227. The Principle of Things

  Serac’s first instinct was to check in with the others. Make sure she hadn’t imagined things. Sure enough, every member of her party had visibly tensed in response to the gibberish greeting from nowhere.

  Only Caraway showed no reaction. Perhaps the message was meant exclusively for Wayfaring ears. Moreover, only Zacko showed any glimmer of comprehension. Perhaps the gibberish word wasn’t so gibberish to a Manesferan.

  Amitabha, the non-face repeated, as if fishing for verbal acknowledgment. It did so with a gentle, soothing voice. Surprisingly pleasant on the senses.

  Serac had no personal experience with bedtime stories, but she would’ve loved for a mom or dad to tuck her into bed with a voice so gentle, soothing, and caring. In fact, her eyelids even drooped a little, nearly lulled to sleep despite the earliness of the hour.

  And despite the urgency of the situation. The illusive being refused to show itself in full, but Serac recognized it well enough. They’d first ‘met’ on the lowest floor of the Riverside Necropolis, right before Gladiolus had powered up into his final form. It was surely no coincidence that their second meeting now took place right on the heels of another Paradox event.

  “What did you do with Trav?” Serac blurted, pushing through her sleepiness. No preamble nor hard evidence, but she was 100% sure the question was directed exactly where it belonged. “And don’t even try to pretend you had nothing to do with it.”

  The being didn’t answer right away. Serac had ample experience with connivers who liked to keep things close to their chests, but somehow, this didn’t strike her as one such example. No, the pause was one of peaceful reflection. Here was a Deva who merely liked to sit with their thoughts before sharing them. As such, when they did answer, Serac had no trouble believing them.

  From the Gloam rose the hunter. To the Gloam the shepherd has returned. The man you named ‘Trav’ is, for the time being, one with his Keeper—as is only the due denied to the people of this Realm for far too long.

  Gods and their riddles. Serac knew better than to expect straightforward answers from souls in high places. Even so, the calming effects of the Deva’s voice persisted. She couldn’t bring herself to shake her fist at them, despite being very much in the mood only minutes ago.

  Fret not, the Deva continued, as if having read her mind. Appearances may deceive, but names are ever honest. The Keeper is a benevolent warden of its people. Your fellow is safe and at peace within the Gloam, and you may soon choose to join him… should your Path strike concord with that of the Realm’s. Amitabha.

  Serac had to frown, and not just because she’d become very sleepy again. The Deva had made an honest attempt at clarifying things, of that she was sure. But the way they went about it only muddied the waters. My Path strike concord with the Realm’s? Since when do Realms have their own Path?

  “Amitabha to you too,” Zacko interjected then, ever casual even in the face of riddles and disembodied voices. “Sorry to interrupt your little moment with our Princess, but we’ve got places to be and Realm Immortals to call on. Are you here to help us do that? If not, then either catch us later when we’re less busy… or give us something solid to punch.”

  Maybe not the exact phrasing Serac would’ve gone for, but the sentiment was shared among the group. The Deva again took a moment to consider their answer. The fog swirled anew, as if to mirror the churning of a god’s mind.

  The Spiderling Ghost. The Deva murmured, invoking the temporary epithet from Zacko’s Paradox form. The voice was as gentle as ever, yet it sent a chill down Serac’s spine. Beside her, Zacko flattened his eyebrows.

  Yes. I see it, the Deva continued, as if to themself. A most curious transmutation—perhaps unique in all Mount Meru. I’ve heard many a superlative about the Upheaver, yet it seems the company she keeps is extraordinary in their own right. As to your query, Spiderling, I’ve no intention to forestall anyone’s Path. I merely wished to acquaint myself—as Tidereign’s overseer—with those who summited the Realm of their own will and ability. Amitabha.

  A curious transmutation? Unique in all Mount Meru? Serac couldn’t help but glance at Zacko again, only to wince at the pall that had come over him. She recognized the look, of course. The last time Zacko wore the exact expression had been in front of a different Deva.

  “That’s a curious way of phrasing it.” It was Renna’s turn to join the interrogation of a god. Though she apparently had a different sticking point in mind. “You imply the Mrigas who ascended before us had done so without the commensurate ‘will and ability’. Do you deny that they met the requirements for Ascension?”

  I don’t, the Deva with perhaps their promptest reply. The Mrigas you refer to were all KL-90 or higher when they were ‘ferried’ through the twice-lit city. And the Keeper had, to be sure, seen fit to grant each and every one a Mandate. Yet you of all people, Finless, should know the fallibility of an Immortal’s judgment.

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  Another callback to a Paradoxical epithet. Serac now glanced at Renna on the other side, though considerably less apprehensive about what she might find. Sure enough, the pink frog maintained her mellow demeanor, letting a god’s counter-interrogation wash off her like itinerant ripples.

  “Alright, enough chit-chat.” Serac felt compelled to intervene. She couldn’t call herself a party leader while hiding behind her companions. “I get it. You know stuff. But I know you didn’t just come here to flaunt your big mysterious Deva energy. So? Out with it. What would it take for us to get rid of you, so we can get on with our day?”

  The Deva’s longest pause yet coincided with the fog’s most restless movement. The swirling and writhing eventually did settle, back into a featureless face and its gentle, soothing voice.

  The Upheaver. Not the first time the Deva had referred to Serac’s (permanent) epithet, but the latest rendition carried unprecedented weight. A pronouncement. An evocation.

  This time, it wasn’t just a chill that ran down Serac’s spine. With it, a mad cackle rose in the opposite direction, all the way up to her throat, where she gulped it down along with the adrenaline that suddenly flooded her system. If she’d been sleepy before, she was wide awake now. And not just her.

  The Upheaver, the Deva reiterated, savoring the word with an almost wistful tenderness. I’ve crossed Paths with many an enterprising soul in my time, but perhaps never one defined by such profound and intrinsic emptiness. Tell me, you who carry the void within. How have you managed to stay upright all this time? In other words, how is it that you haven’t collapsed in on the yawning hollow that is your self?

  The fog remained perfectly still, waiting for a prod in response. Yet Serac had been momentarily stunned into silence.

  Wherever she’d expected the conversation to go, it hadn’t been this. The tenderness with which the question had been raised only heightened its sheer brutality. And as Serac reeled under a god’s all-seeing eyes, her companions once again came to her rescue.

  “You do seem to know stuff, but there’re obvious gaps in that knowledge.” Zacko with a lopsided smile. “Princess is the furthest thing from an empty soul I’ve ever met. If anything, she’s so full of spirit she sometimes doesn’t know what to do with it.”

  “I concur.” Renna with the mellow yet resolute assist. “I wouldn’t be where I am without her, and I know many Pretjordians who’ll say the same. If you think an empty soul as you so claim could rouse the ripples so, you’re sorely mistaken.”

  Love and gratitude filled Serac’s heart. But only for a fleeting moment. The emotional buff she’d received from her companions fell away and into the hollow that had opened up and now grew with every passing Ksana.

  Soul-search all you want. A new crisis of faith was always just around the corner.

  A Rakshasa born in the lowest pit of hell, with no family nor friend to point her up or down. New powers with every ascension, all with murky origins. Memories from another’s life. Dreams that didn’t belong. Home that continued to evade because it’d never been hers to chase in the first place.

  Even my [Oath] speaks to what an impostor I am, Serac mused numbly. Say ‘yes’ to everything? Why? To please everyone around me? Or just so I don’t have to think for myself? What is it that I truly believe in?

  Even as Serac tried and failed to fill the hollow that was her self, a shadow lurched from within. Said shadow thrived on chaos, and as such, it found the latest crisis most pleasing. It showed its pleasure with a mad, echoing cackle. Laughter and mirth matched only by the all-seeing god before it.

  Amitabha. The voice remained peaceful, yet the fog jumped and lurched in barely disguised delight. Steady, Upheaver. There’s no need to overcomplicate matters. Should you prove yourself worthy and climb on to heights yet unknown, you’ll one day understand. That the truth is always simpler than the lies with which we ballast our earthly existence.

  More riddles. More overbearing gibberish. Yet Serac couldn’t deny a ring of simple truth. The hollow continued to widen. She herself teetered on its edge.

  It’s the principle of things, the Deva went on, now with a distinctly mechanical cadence. A chant. A mantra oft repeated and lived. Promises conveyed and contradicted by the names we give ourselves. In embodying your oath, Upheaver, you threaten to enfold and efface all that you touch upon your Path.

  “What are you saying?” Serac shouted in desperation, clinging onto anything that might let her feel herself. “That I shouldn’t walk my Path? That I should just give up for the good of the universe?”

  The fog bounced some more, positively ebullient.

  I meant everything I said. Gentle. Tender. Yet not at all soothing. I’m not here to forestall your Path, Upheaver. But by the same token, I won’t stop others from trying to do just that… should that be their calling. Past, present, and future.

  The hollow expanded, steady and ruthless in its march. Somewhere, the flames that had burned within Serac ever since her Damnatorium days now flickered, pulled by a vacuum that knew only to fill itself. As the flames waned, they let in light of a different kind. Memories of strife both within and without. Both hers by authorship and hers by association.

  Meetra of the Reticent Tribe, streaming tears of blood and holding on by the sinews of a crumbling hand. The Realmtree on fire, consumed by hunger and stoked by manifold clashing wills. And the twice-lit city split forever more into Day and Night, with VOIDLING standing over its latest conquest.

  It was this latest and darkest memory—Serac’s by association—that found resonance in the here and now. The fog shifted again. Not to contort an illusion. But to reveal the physical, impossibly large, incomprehensibly ancient being behind it.

  Amitabha. The illusive god greeted the newcomer with the tenderness of a loving parent. Perhaps it’s time an Upheaver’s daredevil ways met an Immortal's judgment, fallible though it might yet prove to be.

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