but you won’t be given admittance without a sponsor. Here. Take my chit. It should open the doors for you.”

And she handed Scorio a black oct with a gold symbol inscribed upon its face.

“I—thank you, Madam Voras.” Scorio took it and bowed deeply.

“Can’t see why you’re helping this street rat,” said Temeteo sullenly, propping his chin on his palm. “He probably stole all that money.”

“I was once in dire straits myself,” said Madam Voras primly, “and was helped in turn by a kindly stranger. It made all the difference. Enjoy your bath, young man, and may fortune favor you.”

“Thank you,” said Scorio, bowing again and closing his fist tightly about the chit.

Her expression softened. “One day I’m sure you’ll be in a position to help another. You are not your circumstances.”

Which hit Scorio surprisingly hard, and made his eyes prickle with tears. Again, all he could do was bow his head.

“Oh, fine, take a bushel of the dawn apples for a copper oct, why don’t you,” grumbled the vendor. “Making me look like a churl, you are, Madam Voras.”

“Doesn’t take much effort these days, Temeteo.”

Scorio bowed to the vendor again, paid, and with a sack of apples at his side set off before he could embarrass himself. His emotions were all over the place. Perhaps seeing Leonis and Lianshi had unsettled him more than he’d guessed. It took him a good few blocks before he managed to settle himself, and only when he could finally draw his breath easily did he take a big bite out of the dawn apple.

It was divine. The juices flooded his mouth, but more than that, he sensed rich mana tingle across his palette.

Summoning his Igneous Heart, he studied the apple and saw that the golden flecks truly did glow; each was the tiniest fleck of some rich mana he’d never seen before.

Should he just eat it?

Instead, he walked slowly and focused his will upon the tiny flecks, passing his paddle through the apple and drawing forth the little lights. These he swirled about himself, each trailing his will like a firefly, and then directed them into his Heart.

The sensation was delightful. It felt like a spring shower after months of arid heat. Not nearly enough to fill his heart, barely enough to give him more than a passing sensation of pleasure, but it was still a delight.

Munching the apple happily, he followed Madam Voras’s directions, only slowing when the Brightest Lotus bathhouse came into view.

Frowning, he stepped out of the flow of traffic once more and considered. The place was dignified yet reserved, a subtle lotus flower depicted over the doorway. Expensive.

Was this the right move?

He considered the black chit.

It would be an undeniable pleasure to step into that world and be bathed, shaved, massaged, and made to feel human once more.

But what then? He’d have to buy new robes, or else look the fool in his rags. And no matter what, he’d stand out the closer he got to the ruins. Right now, looking like a beggar, he blended in, was ignored as he went to and fro. But if he tried to walk through Ward 1 all perfumed and clean?

No. He’d draw too much attention.

With a sigh, he gave up his dream of pampering himself and looking an equal to Leonis and Lianshi. Instead, he pocketed the chit and continued south, and was passing through Ward 9 when he slowed, a new thought occurring to him.

Glancing around, he took his bearings and turned east. Memory served him well, and a few minutes later he found himself outside a modest store, a sign over the door indicating a mortar and pestle.

Faint music came from within. Should he knock? Did he need an appointment? Reaching into his robes Scorio touched the pouch of octs and decided that wealth was its own prerogative. He opened the door and stepped inside.

Jelan sat behind the counter, a single-stringed instrument propped on his lap. He drew a bow across the string with great intensity, his eyes screwed shut, his finger dancing up and down the string, pressing it to the neck of the instrument and thus changing the tone, which was high and wavering, plaintive and melancholic.

The sound of the bell caused the apothecary to cease playing immediately, and he blinked several times as he emerged from whatever state of mind had allowed him to summon such a haunting song.

“Ah,” he said, rising and setting his instrument aside. “The Black Star flower fanatic. I’m afraid I cannot help you further without octs.”

Scorio drew the pouch forth and bounced it on his palm. “Fortunately for us both, I happen to have some. Is that treatise still available?”

Jelan’s lips pursed as he dubiously appraised the pouch. “You have eight copper octs?”

“That I do.” Scorio stepped up to the counter and drew forth an iron oct. “Eight coppers to an iron, correct?”

“Your grasp of mathematics is impeccable,” said Jelan, his tone still skeptical. Scorio could read the concern in the apothecary’s eyes. The doubt that these coins had been honestly acquired.

So Scorio leaned on the counter, his smile lazy, and set two iron octs down on the counter with twin clicks. “Octs talk, do they not? Such a sweet language. The scroll, if you will, Master Jelan.”

“Hmm.” The apothecary took up the octs, studied them, then dropped them into a slot on the top of a small iron box which he drew out from under the counter. “Indeed. And fortunately for you, the demand for the treatise has been shockingly low. Let me find it.”

Again he walked down the honeycombed wall, till he drew forth the tube and brought it to Scorio. “You are clearly a man who scorns caution and wisdom. There are better and easier ways to acquire Coal mana, if that is what you are after.”

“I’d love to hear them,” said Scorio. “As long as they don’t involve my being part of society, drawing the attention of the Houses or the Academy, or requiring more coinage with which to begin the processes.”

“Hmm.” Jelan studied Scorio with heavy-lidded eyes. “When you put it that way.”

Scorio tapped the scroll tube against his other palm, then slipped it inside his robes. “Many thanks, Master Apothecary.”

“Good luck with your Black Star cultivation, friend…?” Jelan raised an eyebrow inquiringly.

“I appreciate your well wishes!” Scorio grinned and strode out of the shop, humming under his breath as he returned to the street.

Once back in Ward 1, he located a vendor of second-hand robes, and bought himself a sturdy set that was reinforced at the elbows and knees, the kind that a manual laborer might wear. Worn soft by use but neatly mended where the hems had begun to fray, it and an old pair of sturdy sandals cost him a copper oct.

A sliver of soap from a sell-all street vendor, a coil of rope, and a large bucket cost him another oct, and then he waited patiently in line till he was able to fill his bucket completely from the closest water fountain.

He wanted a weapon. A sword, perhaps—a dagger at the very least—but Leonis’s pouch was already nearly empty. A priority, then: the next time he earned some coins, he’d arm himself.

Musing on such matters, he walked carefully into the ruins, found himself an abandoned home, and bathed carefully, rinsing and soaping the dirt away as best he could. He tossed his old rags in a corner, sat in the Second Rust light till he dried, and then donned the laborer’s robes.

He had no mirror, but he felt immeasurably better. He passed his hand over his long stubble and decided to leave it.

Twenty minutes later he scaled the fallen blocks to his chamber, and once there forced himself not to consider how bare and squalid his room appeared.

Instead, he lowered himself into a cross-legged seat and opened the scroll tube. Within were six sheets of parchment. Frowning, Scorio resisted the urge to just skim, and instead read through each one carefully, examining the tables, studying and absorbing the information until he had captured it all.

The Black Star flower subsisted exclusively on Coal mana and water, but also needed a fair amount of loose soil or sand in which to anchor its roots. These roots drew no nutrients from the ground, but rather formed a protective mesh in which the plant grew its seed. This seed, once grown and infused with enough Coal, would travel up the stem of the flower and then catch the tides of mana to float away and land where it could sprout and grow another plant.

The treatise, however, dealt not just with the life cycle of the plant, but how best to cultivate it; one could apparently slice the seed into quarters, as long as each quarter had at least two “eyes”; burying a quarter in a mana rich area would cause the eyes to sprout and grow a flower. Thus careful slicing of a seed could result in up to four flowers if they all took root and the Coal was rich enough.

Scorio made his way over to the pile of discarded stems and roots that Naomi had left behind, and pried one apart; nestled within the roots was a dry seed the size of his thumbnail. He raised it to the light and turned it about; the eyes were little more the dimples in the black, glossy surface.

Excited, he set to work extracting as many seeds as he could; of the forty-five plants he’d harvested, he was able to extract thirty-seven seeds; the poor-quality mana in his room had prevented any of them from sprouting.

Thirty-seven seeds split into quarters meant the potential to grow almost a hundred and fifty plants.

Scorio piled the seeds up with exaggerated care and then snatched up the treatise, moving to stand before the window and continue reading.

The next page dealt with ideal mana concentrations, which involved both the regeneration rate and density, all of which affected how quickly the plants would grow. The page after that outlined ideal planting practices—each quarter seed would need at a bare minimum a square foot of soil in which to grow.

A hundred and fifty square feet. Roughly a square twelve feet by thirteen. Scorio paced it out and scrutinized the floor. Doable.

The next sheet detailed methods of harvesting the Coal mana from the plant. The trick involved the delicate insertion of a slender tube into the stem to intercept the coalesced mana as it made its way down to the new seed. A diagram illustrated the process, and below were suggestions as to how to fashion the ideal funnel. A small receptacle beneath the opening would capture the condensed mana, which would not evaporate but rather draw all manner of creatures due to its being exposed to the air.

Scorio frowned, tapping the sheets against his lips. How would he prevent animals or scavengers from raiding his farm? He couldn’t watch it at all hours of the day, nor could he hire anybody to do so.

A problem for later.

The next page was all charts. Each plant would create a small bead of dense Coal mana at the rate of about one per Eighthday. Fifty beads were necessary for the creation of a pill, though only twenty-five were necessary for the creation of a syrup that had the same potency. Apparently, the process of creating pills vented half the mana.

“Syrup it is, then,” muttered Scorio, who then looked out the window in abstracted thought.

He wanted to take the power equivalent of a pill a day. That meant production of twenty-five beads per day, or two hundred to cover a full week. That meant two hundred plants, of which he could already grow about a hundred and fifty. He needed to harvest another twelve seeds to bring him to the magic number, but should probably plant more to give him a buffer in case of any problems. Say two hundred and twenty, which meant another seventeen seeds.

The penultimate page dealt with the purification process, and here Scorio slowed down and carefully studied the data. The pills’ strength was measured in volts, with a single volt being the smallest discrete amount of Coal mana that could be contained within the weakest elixir or pill.

An unpurified elixir contained about eighty volts, and was twenty times as potent as purified one, which contained only four. The drawback, of course, was that the unfiltered elixir was exceedingly poisonous. Scorio thought of the torment he’d suffered while making Cinder, and reluctantly decided he couldn’t undergo such an experience regularly. But if he only filtered it halfway, the result would still be a respectable forty volts, which was ten times more potent than the normal pills they dispensed in the Academy.

Scorio felt a ripple of excitement flutter through his stomach. If this worked, he’d be consuming the equivalent of ten pills a day for only half the damage, and only moderately poisoning himself each day.

The amount of mana he’d be drawing into his Heart would be tremendous.

But how to prevent scavengers from raiding his farm?

He read through the papers a few more times, then carefully sealed them within their tube. First, he had to find the optimal location for his farm, then fashion two hundred slender funnels as well as find the extra seventeen plants. In the meantime, he’d ponder how best to protect his farm.

Forcing himself to put the problem aside for now, Scorio set to manipulating the Coal mana in the room, swirling it back and forth, not drawing it into his Heart but seeing what he could do with it, how he could weave it with his will. Naomi had told him advanced practitioners could split the mana into two, into four, directing the parts into separate techniques or treasures, so he attempted to do the same.

And failed.

But still, he worked at the exercise, until at last he drew the Coal into his Heart and ignited it with a flexion of his will.

Immediately strength and resilience flooded his frame. He leaped up to his feet. He’d told Naomi he might be out all day, not knowing how his meeting with Leonis and Lianshi would go, and so had the evening to himself.

Taking up his treasures and a coil of rope, he stowed them away in his robe and moved to the windowsill.

It was Second Clay. Already the clouds were spiraling thickly about the sun-wire, presaging the dusk rain to come.

In the Academy, his friends were no doubt moving to grab their luxurious dinner at the dining hall. Perhaps they were swimming in their private grotto pool. Perhaps they were talking with friends, discussing the best way to use the elixirs granted to them each morning, or how best to secure patronage from one of the Houses.

But out here in the ruins, it was time to get to work.

Scorio took up strips of cloth and wrapped them around his wrists, crossed them over his palm, around his knuckles, between his fingers then back around his wrist. Did the same to the other hand, then clenched them both into fists.

Time to hunt.

He took up the burlap sack he’d used to gather Black Star plants and climbed out. Dropped lightly from cyclopean block to cyclopean block till at last, he reached the street, where he broke out into a light run, warming up.

He threw punches as he went, moving south, deeper into the ruins. No oblique angle this time, but just a straight path into the heart of the destruction.

Scorio moved easily, the new sandals quickly breaking in. The sun-wire above had perhaps another half-cycle before it went dark. Enough time for him to get in deeper than he’d ever gone, to find a means to get below into the caverns where he could hunt for sunphires. With any luck, he’d find some Black Star flowers as he did so.

Not that he planned to venture below ground tonight. He wanted to cajole Naomi into joining him when he finally went underground, but first, he had to find the entrances. Come to her with a concrete plan.

The gray, flinty streets crunched under his light footfalls, the sound echoing off the buildings that were painted a dark, ruddy brown by Second Clay. After the crowds of the living city, he felt alone, lost in a dream. On he ran, block after block, deeper into the ruins, until at last, he was certain he’d never penetrated this far.

The street turned into a canyon whose base was choked by detritus and fallen rubble. He hopped up onto a ledge that might once have run along the second floor of the building and ran lightly past dark window after dark window. Leaped down at the far end onto an archway that now served as a bridge over a narrow chasm, then turned up a broad flight of stairs that hugged the side of a cathedral-sized building, the steps so worn and cracked it was more of a shattered ramp than anything else.

Up onto a demolished courtyard where countless palm-sized crabs scurried away in alarm, their carapaces gleaming like freshly spilled oil as they disappeared into hundreds of cracks.

Across and around a partially demolished tower, then he dropped down three stories, arresting his fall every ten feet with an activation of his steel rod till he dropped and rolled and resumed running.

The building to his side was encrusted with scalloped shells as large as he was; they were mercifully closed, their edges wickedly sharp, but nestled amongst their number he saw a young Black Star. He carefully drew it forth and dropped it into his pouch.

This street opened into a plaza of some sort, rough mounds hinting at former sculptures. A shattered temple arose at the far end, huge columns no longer supporting anything. Scorio ran lightly through them, into the interior of the building which now was without a ceiling.

In the bloody light of Second Clay, he saw a monstrous creature uncurl itself from where it had been feasting on a corpse.

Scorio staggered to a stop, eyes going wide.

It was all curves, its blue exoskeleton thick and segmented, each of the pincer-like claws that it raised as large as a vendor’s stall, its face a tiny conglomeration of eye stalks and feathery feelers. Bloody froth fell from its mouth, which was a vertical slash filled with a combination of fronds and sharp ridges.

It was hauntingly beautiful; the blue carapace gleamed as if enameled, gradating from deep cobalt to a cerulean blue, all of it mottled with darker spots.

“Wrong temple,” said Scorio, raising both hands in apology. “Sorry. I’ll take the, ah, next one.”

The fiend took a scuttling few steps toward him; its massive bulk was supported by some six heavily armored legs which allowed it to move with surprising speed.

Scorio backed away, but the fiend didn’t take its eyes off him. At least, Scorio thought it didn’t. Hard to tell with unblinking eye stalks.

Could he outrun it? Scorio kept moving backward, and again the fiend burst forward in a flurry of steps, skittering forward with shocking speed.

No outrunning this thing.

“All right,” said Scorio, drawing the steel rod from his robe with one hand, the chalk with the other. “If you insist.”

He summoned his Igneous Heart. The Coal mana was thick in the room, and he swirled it rapidly about his Heart twice just as the fiend charged him.

Not losing sight of his Heart, drawing the Coal into his being, Scorio raked the chalk across the ground, drawing an inch-wide strip, then leaped back.

The fiend crashed into the invisible pole, fell back, and swung a huge claw at the obstacle.

A chunk of stone tore free from the ground, the chalk mark upon its face, and crashed over to the side.

“Oh,” said Scorio, slowing to a stop as he stared. “You can do that?”

The fiend let out a hiss, more crimson bubbles bursting from its grotesque mouth, and lunged at him, claws snapping.

With a grunt Scorio ignited his Heart, shoving enough mana into the obsidian stone through sheer force of will, and then leaped back, triggering the steel rod and leaving it suspended in the air.

The fiend crashed into the rod as it gave chase, and once more it staggered back, but this time Scorio wasn’t waiting. A quick glance at the interior of the temple showed him it was in a precarious state, many of the support struts and buttresses having collapsed long ago.

A plan clicked into place, and he drew the bridge from his robe. Ran toward one of the walls, and heard the fiend disengage with the rod and come clicking after him.

No time to look back; he sensed the treasure in his hand, swirled the mana about as he ran right at the wall, and then activated the bridge as he bent down to set it against the floor.

Which caused the bridge to explode upward at a forty-five-degree angle, smashing into the wall and punching a hole in the ancient masonry.

Scorio caught hold of the bridge’s railing and swung himself under it so that it formed an impromptu barrier between them just as the fiend fell upon him, driving the bridge closer to the ruined wall.

Which caused the entire side of the temple to come crashing down upon them with a mighty, sloughing roar, blocks the size of barrels toppling down in a rush of dust and chaos.

Scorio turned away, closed his eyes, and braced himself, but the bridge held firm, its upper end lodged against the base of the hole it had created, so that the blocks crashed down and rolled off it even as his Heart guttered and died.

The fiend wasn’t so lucky; massive stones crashed down upon its gleaming carapace, half-burying it, cracking and denting its armor.

Then the bridge recoiled into its tiny form, the treasure slipping out from under the blocks to spring up to where its far end had lain.

Scorio was ready—he swept as much Coal mana as he could manage into his Heart, climbed out of the gap even as he willed his Heart to ignite, and with his enhanced strength grabbed hold of a stone as large as his head.

The fiend let out another hiss and tore a great clawed arm free, but before it could bring it to bear Scorio hurled the rock with all his Cinder-strength right at the beast’s face.

Eye stalks shattered, pale blue ichor gouted out, and the feathered extremities of its mouth were mashed into a crumpled mess.

The claw swept in like a death knell, but Scorio drew deep from his burning Heart and leaped right up and over it. Landing lightly, he ran up, leaped again, and dropped with both feet on the rock that had embedded itself in the fiend’s head, driving it in even farther.

Shell shattered, more ichor burst free, then the fiend subsided, giving a final series of clicks before lowering its claw to the rocks.

Gasping for breath, Scorio staggered away, his Heart guttering again, and waited, expecting the fiend to erupt from the rocks, to come at him again with renewed ferocity.

But it didn’t. After a couple of minutes, he allowed himself to relax a fraction and retrieved the bridge. It had suffered a few deep scratches from the falling rocks but otherwise seemed unharmed.

Pocketing it, he retrieved the steel rod, placed the chalk back in his robe, and then considered what the fiend had been eating—a huge, jellied snake, translucent but for a wire of jet black that ran its length. This wire was what the fiend had been feasting on, and summoning his Heart, Scorio examined it.

The wire glowed with deeply condensed Coal mana.

Reaching into the jellied interior of the snake, he seized the filament’s end and hauled it free, wrapping it around his elbow then back up to his palm then back around, over and over till he’d pulled the whole of it out.

“Gross,” said Scorio, using the last of the wire to tie off the whole bundle. Setting it down, he moved back to the fiend and considered the cracked blue carapace. Again he summoned his Heart, and again he considered the mana, trying to refine his ability to see more than just dark clouds.

Coal mana was venting from the cracks in the fiend’s armor, but he sensed something more potent contained within it which pulled at him as if magnetized. Grimacing, he crouched by the shattered head and pried the armor plates away, then slid his hand into the pale blue goo that filled its interior, feeling his way down into the cool gunk, past ridges and facets and weird, soft tubes, till at last, his hand closed around a large chunk of warm stone.

He drew it out, having to ignite his Heart again to tear away the ligaments that held it in place. It was a hunk of copper the size of his fist, and he had to wash it with some of his water to reveal its details. Holding it up to the light of Last Clay, he saw that its form was convoluted and complex, a great skein of metal that revealed ever more detail the closer he examined it.

Copper mana, then? This must be the pattern that Jelan had told him of. But why was it inside a fiend? Did it allow the beast to harvest power from the air? But there was no copper around here; did that make it an opportunistic harvester? Would it be profitable to hunt more of them down?

Too many questions. He’d save them for Naomi. For now, he dropped the sticky copper heart and the eel’s looped Coal mana line in his burlap sack, then paused, considering the contents.

Keep going?

He’d already pressed his luck this far. Maybe Feiyan would accept these two treasures in place of a sunphire.

Scorio grimaced.

Who was he kidding?

Jaw firming, he tied the burlap sack tightly to his waist and pressed on.

Now he moved more cautiously, however, exchanging speed for stealth. He was feeling weak, shaky, having drawn on his Heart three times in quick succession, and though he’d not drained it completely as he’d done that first time with Naomi, he was wary of relying on it too much.

So he crept from shadow to shadow, scaled walls with the aid of his bridge and rod, avoided avenues that were obviously nexuses of Coal mana, until at last, he came across a deep crack that seemed to lead into the depths and not a river of fire.

Crouching at the edge of the tilting roof and gazing down, he thought he felt an updraft, as if the darkness below were exhaling at the sight of him.

This looked like a good candidate.

He looked up and around, trying to get a sense of its location by finding coordinates he could navigate by when he returned with Naomi, only to pause, staring straight south.

A huge building loomed in the near distance, separated from him by a maze of burning chasms and slender bridges, demolished towers and landslides. A building so large it matched the Academy back in Ward 7, its huge domes cracked, towers toppled, arcades wreathed in dead ivy. He’d come much deeper than he’d anticipated, was nearly at the very end of the city—or perhaps it was the beginning—right where the ruins ran flush into the Portal’s wall.

Pursing his lips, Scorio followed the curvature of the city up and around from where that huge building stood. Others, equally monumental, arose beside it, all of them in their final stages of decay, forming a gauntlet of magisterial buildings.

The original centers of power, the homes of those who had originally built Bastion, and then been forced to abandon them centuries later by the encroaching rot.

Scorio returned his gaze to the huge building across from him. It bore a striking similarity to the current Academy. The original model? If anything, it was more ponderous, more massive, looming dourly over the wasteland and lava chasms, built so thickly that it had resisted the bulk of the decay.

What treasures might be located within? Sure, Naomi had said the place had been picked clean in the centuries following its abandonment, but what about intangibles that couldn’t be lifted and carried away? Might there be pockets of Copper or even Iron mana within? What if they found some replenishing source long thought abandoned which would obviate their need to smuggle themselves out onto the Rascor Plains?

Trying not to get too excited, Scorio considered the ground between him and his new target. A good fifteen blocks, but blocks so perilous that each one might count for ten of those he had already traveled through. All of the streets looked to have fallen away, leaving behind only fiery gorges. The bridges looked eaten as if by acid, but fortunately, most of the buildings were connected by other means, as if the city had once been a single, sprawling building that had grown out to cover all the blocks, its complex expanse dotted by courtyards, avenues, and who knew what else.

Fifteen blocks, and even without summoning his Heart Scorio could sense how rich and thick the Coal mana was up ahead.

Which promised the greatest of predators.

He’d have to convince Naomi. With her help, they could cross over that wasteland and explore the interior of the Academy.

Rising to his feet, Scorio allowed himself the slightest of smiles.

Who knew? Maybe he’d get himself an Academy education after all.