Charred flesh pervades Synthia’s sinuses as she grips the shaft of an arrow and pulls. It resists at first, serrated tips keeping the cursed thing thoroughly embedded, but with enough grit and gumption she’s capable of pulling them free. Exposed muscle is shredded as a geyser of blood spurts from the freshly opened wound, joining so many others. Tantra’s back is a canvas of suffering, a severe burn removing all the skin and digging a bit into muscle, and multiple points where flesh is torn and bleeding because of Synthia’s ministrations.

  Yet the most the woman can muster is a grunt.

  Synthia looks down at her hands, they are stained with so much blood, more than a mortal could possibly bleed. Yet here Tantra sits, distinctly alive, all because she is a practitioner of the path.

  Where does that path lead? Will Tantra throw techniques that shake the earth with casual ease? Will she see civilizations rise and fall? Will she someday slaughter hundreds amidst a pointless battle?

  She can still hear the screaming, she doesn’t really even need to try.

  If she closes her eyes she can even see the moment so many were bisected, and she’s practically certain she’d still smell cooked flesh even without Tantra’s presence.

  There were so many moments where Synthia was sure death would lay its claim over her, it did for so many others, so why not her? What makes her so special?

  Nothing, nothing makes her special.

  She’s just lucky to have the loyalty of so many cultivators, and she only met them because of her status. Who is she without her nobility? What does she amount to in the face of beings that can level buildings with barely a thought?

  A single entity chose to ignore her duties, and suddenly all the precious order they’ve cultivated for so long is shattered, like fragile porcelain.

  What could she possibly be other than a corpse in such a world?

  A mangled hand rests on hers, and Synthia realizes that she’s been shaking.

  “Don’t think about it,” whispers her saviour, “find a task, and don’t stop until it is gone. When it comes back just do the same, over and over until it doesn’t return.”

  “How?” Synthia asks, “how could it ever be gone, so…so many people, how could I ever dare to forget?”

  Tantra looks down at Synthia’s hands and cups them into her own, rubbing at some of the blood with her thumbs. Her fingers are mostly exposed bones, arrows ripping off flesh but not managing to pierce bone or rip sinew; and with how much muscle the woman’s torn out of her forearms, she shouldn’t have the capacity to move them.

  At least according to Synthia’s understanding of human biology.

  “It’s too much,” Tantra finally says, “too much suffering for one person to possibly carry, so yes, you have to push it away. At least, that’s what I do, and I don’t know of any other methods.”

  “Never thought to ask your mentor?” Synthia says with a brittle smile.

  Tantra returns it with a sad smile of her own, “no, perhaps I should have.”

  They share a slight chuckle.

  Odd, chuckling isn’t really something Synthia does. It’s an unrefined expression of merriment, the only proper expressions being a soft laugh or perhaps a titter. She’s learned a lot over the years, subject herself to so much, all to become the perfect noble. All her scheming, all that political theater, and for what? What did she gain in the end?

  Most of her connections are dead, slaughtered by Doman’s plotting.

  Such a strange thing, that he of all people would be the cause of this…but Tantra has no reason to lie, and he is the only one excluded from the bounty.

  That foolish boy, does he think he can manage the whole of Ralth alone?

  Perhaps he’ll hand that duty to the Sols.

  Wouldn’t that just be its own disaster.

  Merchants, running a city.

  All they know is the art of coin, they know nothing of managing the masses, nothing of infrastructure, nothing of limits.

  What might that bastard Dozen be thinking? Does he see this city as a cow that milks gold? Does he not see the consequences of breaking the status quo?

  She could ask the woman in front of her, cradling Synthia’s hands in her own like a precious babe as all the wounds she’s suffered continue to bleed on the floorboards. She could ask the exile, but that would just be cruel, wouldn’t it?

  Yes, yes it would.

  -

  Tantra is staring at a door, she’s been doing this for three days.

  She hasn’t slept, no, that would be too dangerous. Instead she’s been pumping her heart and breathing in Qi, gathering as much as she can with methods old and new, all the while leaning against a wall, acting as Synthia’s personal sentinel. Funny that, hysterical even, that she’s doing more work than the actual Sentinel of this damned city.

  So she sits and she stares, listening to the distant clashes of a bunch of assholes who can’t be bothered to take their fighting somewhere people don’t call home. They’re still fighting, somehow, she’s heard rumors tell of immortals lasting for weeks in bloody combat, but that would cost so much more Qi than even they could possibly have. They’ve already likely spent at least a century's worth, not that Tantra can actually measure such a ridiculous amount.

  Did sanity decide to take a sabbatical alongside the Sentinel? Why waste so much on a conflict that ultimately doesn’t matter? Each and every sect has hundreds of thousands of disciples, more than enough to deal with a few immortals, so it’s not like this fight has any purpose in the grand scheme of things.

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  Other than indulgence, Tantra can’t really see why they’d even do this.

  Maybe that’s ultimately the answer, in their boredom they finally get some time to play, and choose to revel in it through glorious combat at the expense of everyone else. The senses of immortals are leagues ahead of Tantra’s, so surely they could hear the screams and cries just as she could? Surely they understand the devastation their little game has brought down to hundreds, potentially thousands of people?

  Do they even care?

  Should they even care?

  What is a mortal in the face of such power but an inconvenient ant, and who is so kind as to care for where they step, so they don’t crush the insects under their feet?

  These are the thoughts that have been churning through Tantra’s mind as she chews on the salted meats belonging to the proprietor of the home they’ve taken residence in. Immortals are never portrayed as particularly virtuous in the epics, except for perhaps Jorik, but he’s more the exception than the rule. No, most stories centering around immortals portray them as a force of nature more than anything human, and the records display their exploits rather than any mention of kindness.

  Tantra never liked the epics, once you’ve read one you’ve read just about all of them, and they’re interpretations of events long after they’ve happened rather than an immortal’s personal biography. Most immortals couldn’t be bothered to get their stories written down into scrolls and books, content with their legends, but there are a few that carry the vice of being vain.

  Which is honestly a surprise now that she thinks about it, but not really one worth contemplating in current circumstances.

  They may not be vain, but they certainly are callous, and in that callousness there is nothing Tantra can do but listen.

  The screamings stopped, bystanders either dead or fleeing, so there’s that. Now it’s just the fighting, always the fighting. Tantra wonders if they’re just doing this for the fun of it, and if that’s the case how is fighting for so long considered fun? Tantra’s found some amusement in combat, specifically the arena, where death is practically impossible.

  Well, unless you’re like Tantra, whose durability isn’t far enough to where she can participate safely, but having an influential sponsor does wonders for flaunting the rules. There have been more than a few times where she thought she was going to die, but the healers always managed, so it worked out in the end.

  Then again she’s never had her skull popped before, or heart imploded.

  Probably wouldn’t survive that.

  She’s capable of competing mainly because of the scripts on Rakan’s club, she may not be capable of infusion, but it helps that the thing weighs ten times more than it should.

  Makes it a pain in the ass to carry, but once she’s boosting it doesn’t matter much, just means she’s a little slower than she should be, which is fine. She really needs to learn infusion though, if only to keep her mentor’s weapon from breaking against higher realm cultivators.

  It’s already gotten a few chips that Tantra’s not proud of.

  Fucking Soma, what an asshole, one she hopes she doesn’t find again.

  She’s pretty sure she could kill him pretty easily with her mutated soul Qi now, and she…doesn’t feel comfortable killing someone whose name she knows. Not exactly a good reason not to murder a bitch, but it’s just how she rolls as it were.

  Heh, she’s sounding like Etra.

  That woman’s hiding something, every time came back from her little walks through Ralth she’s always had this conflicted look, Tantra doesn’t know what for but she never really felt like prying.

  Who knows? Maybe she found love.

  Wouldn’t that be a novel concept?

  …

  …

  …

  Fuck she’s tired.

  -

  What is the point in war?

  It’s a strange line of thought, one that Yorin’s never really considered. War simply happens, there’s us and then there’s them, and the heavens have ordained that we are to fight in bloody combat.

  Simple, practical, easy to digest.

  But why?

  He knows a lot about violence, learned quite early in the journey, the scar starting at the edge of his lip and running across his cheek is a testament to that. There’s isn’t some method to the madness, not really, perhaps someone more poetic than he could gather some sort of sonata to explain the violence, something beautiful that could mask all the blood.

  Violence is just a reality of life to Yorin, beasts hunt and humans kill, it is simply the nature of things. Has been for as long as history’s been written, and likely precludes it into an age primordial.

  Funny, he’s starting to sound like Tantra, what would she think if she saw the sight in front of him right now? Surely she would have words, she always has words, it’s her strongest quality despite being a cultivator.

  He looks on at the makeshift pyre as it cooks through flesh and bone, there’s a lot to spare, what with the mountains worth of bodies. A lot of them Yorin helped gather from the wreckage alongside so many mortals and even a few cultivators, all with weary bodies mustering together some kind of initiative to respect the fallen. He admires the cultivators that helped, like he used to see cultivation as a child, a virtuous thing filled with virtuous people.

  Then he actually saw.

  Why is he here?

  He doesn’t really know, he’s just…watching, and no one really expects otherwise. He’s helped plenty, spent days rummaging through debris in hopes of finding someone alive. He’s tasting the venom of disappointment too often these past days, but there are a few he’s saved, and he holds that close to his chest like a precious jewel.

  There isn’t really a point to his presence, not really, he knows he should be looking for Tantra and the others. But…he wants to watch, wants to be here, the dead at the very least deserve his respect, and the only way he knows to express that is to keep a vigil.

  He couldn’t do much to protect the pyre from immortals, but they stopped their fighting just a few hours ago, so he doesn’t have to worry about that. No, instead he acts as a scarecrow to the dozens of disciples passing by the procession.

  Some are apathetic.

  Most, surprisingly enough, are truly horrified.

  Why?

  These are the actions of their leaders, why be horrified, shouldn’t they be proud? Look at all the destruction their precious role models committed and revel in their strength, or something, he doesn’t know.

  But they have the audacity to be horrified? When they march forward, ready to add to all this senselessness? It almost makes Yorin want to cut them down, he’s never felt so angry before, not even when Rakan died.

  Instead he turns his back to them, refusing to acknowledge their somberness towards a tragedy they’ll only exacerbate.

  There is so much grief.

  Why?

  He doesn’t pretend to understand sect politics, but the Serpent’s Fang never declared war on the River’s Scales, nor the Hallowed Bones. It was more of a friendly rivalry from what he understood, even after the bandit raid the River’s Scales didn’t demand restitution, simply throwing their insults of weakness and leaving.

  How is it that three sects from bumfuck nowhere can be more civilized than the great sects of Ralth? The second they were given the chance to slaughter each other they took it, like rabid animals who only understand strength and nothing else. Even Yorin understands that strength isn’t everything, and Yorin’s an idiot.

  Is that what this is?

  Just a bunch of idiots choosing violence now that it is permitted, do they seek to destroy one another, or is it to create the setting for their fables? Do the little disciples behind him even know why they're marching? Do they understand the death they’ll cause, because frankly Yorin doesn’t, can’t even imagine the scale of so many wielders of Qi in a battle to the death.

  Some of those marching are younger than him, likely just passing through foundations, unless they got a secret technique like he did.

  Perhaps they expect promises of glory, where all they’ll find is blood.

  That’s something Yorin learned early, when he killed his first bandit. There isn’t some kind of deity that rewards bravery or valiant combat, there is just the living and the bleeding. He’s sure there are those that enjoy it, personally Yorin does what is necessary, but there are so many misconceptions of combat.

  All spread by those who should know better.

  Yorin doesn’t get it, he well and truly doesn’t, so he just watches.

  He doesn’t need to understand, he just needs to be here.