Chapter 2

Spatial Arts were among the most complex Arts. Whether in warfare or peacetime, the transportation of goods, supplies, and men was vital to the running of any state. It was not hard to imagine the victor between one with the control of Space on their side and one without. As such, the School of Distances, the only one of its kind in the Midlands, held immense prestige despite its lack of numbers.

The Rebellion of the Shan (or the Mokarra as they were still known then) against the ruling Li had completely decimated the Spatial Arts in the Midlands. Both sides had decided that the School of Distances was far too dangerous a threat, so its members were hunted down. The longer the war continued, the fewer practitioners remained, and once the war was over, the School had been virtually destroyed. Attempts had been made to restore the Arts, but such efforts would require time to bear fruits. Therefore, the Cult of the Eternal Serpent became the only power capable of Spatial Arts on the continent, increasing its already sky-high prestige and influence. It also goes without saying that Spatial artefacts and equipment became priceless.

On the Arts of the Midlands,

Procured by the Imperial Archives in 1534 SY

Elzorath came out gasping and lurching, his innards screaming to be let out. He almost puked but got a hold of himself at the last second. This was not his first, but it certainly felt like it.

As he was coughing his guts out, a gruff voice spoke up, “You done yet.”

He said nothing, though his eyes still involuntarily drifted to the speaker – a large man with orc-like limbs and calloused hands. Whether it was the face or the hands, his skin was a glorified patchwork of colours - evidence of battle scars and haphazard treatments. He wore only a simple pair of grey pants, more fit for commoners rather than a man of his elevated status. As was the case with all of the organization’s members, the man wore a mask. His mask of pure gold bore elaborate patterns – as if he was some boy toy from the pleasure districts. However, these patterns served a few practical functions, as did the material. One of which would be aura suppression, which worked alongside the mask itself to cover the identity of its wearers. Most of the time, it worked fairly well. However, gold masks were rare, and Goldmasked in this particular realm were even rarer.

As such, he knew the man behind the mask: Eronlutz, the right-hand man of the organization’s leader. He was also a distant cousin, bearing their shared surname.

The man said nothing, only making a small gesture. Immediately afterwards, Eronlutz leapt off. Elzorath followed. The older man knew to measure his leaps, to regulate his pace so that his companion could keep up, but just that. Eronlutz knew clearly the limits of his cousin, likely even more so than the latter himself. Therefore, Elzorath barely moved fast enough, his muscles straining and his heart thumping with each next leap.

Although their interactions could only be counted on a single hand, Elzorath could see through his cousin’s façade of temperance and silence. Eronlutz was a prideful man who regularly crushed the spirits of those around him. The man expressed his strength through silent displays, such as this instance right here; in other times, he blasted people with the aura of an Ascended. He enjoyed superiority, to a fault. Elzo-Rath was tempted to consider it as pettiness, unbefitting a man of his rank; however, if that could be deemed pettiness, then the whole world would be a gathering of petty scoundrels.

Even if it was true, he would rather not confirm it.

As they dashed through the sky, Elzo-Rath took in the scenery, both above and below. The skies were clear of clouds and the sun, the only sign that this was an enclosed world and not the outside. That, and its limited size, of course. The lands below were mostly plains and forests. The forests were home to some of the world’s rarest breeds, while the open grasslands had a range of building complexes, most of which were built very simplistically.

He was familiar with it all, capable of naming just about every location in this closed world. Yet, he was disgusted with this familiarity, wishing nothing more than to forget everything and to know nothing. Not the least because he was certain of their current destination.

They stopped, landing on a small mound in the Forest of Souls. The name alone should be telling enough. The fact it was the main training ground for this realm? He had been speechless the first time around. And on this instance, he also did not speak, if only because he understood what he was to do.

It did not even take a minute for a half-dead child to appear. A young girl, probably around eleven years of age. She may be taller than those of her age, but she was a midget nonetheless. And right now, her hair was bloodied and one of her arms was twisted. Likely broken. She was desperately running, one head turned back. She tripped over a root. Her pursuer, a Jade-fanged Monkey, screeched as it closed in. Its signature fangs, covered in clear green saliva, were inches away from her back.

Its hunger would have to go unfulfilled, however. Elzo-Rath came from above, his leg kicking the beast sprawling to the ground. A few twitches later, the monkey stopped moving.

He turned to the little girl. She was still fully conscious – she would not have lasted had she passed out so easily. Her eyes darted between him and the monster. After it was clear the monkey had died, those suspecting eyes settled on him. He thought about wiping her face of blood, but seeing her twitchiness, he decided against such. He spoke, wincing at her flinch. “Little princess, it is alright now. I’ll take you back, is that alright?”

She moved her mouth, but could not find her voice. She simply mouthed thanks. Throughout, she still did not move any closer to him; she slightly inched away instead.

Out of nowhere, she fell unconscious. He glanced at Eron-Lutz, barely suppressing his displeasure. The other man said nothing. He did the same.

Elzo-Rath picked the girl up, using a piece of cloth to wipe her face. She had a rather round face, as did most children. Her eyes were wide open, a small side-effect of what his companion did. She bore irises of shining yellow, emulating molten metal. His were the same, though his whites were different from hers. Hers were an ashy black.

Gold in black. That was the distinctive mark of the Imperial Family, a mark from their greatest ancestor, the Smith of Heaven and Earth. Some would consider it a holy gift, and in some ways that was true.

He considered it their greatest misfortune.

To be born to the blood of royalty meant to serve the nation with everything one had. This duty began from the moment they took their first breath to the second they breathed their last. A heavy burden enough on its own, yet it was not enough.

At the end of the day, geniuses are created, not born. And the best of the best was created through competition and hardship, not with love and care. To rule, above even the very best was what they had to be.

At least that was what certain powerful men believed. And that alone was enough to decide the lives and fates of these boys and girls.

After birth, they were provided with four years of simple bliss. Personally, he would call it the Fattening. Every day, they were fed the most nutritious of food, ranging from Bejeweled Fruits to Dragon steak. They drank and bathed in sacred water. They had a life of absolute comfort. Some of them even retained their mothers, believe it or not. These supplements gave them a massive boon, an advantage over their peers. That was not even mentioning their bloodlines.

Most of these luxuries were still available later - with a catch, of course. They simply had to step on their kin to prove their worth. If a person has only known the taste of heaven, would they be willing to live in the dirt and mud of mortal existence? He doubted it.

After those first four years, there would be a change. The first four years afterwards were relatively straightforward. They were also danger-free. The royals had to study, engraving the words of past and present into their minds. They also started taking their martial lessons, engraving the lessons of the masters into their bodies. With all those aforementioned supplements, their physical and mental capacities would be more developed than most children. Though, it was only to an extent.

One important aspect was, of course, “teaching the virtues”. He would call it indoctrination.

It was also here that a ladder would be first introduced, where the distribution of resources could no longer be a guarantee. The further one fell behind, the less likely they were to stay competitive. In some cases, the worst amongst them would have their lives cut short. Their deaths serve to motivate others.

To die as a symbol for others. What a miserable fate.

From eight to sixteen was where competition was fiercest. It was also where danger was the most pervasive. These young princes and princesses would be thrown into the fray with the other camps of trainees. Some of them were nobles, mainly from the Ironwood Clan, but most of these trainees were of common birth. They might have been orphans, they might have been captives at birth, or they might have simply been sold by their starving parents for a tiny pouch of jingling coins. Regardless, once any person stepped into those camps, they would all stand equal. All of them would prove their worth to the Roots, or die trying.

These camps honed the trainees, including the royals, in all skills imaginable. Survival, combat, socializing, … all qualities were tested. They would be thrown to the mercy of nature, in poisonous forests, harsh deserts, and the roaring seas. They would be thrown to the perils of human nature, in trials of backhanded treachery and open battle.

These were conducted in small places, whether in enclosed worlds or in managed areas. Regardless, the death rates here still remained high. Some had the good fortune to be saved, by people like Elzorath. But many simply died.

Luck… such a fickle thing. Yet some considered it a vital quality. Maybe it indeed was.

After those eight years, these royals would be sent to war, as were the other camp children. The Empire was constantly at war, after all, and options were numerous. They could be sent to the border with the Li Dynasty in the south, where dragons roared. Or they could serve in the east, as security against their nominal subjects.

However, those were not where the fiercest battles broke out, so naturally, that was not the royals’ battlefield. Instead, they were to join the incursions against the two Sharon kingdoms in the Northeast, where mountains rose past the clouds and the streams rushed faster than the infamous northern wind. And that was not even mentioning the deadly winters.

In the past three decades, thirty or so royals had made it to this point. To their youthful sixteen. Only seven have made it out. Seven out of thirty prodigies. Seven out of the original four hundred.

There were also the common trainees to think about… but for those, he had no number. Nor did he ever seek to find out.

The harshest fires temper the best blades. That was what his father had told him, and what his father’s father also said. But to Elzorath, far too many of those beautiful blades break in the process. Was the cost worth it?

People certainly thought so.

One of those seven royals had been crowned as Emperor of the Emerald Throne, the Monarch of the Sacred Forges, and the Heaven Mandated Ruler of the Midlands. The other six, in addition to three of the previous generation, were Kings. They were arguably the best set of royals the Empire had seen in quite some time, six on the Fifth Floor and four on the Sixth, including the Emperor who bordered on the Seventh. None of them shone as bright as the Founders of the Li and Shan Dynasties, or even some other great men, but no generation of royals had ever produced as many Ascended in a single generation. With the equipment from the Arsenal, the Sixth Floor practitioners could even act as pseudo cultivators of the Seventh Floor.

They were also far and beyond the mediocrity and rot that so often engulfed the Imperial Family. Was it the coddling… the loss of perspective… the lack of sympathy…? Regardless, whatever the causes, it was far too easy to become rotten when sitting on thrones, bedding beauties of a hundred races, and eating food fit for the gods. Over almost a thousand years and two separate dynasties, the Empire had undergone fourteen major civil wars. Eleven of those were related to the matter of succession. Too often, a successor was decided not by the worth of their own ability, but by the power of their maternal family, by the power of their petty factions. If they did not come to ruin due to a rebelling brother, they would ruin themselves by ruining the nation.

The Empress of Heart Flames conquered the entire continent and subjugated even those beyond the high seas; now the Empire was barely half of what she had graciously left behind. Most of that lost territory came as a direct or indirect result of civil war or incompetent rulers. The latter was the bigger reason, in his personal opinion.

This system had clear benefits. It was also one of the organization’s main strengths. Yet, as he looked at this girl’s face, as he remembered every innocent soul lost, he could not help but falter in his steps. The girl was on the Seventh Step of the First Floor, not bad for someone of her age, but it was simply not good enough.

She would likely die. If she somehow managed to survive, she would likely become a concubine. Likely for one of her more distant cousins. Any potential children would be sent here, and the cycle continues.

A desperate screech snapped him out of his thoughts. It continued for a short second before it stopped dead.

Eron-Lutz was holding a crystal of crimson. The other reason for the forest’s name. The souls and blood of these unfortunate children feed a species of white trees. The crystal was its fruit.

It was a valuable ingredient. Looking at the sparky white dots flying about within it, this crystal was certainly of high quality - most found in this particular forest were. It might even be enough to cover the cost of raising one cute little prince from birth to adulthood.

He almost gagged at the thought.

They left the little girl to one of the caretakers. As the latter spoke, Elzo-Rath blocked out the name of the young princess. He did so with most of those toiling here. Cowardice was his motivation.

Silently, they headed for the centre of this enclosed world. Even ten minutes before reaching their destination, he could see grey roots break through the earth, crisscrossing with one another to form a veritable maze. Surrounding them were pillars of red flames, exploding in short bursts. These bursts of fire vague resembled flowers.

A ginormous tree stood at the centre of it all. Its leaves were non-existent, but its branches were extensive indeed. They were also swaying constantly, like a giant swatting a fly. Its colour was a metallic grey – the tree’s signature.

The tree had always incited in him mixed emotions. Awe, gratitude, resentment, all in one package. Its only twin, which sat at his ancestral home, had done the same.

He calmed his beating heart or rather, tried to. What would happen today would very well change everything about his life.

The one responsible, and the person currently deep inside this magnificent tree:

The Grandmaster and Founder of the Roots, the Shadow of the Emperor, the Kingmaker, the Duke of Glorious Restoration, the Former Prime Minister of the Emerald Empire, the Spider of Midlands,

The Head of the Ironwood Clan, Oro-Das Ironwood,

His grandfather.