The first step to designing a fitting martial art was to understand the nature of his qi. To start he’d need to catalogue his new Bloodline’s properties. His qi was edged black as obsidian. It was steeped in decay. It sank into whatever it touched, rotting skin and flesh and bone alike, burning away even layers of stone. It didn’t poison like acid; it poisoned like time. It was a force of withering.

It was also heavy as all Hells. That was the first thing he’d noticed about it, and it was only made more apparent each time he moved. Every step took him half a foot deep into the sand. Cloud-treading Steps would be more aptly named Cloud-stomping steps by how much he plummeted after each ratchet up. If he had to wager, it derived its weight from its origin. There was a resonance with it from deep within the Sinkhole… perhaps it was shed off some ungodly, giant serpent which dwelled in its depths?

Regardless. To do anything but crushing with this was folly. Kiting or ranged strikes were out—far, far too slow. To best leverage the weight, power, and destructive potential he needed to fight as the serpents did. He’d lean deep into grappling. He’d drown his victims in ash.

For such a task, the first Technique he’d make was a basic one. Every grappling Art always made use of handles: tools that latched onto the victims, established a connection with which to thrash them about. Handles came in all forms. Some, the most basic of them, took the form of ropes. Others fashioned them into massive hands, easy to manipulate intuitively. Some still diffused them, spreading them into vast nets to ensnare their victims.

There were, after all, only so many ways one could shape qi. Many of the most effective techniques ended up being variants of the same molds.

Which would he choose? By the nature of his qi he didn’t need to expend as much qi to form a full-fledged rope. But he wouldn’t go too diffuse either: a net would be overwhelming if he managed to ensnare his victims, but also far too slow. He needed a handle fast enough to catch his prey but also thick enough to lock them in place.

For him, chains might be appropriate.

Yes. He felt a maniacal grin sliding across his face and made no effort to stop it. He’d latch onto his victims, arrest them, strangle them. Melt them under the weight and rot.

Chains it was! For grappling builds he’d used too many ropes and flails, rope-darts and hooks in his lifetimes. Chains were well-tuned to the build, but they also offered some whimsy. There was only so many times you could chuck out a rope or dart before it got boring. Tongues of Flame was already losing its luster for him.

That was how he spent the rest of the night. Expelling qi, fashioning it to chain-linked shapes, testing their integrities, reshaping them again. At first it was crude. But like a sculptor whittling away a block of granite to a wrought statuette, he made slow, incremental improvements as the hours went on. And surely, his vision was made manifest.

By the time he finished a first instance he was satisfied with the sun hadn’t yet risen. Instead it still hid beyond the horizon, too shy yet to rise but gathering courage fast; it lathered the skies baby blue.

The last thing was to name this. A quirk came to the edge of his lips. These would be chains of death, wouldn’t they? Why not name them after an old pal?

Gathering himself, he instantiated them into the world. They flowed out like rivers of ink, coursing endlessly unto themselves in two shimmering, long twists of qi. Against the backdrop of the lightening sky they looked like the last true vestiges of twilight.

[Level-up!]

[Yama’s Chains Lv. 1!]

Very nice. He twirled them around, feeling their weight. Deceptively heavy. He’d need a dummy to test this out on. With three quick steps into the air he got a birds-eye-view of the surroundings, but it was mostly barren. Not even a Vordor in sight. The sun was close to rising; he didn’t have time to search anything out.

A cactus would have to make do. He snaked a chain around the nearest one, felt it secure, and turned up the intensity.

Black infected the green skin of the cactus, spreading out like frostbite. He charged in more qi; the spikes began to droop in unison. He’d struck to something in the core of the plant: something that governed its functions. He’d poisoned its very life.

Mere seconds ago, the cactus had been vibrant. Healthy. Now it was shriveling before his eyes. The black spread out all along the points of contact, a widening dead zone which hissed and crackled, reaching to in smoky tendrils, greedily grabbing at the rest of the thing.

Dorian flexed a muscle. A light tug.

There was a sound like a whips’ crack. The top broke off like a cracker and fell to the sands in a muted whump. He smiled wolfishly.

This cactus had no qi in it. Naturally it had no defense for its life-force. Against someone with qi, especially of a higher level, their mere cultivation base would take off the brunt of the decay—albeit at great cost to the victim’s qi reserves.

One other thing came as a surprise. Perhaps it shouldn’t have.

In that move, especially as he intensified the force of the decay, he felt a chord strike within him. A resonance with a Law.

It must’ve been buried in the Bloodline, inherent to it. All gods needed Laws. It was the basis of their Immortality: to tie themselves into the fabric of the Multiverse so that they, too, turned eternal. When Dorian turned up the force of the decay, it wasn’t just a normal Qi aspect. There was a faint whisper of something else—a Law of Decay, perhaps? Poison? He couldn’t yet tell.

Yet again he was reminded of just how lucky he was to stumble onto such a Bloodline. It was an insane ask. The Lower Realms were almost devoid of gods; of all of his runs, he’d gone the Bloodline route about two-thirds of the time. This ranked among the top Bloodlines he’d ever gotten.

It also might lock him in. That was the downside of Bloodlines: there was a sacrifice of flexibility. He already saw it in needing to build an efficient offense around his newfound qi. It’d likely also lock him into a certain set of Laws, too. But that was likely a consideration for at least a century down the line. At present, he was pretty much set.

The only thing left was to wreak devastation and snatch resources, one event at a time.

He was feeling pretty pleased with the whole thing. He went back humming a whimsical tune.

***

He visited Kaya again a few hours into the hike. Her orneriness had faded to quiet. She seemed, for lack of a more emotive word, bummed. Like she hadn’t the energy to muster for pissed anymore.

It must’ve been very hard on her. A lifelong warrior who’d always wielded her physique like a club, reduced to being stretchered around. He’d seen it in many a warrior before. Some fell into longstanding depression. He doubted she’d fall victim to it, given her relatively short recovery window, but it was something to watch.

In any case, she seemed a lot more withdrawn with him when they spoke. Perhaps it was just a phase; perhaps it was a product of her funk. Perhaps she still harbored some annoyance at him. Scratch that—by the curt nods and clipped replies, she definitely still harbored some annoyance.

She’d likely snap out of it soon. Or so he hoped.

***

After a few more hours of walking and cycling, he got another welcome notification.

[Level-up!]

[Origin Lv. 9]

It brought a smile to his face. It was the only cause for a smile he’d had in a while. He was alright with boredom, but the sameness of the desert was not something he looked forward to for the next century. He wondered how mortals, faced with no prospects in such a cruel, dull place, could bear it for centuries. At what point was it less living than merely surviving?

Then, just as the afternoon started to settle in, he felt a shift in the air.

It wasn’t a revelation. It wasn’t even major. But when one is accustomed to nothing for so long, even a smidge of something draws attention. Here it was the qi in the air. As Dorian cycled he felt it coming easier, flowing in a thicker stream. The ambient qi all around them had upped a gradation.

The more they went the more the difference grew. He let it settle into his skin, a comfortable humidity. They were getting close.

Soon Chief Rust signaled a halt to the procession. He turned to face the assembled Tribesmen. “We lay camp here,” he said in his trademark drone. “Tomorrow we make the final march to the Festival. We end early to allow for final preparations, and to grant you all some rest.”

He surveyed his tribe coolly. “I needn’t remind you all that this year, more than all others, is critical. Feast well. Barter well. Win well. The survival of the Tribe may depend on it.”

It didn’t take long for Dorian to pitch a small tent. But they’d settled down early; the day was only half-over. He thought of returning to Hu’s to stock up on more elixirs when a Tribesman, one of the foragers, walked up to him.

“Erm, Chosen Io, sir?” squeaked the boy. “Master Tuketu calls for you. It’s… about the Festival. And the hunt. All the Hunters are gathering up front, sir.”

Sure enough, a small but burgeoning crowd of the Tribe’s most elite fighters was forming at the front of the caravan. Frowning, Dorian went to join them.

Tuketu stood a body-length away from everyone else, greeting each new arrival by name and tight-lipped smile. When the crowd had filled out, he began to speak in a slow, measured cadence.

“This week will be among the most fruitful weeks of training of your year,” he said softly, eyes glinting. “The Festival takes place at the solstice; it is a time of unparalleled qi density. A cultivator’s dream environment occurs, but for a few nights only. This you know.”

He paused. “If the Oases’ augurs right, however… this year’s Festival occurs at a time of unparalleled potency. You see, dear Hunters, this year the moons cross paths. This year, the energies of Heaven and Earth will overflow the air.”

His voice lowered a register, grew soft as the Hunters around him all perked up. “What’s that mean?” said a scruffy Hunter at the front.

“I don’t know,” said Tuketu with a shrug. He smiled. “The last time a Festival coincided with such potent cosmic phenomena was centuries ago. We know nothing of the event, save for this—“

He looked side to side. “Things get strange when the Heavens fall.”

Frowns and murmurs all around. “What’s that s’pose to mean?”

“I don’t know,” said Tuketu again cheerily. “I suppose we’ll find out together. Maybe the qi will grow so dense it solidifies to mid-air blobs. Maybe the energies of Heaven and Earth form living mirages. Maybe we’re all driven insane when the moons eclipse. Or maybe it’s nothing at all: maybe it’s simply a few days of unusually good cultivation. I make no hard claims… except that our next few days will turn out rather interesting, I expect.”

That said, he waved a hand in dismissal. “Rest up, Hunters! We’ve great and terrible things ahead of us.”

But just as the bulk of the group turned to leave, he held out a hand.

“Kuruk! Hento! Hanska! Nakai! Io! Our newest Hunters—stay back. In preparation, I have a special assignment for you.”