Chapter 57

Scorio strode through Bastion, shoulders squared, feeling light, feeling… if not good, then cleansed. He’d not appreciated how much his past had weighed on him. And not just his past; the way he’d come so close to accepting any cost in order to advance.

To know that there were limits to what he was willing to do felt strangely good. If someone had asked him before, he’d have sworn with a savage intensity that there was nothing he’d balk at to advance.

But now he knew there was.

He’d not sacrifice his integrity. He’d not sacrifice his friends. He’d not bend the knee to the likes of Praximar.

And it felt… liberating. Which amused him. How could limitations liberate him? He pondered the question as he made his way through the wards. Wasn’t the ultimate liberation to have no limitations at all?

But no. That wasn’t who he was. And now he saw that he’d been warping his innate sense of self in his pursuit of power. He’d been telling himself he’d do anything, even as the stress of that belief weighed upon his soul. It’s what he’d told himself when he’d undertaken Dola’s mission, and look what bitter fruits that had sewn.

Now he could simply be himself, succeed on his own terms, and fail by them as well. If he died or was crippled or merely washed out of the Academy because he was unwilling to compromise on his integrity, then so be it. Power alone no longer tempted him, made him question how far he’d be willing to go.

And there was freedom in that self-awareness.

Breathing deeply, feeling expansive, Scorio purchased a dawn apple and bit deep into its gold-flecked flesh. He sucked in the juice and allowed the flow of the crowd to bring him ever further south.

It was impossible to ignore the tension in the streets. Gone was the chatter of people going about their business, the antics of children racing between carts and chasing hoops of wood along the sidewalks. While he still heard the varied cries of the costermongers and admired the artful displays in the shop windows, he no longer saw old ladies chopping vegetables on their miniature balconies. Windows were shuttered, doors were closed.

Instead, the main streets felt almost empty. Those who were out hurried on their business, casting worried glances about them as if afraid of being accosted. There was more trash in the streets than he was used to seeing, and no music playing from hidden sources. Just an aching silence that rang ominously loud once he attuned himself to it.

Frowning, Scorio stopped at a large plaza in whose center a water-fountain burbled. A line was formed before it as always, but the people were wary, constantly gazing about themselves, pails in hand.

What had been happening in the city since the week he’d spent helping deal with the chaos Imogen had caused? He’d been so hermetically sealed within the Academy that he’d not kept abreast of events. Feiyan had warned him that the streets were turning ugly, but he’d not paid any attention.

He was noticed, and people began to elbow each other, nod in his direction. The stares were ugly, confrontational.

What had he done?

He glanced down at himself and saw the Academy’s white robes, the golden sash.

Ah.

Inclining his head politely, he hurried on, trailed by angry whispers.

Best to get back into the ruins. Sticking to narrower streets and alleys, he once again delved into his own thoughts. How would Praximar react to Scorio’s preempting? Would he find another way to turn the screws? Or would he just sit back, fully expecting Scorio to fail, his ruined Heart undercut, unable to compete with the elites?

Scorio tossed the apple core to a fire salamander that was sunning itself along the length of a gutter, and chuckled as it snapped the core out of the air, gulping it down.

The nature of the wards changed, grew meaner, grimier, and eventually gave way to the first of the ruins.

It felt like coming home.

Unsure as to his destination, Scorio allowed his feet to take him where they willed, walking the familiar streets and avenues, climbing over the buildings that had collapsed into the street and leaping over the chasms that fractured the way.

He walked, old instincts returning to him, his feet guiding him around the cylinder and then deeper in, till at last he saw the monolithic bridge lying across the chasm, felt the dense power of the Coal mana flowing below him, and reached the edge to look down at the huge, pale spider-crabs and the massive barnacles.

And just beyond them lay his garden of Black Star plants.

Scorio’s lips quirked into a wry smile. A sense of nostalgia and fondness washed over him, the sight seeming a glimpse into his past.

Something had had a go at them; half of them had been torn up, the black soil roiled by heavy talons. But the rest still grew in precise rows, full and healthy, their velvet petals drinking in the Coal mana that swept by.

Scorio dropped into a crouch.

He couldn’t win by playing along with the Academy’s rules, by limiting himself to the resources it would grudgingly give a weak Great Soul like himself. The spoils went to the powerful, who only became more powerful. The rest? They had to find other means to survive.

Scorio rubbed at his chin. He could come every Eighthday to collect the mana. Use the Academy’s laboratories to filter and refine the syrup. Build up enough of a supply so that even his fractured Heart would be strained to its limits.

Sure, he’d suffer for it. This solution was the exact cause of the fracturing in the first place. But what if he could brute force his way to Emberling?

Scorio frowned. Even if he did, how much of his Heart would be left? How bad would the fractures become?

Did it matter, if it gave him a chance at winning the Gauntlet run?

You mortgaged your future for brief successes today, he heard Praximar sneer. Hera’s concerned visage appeared in his mind’s eye: You’ve been driven like all Great Souls to acquire power, and it’s cost you.

Scorio scowled, took up a sharp shard of stone, and hurled it into the chasm below. If he won the Gauntlet, came first out of the entire cohort, then wouldn’t that convince another House to take him on? House Basilisk, perhaps, who didn’t seem so punctilious with issues of morality? And he’d be allowed to stay on for the second semester at the Academy, with all the resources and healing that would come of it.

He sighed and sat back on his heels. All of this was predicated on the belief that he could actually beat Jova Spike and Ravenna Accardi and all the others. That he could overcome his limitations, make Emberling, and defeat the other thirty or so House-sponsored Great Souls in his cohort who’d been getting the extreme benefits of endless treasures from the start of the semester.

Scorio scowled. Did he really think he had a chance of coming in first? That a toxic Black Star syrup would make the difference compared to all the Fat Crickets and Apotheosis pills that the others were taking?

A dour voice from deep within him spoke the truth: He had no chance.

With a grimace, he leaped to his feet. So—what? He’d allow Praximar to crush him? Accept defeat after so many sacrifices, and just slink out of the Academy?

There had to be a different solution. A way to relinquish House Chimera’s patronage and still excel at the Gauntlet run.

Problem was, a large dose of toxic Black Star wasn’t going to be nearly enough.

What if he began hunting for Heartstones again? Earned enough octs to begin buying healing pills and medicine? Instructor Hera had thought those too expensive for him to even bother trying to acquire, but she hadn’t counted on his generating income on the side outside of the student’s allowance.

Excitement seized him. He could weaponize his days spent in the ruins. Hunt large, valuable fiends. Perhaps even go underground—what if he found a sunphire? Surely he could exchange one of those for some healing. Then he could offset the damage the black syrup did to his Heart, and grow more powerful…

Restless, he began walking, but wasn’t ready yet to return to the Academy. He couldn’t face his friends and the luxury of their suite with his mind so fixated on the grim realities of the ruins and the chances they afforded him. Didn’t even want to walk the tension-filled streets of Bastion.

But he forced himself to return to Ward 1. Asked around till he was pointed in the direction of a specialty shop which sold him a workman-like blade of dull steel and a functional scabbard. Cost him six iron octs, which was a good chunk of his allowance that he’d saved up, but he didn’t fancy punching pony-sized crabs to death for a living.

So armed, he returned to his old running trail, and set to ghosting from shattered building to pile of shale and detritus. Watching, listening, trying to sense what lay ahead before it noticed him.

Hunting.

His first target was a small hunting crab; it scuttled after him, pincers raised. Instead of climbing to safety, he faced it, ignited his Heart, and then deftly impaled the tip of his blade through its head area, leaping aside just before its pincers could snag him.

That netted him a small, jet-black Heartstone that fit comfortably in his palm, though the tip of the sword already looked blunted.

The hours passed, and the sun-wire brightened and then began to dim. Scorio worked his way around the circumference of the ruins once, twice, three times. Avoided the dangerous spots, followed the flows of Coal mana, and hunted methodically.

By the time the sun-wire darkened altogether, he’d harvested a dozen small Heartstones, all of them from predators that had thought him easy prey. The fiends wrecked his blade, however; apparently, beings infused with mana were incredibly tough to kill with regular weapons. With a sigh of regret, he resigned himself to either buying a better sword or using his own fists; the sword itself was notched and dull from just one day’s hunting.

He was walking deeper into the ruins when the darkness fell, and the sudden drop in temperature caused the funnel clouds to darken and unleash their rain, which fell in driving curtains across the street, cool and soothing. Scorio welcomed the wetness and didn’t change his pace, but kept walking.

He saw but didn’t register the native wildlife around him—the floating jellies that drifted along one wall, the shells encrusted along the floor of an avenue, a side street so filled with barnacles that he could barely see a path down its length.

None of them would render Heartstones of sufficient value.

He’d missed a whole day of classes. How many could he skip before he got in trouble? One at least wouldn’t be enough.

He climbed and crossed broken rooftops, dropped down into narrow courtyards, and passed through dark, empty houses. Skirted around the circumference of large plazas, and balanced his way across spindly bridges that arced out over glowing cracks in the ground.

At last, drew up short and blinked. He’d traversed nearly the entire length of the ruins, right down to the end, and before him lay the Portal, the hub that held the sun-wire’s end, and the great buildings that encircled the cylinder’s bottom, massive and dark and dour.

Amongst them, the Old Academy.

Scorio considered. Praximar had released an official statement declaring that the ancient building had been sealed off, protecting the old Archspire from further tampering. But he felt drawn to the building, to its ancient secrets, to the hope it had once represented.

Turning, he looked back at the distant, living portion of the city. Already the night lights were coming on, dappling its expanse in cool pools of copper and soothing gray. If he turned back now, he’d still be only horrendously late.

But something told him Praximar wouldn’t expel him for being tardy. Not when he was poised to shatter Scorio’s spirit on a far greater altar.

Scorio lowered himself into a crouch, the rain sweeping over him, and waited. At first, he didn’t know what for, but slowly it came to him: a sense of expectation, that something was imminent, and should happen soon.

But it didn’t.

Naomi didn’t step out of the darkness in her Nightmare Lady form.

His expression soured as he realized that he’d been waiting all this time for her to do so, to have changed her mind and decided to help him. He wanted her to emerge so he could apologize again, smooth over her hurt, tell her she’d been right all along, earn her forgiveness, and then rail against the Academy together in righteous indignation.

But if she was watching him, she never emerged from the darkness.

Scorio crouched down upon the rooftop and gathered up a fistful of damp cindered stone. Scowling, he crushed the flakes to dust, which he allowed to slowly trickle into the air and be caught by a breeze that plumed the grit away.

Fine. He’d continue with his plan. Would find a way to brute force his way to victory. Because Naomi was right about one thing: he might be beat down, but he wasn’t beat.

“Not dead yet,” he whispered, rising to his feet and discarding the rest of the dust. He moved to the edge of the roof, swept Coal into his Heart, and sparked it afire with a flex of his will. Power flooded into him, traitorous, truant power, and he stepped over the shallow retaining wall to fall into the void beyond.

Down two stories to land on the street that arrowed its way toward the huge bridge. The impact sent a shock of pain through his legs, but that quickly faded. Praximar had said the Old Academy was sealed off, but damn Praximar and his lies. He’d investigate for himself. For within lay that ancient Gauntlet, and who knew what other treasures? They’d been so enamored of the sole find that they’d ceased to explore.

Time to find out what else the old Academy was hoarding.

His every footstep crunched into the silence. Purposeful, focused, unhurried, he reached the broad bridge. Was it only a few weeks ago that he and the others had fought their way across, defeating the toad to gain entry into the Academy?

Could have been a lifetime ago.

Scorio crossed the bridge, the wind tugging at his robes, and saw movement at the far end, within the hollow morass of collapsed columns and roof. A stirring within the ink-dark depths.

Scorio didn’t slow but reached into his robes to draw forth his nubbin of chalk. It felt like an old friend, one he’d set aside, thinking it no longer necessary within the civilized climes of the new Academy, but now, palming it once more, a welcome return.

On he walked, down the center of the bridge, watching the shattered building. More movement, and then the huge toad bestirred itself and emerged into the sullen light of Second Clay to perch atop a rough boulder.

As big as a cart, its empty ocular ridges extending out into horns, its whole body gleaming with slowly coagulating Coal mana, it oriented on him, settling in, its broad slit of a mouth conveying emotion that Scorio couldn’t read. Dark amusement? Wariness? Attentiveness?

“We going to have a problem?” called Scorio as he drew closer.

The toad adjusted its weight once more, sticky digits rippling on the rock, the seam of its lips undulating subtly.

The toad’s voice was a reverberating croak. “Favorite friend alone?”

Scorio frowned. Would he be admitting weakness? Inviting an attack? Just how valuable might the toad’s Heartstone be? For some reason, the thought disgusted him. “For now, sure.” He felt an impulse to throw in a threat, a promise of pain if the toad tried him, but refrained.

Again the toad resettled itself upon the boulder, its soft, pale gray throat working. “No problem.”

“Good,” said Scorio, moving forward once more but angling out wide to create as much distance between the toad and himself as possible. “Appreciate it.”

The toad swiveled as Scorio strode past it, keeping him in sight, and it was when Scorio was past that he felt in the most danger; how easy would it be for the toad to send its huge tongue flying at his back when he thought himself safe?

But it made no move, and soon was lost from sight. Unsettled, unsure as to how to feel about that interaction, Scorio broke into a jog, eager now to get into the Old Academy. Ran lightly up the great staircase to the colonnaded front, and there stopped.

Praximar hadn’t been lying. The huge front doors were sealed with dense gray stone, the surface of the doors emerging from the sealant like a shipwreck from the surface of a lagoon.

Frowning, Scorio circled wide to their customary entrance and found that similarly blocked. He stepped up and touched the new rock—it was cool and unnaturally smooth. Frown deepening, Scorio stepped back and looked up. The windows were sealed as were errant cracks.

Stubborn, he circled the Academy, taking his time as he walked all the way around its wings and into its accessible inner courtyards. Pried and poked, climbed to first floor balconies, even attempted to break through weaker looking parts of the architecture, only to discover more obdurate stone behind each access point.

Night was almost upon him when he finally reached the front again. Nothing. Praximar, or whichever Great Soul the chancellor had tasked with this responsibility had been thorough to the extreme. Rubbing at his jaw, Scorio scowled and dropped into a crouch. Damn it! The old Gauntlet was his best weapon in this impossible battle. How was he supposed to eke out some manner of advantage without it?

“Favorite friend not happy,” croaked a voice, and Scorio leaped to his feet and saw the toad a score of yards off to the side, perched atop a fallen column.

Heart hammering, Scorio studied the fiend. It was close enough to have attacked with impunity. Instead, it shifted its weight again, regarding him.

“No,” said Scorio at last, voice shaky. “Not happy. I wanted into this building. But it’s all blocked up.”

The toad didn’t turn to examine the Academy but kept its attention upon Scorio. “Not all blocked up.”

Scorio’s mind raced, and then he understood. “There’s a way in from below?”

The toad’s silence was answer enough.

Scorio hesitated and licked his lower lip. Considered. Was this all an elaborate ploy? Not long ago this fiend had tried to kill them all, and now…?

“Favorite friend unsure,” croaked the toad, not sounding offended in the least. “Favorite friend think Nox want consume his Heart.”

“I… yeah, something like that.” Scorio studied the toad. “You don’t?”

“Do. But not personal. Nox want consume all Hearts, eat all mana, always, to Ascend.”

“Then, ah, you’re saying I shouldn’t trust you?”

Nox shifted again, his digits making sticky sounds as they pulled free of the column and then attached once more. “Not forever. But for now. Favorite friend warn Nox of terminal nexus. Nox grateful.”

Scorio blinked. “Terminal nexus?”

Nox looked momentarily uneasy. “Flying death human.”

“Oh! Imogen the Woe. Right.” Had he? Scorio tried to think back—yes. He’d yelled something at the toad as they’d raced by. “But you’d have avoided her yourself, right?”

“Maybe too late. Nox sense great power, decide to eat it. Bad decision.” The toad’s wide lips quirked into what might have been a smile. Could toads smile? Did fiends even know what smiling meant?

But Scorio laughed. “Yeah, trying to eat an Imperator would have been a bad decision. She’d probably have ignored you though.”

Nox shifted. “Nox very tasty.”

Again Scorio chuckled. “And modest.” But then a thought occurred to him. “Wait. That because you’re an engorger?”

The toad quirked its head to one side. “Not understand.”

“I mean, the way you’re oozing Coal mana right now. How you can, ah, saturate yourself in it and not run out of power.”

If Nox could have blinked, Scorio bet that he would have. “Engorger. Strange name. But yes. Nox use Delightful Secret Marinating technique.”

Scorio stared at Nox. “Delightful Secret Marinating technique.”

A black tongue swiped out and across the toad’s mouth, so quick that Scorio barely saw it. “Yes. Delightful Secret Marinating technique.”

“That’s your actual technique’s name? All right.” Then Scorio held up both hands. “Wait a second. You have a technique?”

Nox didn’t respond.

“I mean, I didn’t think fiends had… techniques.” Scorio’s words petered off awkwardly. How offensive had he just been?

“Fiend? Nox Imperial Ghost Toad.”

“Oh,” said Scorio, “right, of course. My apologies. You’re an… Imperial Ghost Toad who uses the Delightful Secret Marinating technique. Got it.”

Nox again remained silent, regarding Scorio with alert attention.

“I… well.” Scorio stood up a little straighter. “Would you show me how to get into the Old Academy, Nox?”

“Yes, Favorite Friend Scorio.”

“Wait, you know my name?”

Silence.

Scorio tried again: “How do you know my name?”

“Heard Favorite Friend Lianshi use it.”

Scorio raised his hand. “How do you—never mind.” He curled his hand into a fist, grimaced, then inclined his head. “Guess we didn’t notice you listening in.”

Silence.

“But great. If you could lead me inside, I would be most appreciative, Imperial Ghost Toad Nox.”

“Nox,” corrected the toad, and then hopped off the fallen column to land wetly upon the ground, flecks of Coal mana splatting about it. “Follow.”

The toad moved in fits and starts; a few ambling steps followed by a sudden leap that would carry it a dozen yards ahead. It led Scorio back toward the bridge, and then to its collapsed home. Upon landing on its favorite boulder, it turned slowly around to regard him.

“World below different from world above.”

“Right,” said Scorio. “I spent a few days in the caverns. I think I know what you mean.”

“World below more dangerous than world above. But we not go far. Stay close.” And then Nox hopped off his perch, into the hollow crater beneath the collapsed columns and roofing, and disappeared.

“Right,” said Scorio again to himself, wiping his palms on his hips. “Just follow the Imperial Ghost Toad into the caverns. What could go wrong?”

He hesitated, sighted back toward the bustling city. But what choice had he? Taking a deep breath, he stepped under an angled column and into the hollow within. The basement was a nest of fallen rubble, but with enough cleared away to reveal a tunnel that descended nearly vertically into the dark. Scorio edged down into the pit, slipping and sliding toward the tunnel, and paused at its lip, peering down into the gloom.

Sharpened his darkvision, and saw that only some five yards below the tunnel leveled off. Was Nox waiting below to ambush him? Was he being ungrateful for continuing to suspect the toad? No matter. Scorio labored to ignite his Heart, as there was precious little Coal mana in the air, and leaped down into the dark.