DIVINE CYCLES

Desert stretched out in a small corner of Skyfire Paradise, with sand bellowing gently underneath the passing winds. Hilltops rose like waves, giving sense of tranquility to the beholders. Yet, at the moment, none of that could be seen; those same hilltops were trampled over like ants, and serenity of desert was doused in deep stench of the dying.

Fyre bit his lower lip as he retreated, with dozen or so skeletons suddenly leaping from underneath the sand and blocking the incoming attack for him using their bodies. His Master was wrapped deep in the enemy ranks, battling valiantly, yet Fyre only felt helplessness whenever he tried to approach him and assist.

Initial count of two hundred had slowly been reduced down to one hundred and fifty, yet the pressure only increased. The dead feared not the dying – that was the calling of a Summoner. However, those he fought were already dead; why would the dead fear the deal? He felt completely useless, but, unlike his Master, he had no other means of fighting.

Fyre was always talented when it came to Mana control. During one of his adventures, he stumbled upon a tomb and praised his luck. Only, when he came to the end and opened the final coffin, the living eyes stared back at him, giving him fright of his life. That living corpse soon became his Master. The latter realized Fyre’s talent in Mana control, and slowly taught him how to use it warp life itself and bring dead onto the surface of the world to reign yet again. Bit by bit, he had begun understand concepts, and, within a few years, he managed to break into Grand Realm.

However, even when he broke through, he still couldn’t fathom the depths of his Master’s strength – or even which path he followed. The only thing he could sense was the deep profoundness in those eyes, which seemed to be deeper than any ocean and higher than any mountain.

After many years, he was finally able to see it – his Master was definitely a Divine Magus, and not one of those who crudely crossed the border. Unlike Fyre, he didn’t follow the path of the dead – but rather the Path of Madness. Unlike summoning, Madness was much more of an abstract concept, and even Fyre had trouble understanding what it meant at first. Now, it was displayed before him: Madness wasn’t as profound as he believed. It was just that… madness.

His Master used his own fists, bones of those he had killed, even sand and his own body to fight. There was no method to his arts, no order to the way he fought, and while his fighting style seemed too berserk to be useful, Fyre knew better. It would be better to say that it was unpredictable rather than anything else. One moment he would be bashing one skull, and the next he would be kicking someone’s ribcage on the other side of the battlefield.

As he distanced himself yet again, Fyre took a deep breath and calmed down. So far, he only summoned basic skeletons as he knew this would be a battle of attrition. The true enemies and those that would prove to be most troublesome were still at the far end of the enemy forces. If he went all out for these mere minions, how would he be able to assist his master when the true test arrived? Still, it was clear that ordinary bones meant nothing here.

Steeling his will, he converged Mana into his fingertip and leapt high up into the sky the very next moment. As he reached the peak of his jump, dark, black smoke began sculpting his summon – a Bone Dragon. Although not his strongest summon, it was still among the high-tiered ones. As Fyre descended, he landed on Dragon’s back and scouted the battlefield from the higher ground.

The Dragon was roughly twenty meters long and half as tall, made entirely out of ashened bones. As he commanded the Dragon, the beast somehow took flight, although both its wings were merely thin bones. From above, he saw his Master ripping apart a skeleton while another bashed a mace against his back; yet, his Master didn’t even seem to notice the strike.

Realizing that the skeletons weren’t being of much help, Fyre knew he had to change tactics: and this was the best he came up with. Aerial support was one of the things he excelled at, as he usually fought this way; sending his skeletal army to march on foot while he supported them from the Dragon’s back. He soon began condensing purple-tinted spheres of light and throwing them like bombs from up high.

Upon impact, the spheres would explode and unleash massive energy which would sweep over a large area, leaving behind demolished bombs and craters. Alas, he only managed to throw two before he garnered unwarranted attention; one of the twelve leaders sitting at the very back took notice of him and suddenly flashed into the sky, appearing mere meters away from the Dragon’s head, rising a spear in its hand and sweeping sideways at the Dragon’s head.

The bones burst apart into ash, and Fyre was knocked backward from Dragon, flying in a strange arc toward the ground. Quickly fixing his stance, he saw the figure still reaching toward him as it dove against the currents, pointing the spearhead at Fyre’s head. The latter’s brows furrowed lightly as he spread both his arms and controlled the Mana perfectly. A gigantic, nearly two-hundred-meter wide skeletal arm suddenly burst from beneath the desert’s sand and slapped sideways at the figure. Unable to dodge, the figure could only shift its spear sideways and block; however, as though swatting a fly, it was blown through the air and landed nearly a mile away, causing sand to explode outward as though it were a splash in water caused by gigantic stone.

Fyre’s expression didn’t lighten in any way, though. He landed gracefully on the sand and immediately began controlling his Mana; arm after arm burst forth from within the sand, all dyed in ashened bones, surrounding Fyre like guardian angels. A mere moment later, the figure flashed from the distance and appeared a few dozen meters away from Fyre. He finally took a closer look at it.

Its bones were covered in ash-gray cloak while his spear stood upright. Where two eyes were supposed to be were purplish flames, and in-between them a beautiful, sapphire gem glistening in faint cyan. Wind howled lightly as the figure’s robe fluttered, revealing the skeletal body hidden beneath.

“… that old geezer is truly unlucky to have picked such a rotten seed,” the figure suddenly spoke, startling Fyre. “He had high hopes, yet they were all blasted away.” Fyre watched in confusion, but he never let his guard down. “Do you really believe he can defeat us, child?” the figure chuckled creepily. “True, he was once unparalleled existence – Divine Magus of Ninth Cycle. Do you even understand what that represents? It represents pinnacle of human’s existence. I’d wager only eight exist as we speak. Much like those eight, he too had once seen it all – but, it was many, many years before. What can a remnant do? Nothing.” however past the point when he heard that his master was a Divine Magus of Ninth Cycle, Fyre froze and was unable to hear anything else.

Much like every other realm, Divine Realm also had its sub-divisions, usually referred to as Cycles. One cycle represented union of elements; from what Fyre knew, reaching Third Cycle was already considered a talent that defies the nature’s order. Ninth? Most claimed it’s just a legend, to stir the spirits of youth. Yet, his Master was such a legend? How could Fyre swallow that? Those gentle eyes, patient tone, coarse voice guiding him through the darkness of Magic and unveiling light… was a Ninth Cycle Divine Magus?

In truth, Fyre knew very little of the Divine Cycles, only a few sentences that his Master mentioned off-hand, and some things he himself had stumbled upon over his journeys. These concepts were far too profound for him; he couldn’t even understand what it meant to unite the elements, much less what further Cycles represented.

“Do you understand what it means to reach the Ninth Cycle, boy?” the figure asked in a mocking tone. “Of course you don’t. Go as far back as you wish throughout the history, and very few will know the answer to that question. Why? Because only those who have walked the peak could tell you. Not those who’ve come close, or even glanced at it or grasped it with the tip of their fingers. No, only those who have been bathed in it. When he lived, none dared to even look at him. A mere glance of his could stir a heart ablaze, and you would die. However, all things fade with age. He was once One with the Element, and now, he can no longer even hear it. It escapes him. Yet, his beloved disciple cannot even see his Master’s sorrows, much less comprehend them.”

“…” Fyre stared blankly as his mind was besieged by myriad of new concepts he had no hope of deciphering even if he had ten lifetimes. He only understood the figure’s last point: that he never truly knew the man who had taught him everything. And, his Master would most-likely die without Fyre ever understanding and knowing. That thought pained him, yet, what could he do? Demand the answers? Even if his Master would give them to him, would Fyre be able to understand them in the first place? He doubted that very much. So much that he was even afraid to ask.

“Don’t dread it yet, child,” the figure said. “All those who have touched the edge become like your Master; rather, most of them end up worse. To touch the edge is to commune with the Heart, Soul and Mind of the Source. Who can withstand that? They are washed away by the currents, and what they once knew turns into a blur, and they themselves will never again touch upon that edge. It is a Gift which lasts briefly. That old fool had sacrificed everything to walk that path, and even to this day, he’s yet to give up his ancient promises. You have no hope of fulfilling them, or helping him on this day. Go, leave. Our fight is with him. Our grievances are with him. However today turns to be, you will never see any one of us again. We are already dead, child. We do not belong to the world of living. Let us settle the debts of the eons bygone in peace. Only thing you can accomplish here is die and join us, and I very much doubt that old fool would want that…” as the figure said its peace, it suddenly flashed and disappeared, retreating back to the ranks behind the skeletons. Fyre stood dumbfounded, unable to say a single word.

“Listen to him, Fyre…” a familiar voice startled him awake; looking around, he was still alone, but his Master’s voice echoed inside his mind nonetheless. “I have shown you what you needed to see. You have your own path to follow, your own dreams to accomplish. Do not cling to the bones and vices of the dead. It is time we part ways.”

“… Master...” Fyre suddenly felt sorrow assail his heart as though a sword pierced right through. He knew that this was it. The last time he’ll hear the voice which guided him and shaped him into a man he was today.

“… Master has one last task for you, if you have a heart to accomplish it for me.”

“Anything… anything… anything…” Fyre already felt tears stream down his cheeks, unable to hold them back.

“Should you ever chance upon that boy,” the old voice said. “Give him my gratitude for all he’s done… that is all.”

“… that boy…?” although Fyre muttered questioningly, a face had already formed inside his mind. Who else but him? Even if Fyre was uncertain as to why his Master’s last wish would be that, he still complied. Even if he’d have to go to hell and back to find him, he’d still do it.

He glanced one last time at the distant echoes of the battle. With red eyes, he saw the solitary figure wrapped in the shroud of decay, and steeled his heart. Paying his respects one last time and bowing fully, he turned around and ran. He didn’t use magic or his summons, he ran using his own two feet. Ran as though wind carried him. He knew this day would come, yet, it felt no easier saying the final goodbye. Only that fading image of a face remained, one which would accompany him until his own death, many, many moons later…