Zen was quite certain that Argrave had lost his mind.
First, it started with the name mix-up. He thought that Argrave was calling him Ji Meng as some sort of joke or pointed barb, but as time carried on, it became painfully obvious that Argrave genuinely thought his name was Ji Meng. Argrave carried himself with such force and confidence that it was difficult to even consider correcting him.
Second, as they explored this strange realm—the Stormfield, as he called it, and as Zen had come to accept—Argrave often retreated into itself. He would stop speaking for a few minutes at a time, making strange hand movements that might’ve been spasms. When he was finished, he would emerge from this state acting as though he knew everything, like he’d just seen some vision that told them everything they needed to know about the situation. For instance...
“Do you know what this place is?” Argrave asked. He’d been standing on the top of a high peak overlooking the vast plateau of stone for the past hour, yet then suddenly he opened his eyes again and asked that question. In that time, Zen had studied their surroundings on his lonesome. The terrain was very familiar, but much of it was blocked out beneath the haze of the purple sky above.
Zen shook his head. “No. I mean, I think it’s familiar, but I can’t say for—”
“It’s a Phillensian Soul Model. According to everything I’m reading, it wasn’t copied from its inventor. The Emperor of the Great Chu must’ve developed it independently, centuries before Phillen ever did. A genius man indeed. And unlike the Phillensian Soul Model, it’s using our blood as the conduit to our souls. Meaning, to enter and leave the model... the person doesn’t need to perish. And like I suspected, the strength and amount of the blood in question determines the power the soul is capable of exerting.”
Zen nodded as if anything Argrave said made sense. He’d studied the Stormfield, but had heard nothing about Soul Models or ever heard the name Phillen.
“So, what’s the plan?” Zen questioned.The source of this content no/v(el)bi((n))
“This place is a model of the whole mountain that the Palace of Heaven is based atop of,” Argrave explained with extreme confidence. “It’s a model without the gates, without everything—just land and sky. I suspect under ordinary circumstances, we’d see everything we don’t—the buildings and all those within them. We’d be able to control the Stormfield—be a hidden hand of god, dominating the battlefield. But with all of our blood mixing into the vessel, and with none of us submitting to one another, the Stormfield isn’t functioning quite right.”
“Right. That’s a sensible deduction,” Zen agreed, not quite sure what he was agreeing to. It sounded right, but how could Argrave know this?
“So, we have to kill every last bit of Sataistador, or make him submit—but I think we both know that’s not likely.” Argrave stroked his chin. “And once that all happens, we’ll have the whole might of the Stormfield at our disposal. The hand of god.” He looked at Zen. “I’m going to give you control of it. And then, we’re going to do Sataistador like he was done before. We’re going to break him. And this time, he’s not going to be getting back up.”
“I’m not sure what it is I’m agreeing to,” Zen finally admitted, sensing that he was being called upon to do something dangerous.
“It’s simple.” Argrave put his hand on Zen’s shoulder. “Have you ever heard of a battle between souls?”
“That’s the domain of necromancy.” Zen narrowed his eyes.
“Not necessarily. Don’t be narrow-minded, Ji Meng.” Argrave shook his head like he was disappointed. “In a battle of souls, you can conjure whatever your mind can imagine. It’s a straight-up slugging match of willpower. A Phillensian Soul Model is similar, but it has certain dictates imposed. So—once Sataistador is out of the picture, you’ll be subject to those dictates. Namely, you’ll be bestowed with the ability to use the Stormfield to your whims. Then, you’ll put an end to all of our enemies. Simple enough?”
Zen thought it did sound simple enough, but he wasn’t entirely sure how Argrave had come to any of these conclusions. Still, he gave a cautious nod. “But you said to do that, we have to kill Sataistador. What gives you any confidence we can do that?”
Anneliese felt like a sitting duck, trapped in the dark. But her eyes told of a hidden dance, too—one just as severe, just as powerful. She had [Truesight]. She could see beyond the pale, to realms hidden and unknown. And she saw unimaginable power dancing in the darkness. Dim echoes, carrying the signature of the man she knew better than anyone.
As she sat there, keeping the magic from overwhelming him, she knew that his soul echoed out in some strange eternity. Argrave was fighting desperately in a realm that was neither mortal nor divine. The echoes of his power were like a distant chime hidden behind the main song of war... but without these chimes, the song would feel hollow, and empty.
And just alongside Argrave’s power was another instrument, another beat. A drum. Constant, loud, and bassy, it rumbled Anneliese’s heart and sparked dread. It was a drum of war, a drum of the march. Anneliese had no evidence, but she felt conviction in what was occurring. The Stormfield. Argrave and Sataistador were fighting to see who would claim it.
#####
The constant barrage of arrows seeking to end Argrave’s life were as constant as the noises of thunder all around. Argrave soared through the sky, using spells he’d never even heard of for unmatched mastery in this fight. If he looked inward, there was little he couldn’t find—the magic coursed through his body as freely as it ever had, and his mind was the sharpest it’d been. Perhaps his Undying Soul was giving an edge in the fight.
But his enemy... their ferocity was limitless.
A vast horde of red-haired warriors, each of their beards billowing smoke into the air, sought to claim Argrave’s body as a trophy. The moment he alighted, they descended upon him with an axe. If he took to the air, their arrows shot upward in numbers enough to snuff the stars. Any spells he cast—and indeed, he cast a great many—were met by wards of equivalent strength. Footmen, bowmen, and spellmen—with a sound strategy and good fighters to carry out that strategy, it felt insurmountable.
“Do you want to know what I often told myself in war?” The army shouted, as one. Their combined voices were loud enough that noise echoed off distant peaks, hurting Argrave’s ears. “If only I had more good soldiers, everything would be a damned picnic. Talented people—you know the type! If you tell them to do something, they can do it. You tell them to shoot a bow, they’re going to hit their target. You tell them to fight a man, they’re going to win. You tell them to follow a strategy, they do it without question, without flaw! You’re one of them, and you’ve got some of them. Anneliese, Elenore. They get things done.”
Argrave soared upward into the air as more arrows rose up to claim his life. Wind billowed from his fingertips, caressing his body gently as it took him to the heavens.
“What I wanted, Argrave, was an army of people like that,” their great choir shouted. “With that, the whole damned world would kneel. But I couldn’t get a thousand good men. Time and time again, you get people fucking up at the wrong time. Always a weak link, always a chain snapping when pressure’s applied. Being a leader, a real leader, you start to learn it’s not about telling people what to do. It’s about being able to handle the incompetence you get.”
Argrave wasn’t able to answer—countless bolts of lighting rose up into the air to smite him, and he made wards enough to block them away as he got some space with his blood echoes.
“There’s a simple maxim. If you want something done right, you do it yourself!” Sataistador’s army roared, and the noise of a thousand axes banging against a thousand shields echoed across this replica of the mountain. “Maybe you get that. Maybe that’s why you’re here.”
“And maybe you’re just an asshole!” Argrave shouted in frustration.
Forget damaging Sataistador—he barely had the time to breathe, let alone attack. He had limitless power at his fingertips, and none of it was working out. Something needed to change.
All the countless Sataistador’s laughed, their voices echoing across the whole world. “Maybe I am. But it doesn’t matter how you carry yourself, so long as you’re the winner in the end. Then, you can write the story however you want.”
“I’ll be sure to tell everyone what you were like once I win, then,” Argrave called out, then spit as he looked upon Sataistador’s horde of soldiers. "Because I don't see any good men down there, much less a thousand."