Chapter 62 - Cancer

  Something had gone very wrong. He can feel it as soon as awareness returns to him. His body is wrong, but the only description he can muster is that it feels ‘too alive’. He also knows, beyond any doubt, that his three Titles are gone. But rather than getting a sense of the new Title inhabiting the same ‘place’ within his soul, he feels it around him.

  The Gardener of Eden. The Title is certainly every bit as grand and vibrant as he could have wished for. And as his introspection continues, he notices a slow seeping of his power. Like a wispy vapor being leeched from his soul, the energy of his Animus accumulation is being wicked away into the surroundings. No, into the Title.

  That’s when it crystalizes for him. Normally, a Title’s representation would be housed within the spirit, forming a complex glyph in the same way a skill or spell would be etched into the soul. But turning his attention inwards further, the Title simply isn’t there. He can feel that it exists, whole and complete, only it isn’t held within him. It’s too expansive for that.

  Only after letting that realization set in does he let his focus shift to his surroundings. Straight ahead, he can see the opposite side of the chamber. Or what should have been the far side. The spherical cavern had already been a massive space, but now the far side of the chamber seems far further away than it should have been. And the stone is utterly shattered. On a second look however, the realization dawns on him that the far side of the cavern isn’t stone any longer. The detonation hadn’t just expanded the cavern by an immense degree, it had vitrified the stone. It’s glass.

  Glass, made from the shattered stone. Glassed, shattered, reduced to powder, and then remelted. The effects of the detonation had the effect of leaving the walls of the, now significantly larger, chamber a rippled and swirled mess of mottled reds and blacks. A day ago, he could have found a sense of beauty in the remnants of his work. Now, it only fills him with a deep revulsion.

  The barely noticeable draw on his energy becomes more insistent, pulling the power from him without his willing it. And he can feel where it’s flowing. The Title, The Gardener of Eden, is pulling in the fuel it needs. Part of his mind understands that it shouldn’t be possible, that he should need to will the Animus into action. And yet, he can’t muster any will at all to stop the draw. Again, part of his mind balks at the realization. But there’s nothing he can do to act on the thought. He is The Gardener of Eden, and he must tend his garden.

  Where he lays against the smoothed stone, sterile and made pure by the cataclysm of his own making, infinitesimal motes of shed skin carry life back to the vitrified terrain. Seeds for the garden. Fed by the Title pouring his power into the surroundings, the motes start to transform. Cells morph into bacterial spore, rapidly decaying their neighbors which in turn serve to feed the next wave. Bacteria evolve to fungus, mycelial tendrils spread, finding every imperfection in the glassy surfaces. Fungus evolves to lichen, spreading a moss-bed from around his still motionless body. A patchwork of muted greens, browns, and reds, creeps outwards and is forced to grow by the energies being pumped into the environment.

  Nature abhors a vacuum, and the deadzone he’d created is an affront to his new Title. The knowledge that it was caused by his own hand sends a shudder of existential agony through his spirit as the Title itself demands he restore what was destroyed. And still, he has no ability to will the process to end. His intent, his control, his willpower, all subsumed by the demands of a Title that shouldn’t exist. And its demands are vast.

  In a matter of minutes, the mosses have spread dozens of yards in every direction and the area directly around him starts to show signs of leafy green vegetation starting to sprout from the fertile bed it provides. And the rapid restoration of life shows no inclination to slow. The wider an area the greenery begins to cover, the more power is drawn out of him. But at least the Title’s demands begin to slacken as life is returned, allowing the man to at least think for himself again.

  That’s when the panic begins to set in. The Title is controlling him, and he knows it. While there’s a perceived need to ‘tend the garden’, he’s powerless to do anything but be pulled along for the ride. Leaving him incapable of even passing a thought that would contradict the sense of purpose instilled by the Title’s grip on his spirit. Tears well up in his eyes, dripping down his cheeks, but it’s just water for the garden.

  Mercurial Ascent is one of the first Apex to return to the chamber, having to squeeze through a gap barely wide enough for his chest to fit through, and even then it presses the breath from his lungs. The devastation is absolute. Nothing remains of the runes, the chamber itself, or the citadel. After Leviathan’s intervention, the blastwave was merely a nuisance to him, trivialized by Leviathan’s work and the adaptive nature of his own Title. But as he surveys the site, he bears witness to the garden being reborn with a lone figure laying at its center.

  At the edges of his awareness, something tickles at his perception. With barely a thought, the Apex throws his perceptions deeper behind the curtain of Reality with his own highly modified version of perception-augmentation. What he sees almost causes him to flee the chamber all over again.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Normally, his tailor-made skill would allow him to watch the threads of intent as others tug upon their will to enact their spellcraft. It’s part of what allows him to navigate the ever-changing landscape of Apex politics and battlefields alike. What he sees now chills Mercurial Ascent to his core. The threads of intent were pulled far outwards and twisted in on themselves to form an impossible structure. A Title Glyph, massive and imposing. A Title consuming the intent of its holder.

  He’s still gawking at the horror before him when Corvus arrives back at the chamber. The crow lands lightly next to Mercurial Ascent, and rests a hand on the other Apex’s shoulder. “Marcus,” Corvus uses the man’s name rather than the Title, “what are we looking at?” He asks, the black-marble eyes fixed on the sprawled man laying in a patch of spreading green.

  “Something that shouldn’t exist.” The human man shakes his head and tries to suppress a full-body shudder. “He got what he wanted, a Title that breaks the rules we’ve known for ages.” He lifts a hand and points, tracing the outline of where the externalized Title’s edges. “It’s massive.”

  Corvus follows the pointing finger, unable to see things with the specific clarity of the other Apex. “We’d long thought that none attempted to merge Titles after evolving them because it wasn’t possible. And now we see that it can be done, with the right preparations.” He muses, cocking his head in a very avian manner. “But the result is…”

  The crow’s words trail off as the naked figure sits up. “I Am The Gardener Of Eden.” The projected voice didn’t issue from the man’s mouth, but rather resonated as if the air itself had been the source. And with the words, the full glyph of the Title manifests visibly. It imprints on the residual energy lingering in the chamber and both the observing Apex take cautious steps back, feeling the Title’s influence attempting to connect with them. “All Must Grow.”

  The words ripple out like a divine mandate, and both observers raise their guard against the invasive purpose of the monstrous Title. “A Cancer.” Mercurial Ascent finishes Corvus’s earlier sentiment. The Crow nods in agreement and both men start to back away, neither willing to turn their backs on what had once been the most ambitious, and the most cowardly, soul in the region.

  Only once they’re out of visual range of the chamber, with a few tunnel twists between them and it, do they feel safe enough to relax. “I believe we can be certain that such a method is not a viable path towards higher power.” Corvus says softly, fixing Mercurial Ascent with a meaningful stare. “I know it is your nature to seek new power by any means available, but this method…” He lets the thought hang in the air unspoken.

  The man waves away Corvus’s warning. “As if you wouldn’t throw a party if I went and got myself enslaved to my Title. What would you care?” Mercurial Ascent scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I’m power-hungry, sure. I know it. But I’m not suicidal.”

  Corvus tips his head to regard the other Apex with one bird-like eye. “I suppose you are not.”

  Uril groans, slumping against a wall. Having a few Animus meant that he didn’t suffer the worst of the effects of the blast. That didn’t help the headache from being battered against a wall. He’d had the misfortune of being on the street and unsheltered when the wave hit. As small and light as he is, he’d been tossed from his feet and planted against the wall of a building.

  While mostly unharmed, the impact had hurt. Reaching a hand up, he feels along his head, finding no blood. But then he feels a chip of something in his hair and pulls the offending shard of whatever it was. It’s a piece of his own horn. Uril groans and tosses it away before reaching up to feel along the curling protrusions. Sure enough, the left side one was broken about two thirds of the way around. “Fuuuuck me.” He groans and then pushes himself up to his hooves again.

  The horn would repair itself in time, but until then it’ll hurt his carefully maintained image. An image that was the last thing on his mind currently. Looking around, the paved streets appear cracked, as do several walls of buildings he can see. Other pedestrians are in varying states of recovery or in a few unfortunate cases, reduced to piles of discarded belongings that no longer belong to a living soul.

  The ones unlucky enough to be in the midground between those points weren’t fairing so well. Too strong to be pushed into dissolution by either the warning or the blast, too weak to stay conscious and mobile. Those poor souls would be the worst off, needing a Animus recharge well before they’d planned to afford it.

  With his eyes lingering on one slumped body of a man, Uril stiffens. Alex! Taking a couple wavering steps, Uril begins to make his way over the broken sidewalk. Even if he was steady on his legs, he can’t trust his usual confident steps with the jagged rents in the worked-stone. With none of his usual swagger, he picks his way through the streets towards the district where Alex works.

  He’d only made it a few yards before a tickle of telepathic contact teases at the back of his mind. “Uril’raya?” Gravitas’s voice sounds distant, at the extreme range of even an Apex’s range. He tries to send a response but without being able to sense her anywhere, he’s got no target to project to. “I can feel that you’re receiving this, at least. The worst should be past, and if you’re hearing me, I can assume you’re still active.” Another pause and he resigns himself to having a very one sided conversation.

  “I have a need for you. I heard about you and Alex, good work. Not the way I intended, but good work all the same. Make sure he survives this, as well as yourself.” Gravitas transmits, sequestered in a makeshift bunker. She can’t hear any responses from Uril, but the ‘weight’ of a presence on the other side tells her she’s being heard at least.

  “Corvus and I have made an arrangement. We’re going to be working together, and we need you two to get through this unharmed. I’ll be returning to New Europa as soon as I can, but until then, stay safe.” She insists again, and then lets the contact fade.

  Returning her focus to the world around her, Gravitas starts unburying her bolt-hole. She’d been able to make it four territories away once the alert had gone out, but then when Leviathan had spoken, she knew her time was up. In some random tunnel between caverns, Gravitas bursts through the broken stone. It’s time for her to get to work.

  All around the region of Hell, activity stirs as the residents begin to take stock of the aftermath. Even as the remnants of that shockwave continue to spread far beyond the ‘human’ sector of the infinite plane. And it awakens curiosity aimed back towards the source.