Scourge of Chaos: Savage Healer

Sunday’s rest was spent in attempts to force Chaotic Step to work. He had done so once, and he fully believed it was time for him to take back his agency. A future savior of mankind, undead kind, and all other kinds out there could now allow himself to be bound by uncontrollable talents.

Mastering oneself was the basis upon which any path to greatness was built.

It didn’t work.

He tried it all which mostly involved trying to exit his room through the closet door. The talent was unresponsive no matter what he did. It was a downer for sure. It meant that even in his worthless and petty duel with Sotu, which had been nothing but a play trying to drag some more information out of him, he hadn’t been fully in control.

It was frustrating.

Slaps he could do, although even the golden page’s description was admonishing him that he was not doing good. What more was there to a slap than to slap things with it? The weird kata he had done with the brainwashed suicidal villagers had been the biggest advancement of his talent so far, but it was worthless against stronger and faster enemies.

Not that there would be any soon. Fable’s Strength at the very least was working overtime to strengthen Sunday. He didn’t know how far it would go, but he was certain he would try to find out.

Still, one out of three was a pretty bad track record.

He didn’t count the Yew Tree’s Blessing, which was the reason his practice was going so well and that he had so many spell slots and so much essence and whatnot… There was probably more to it too, but it was not a pressing one to figure out.

The Slaps and the Chaotic Steps were the major problems. He briefly contemplated jumping off a cliff or something to see if the latter activated when his life was in danger. As he saw it though, it was literally a narrative driver, as if someone was deciding his path for him. It was enraging.

For all his usefulness, Vyn wasn’t a particularly special find, unlike Pearl. Why had the Chaotic Step thrown him before that cart, then? Just so he could reach the city at the right time and place to find Mera? To meet Riya or someone else? Who was that important?

And why had Chaotic Step allowed him to pass through Sotu’s barrier like it was not there too? To save him from having to use his spells? It was his honest desire to just slap the guy away at the time, but surely that hadn’t been enough to make two talents work in tandem? It made zero sense. Then again, it was chaos. Chaos wasn’t supposed to make sense.

Sunday took his things, changed his clothes, and decided to go out again. He didn’t need sleep, and healing the wretches in that creepy part of Blumwin had only used up his essence, which was mostly recovered either way. He planned on doing the same next night, and the night after.

He quickly left the Wayward Rat, careful to not run into anyone he knew. Savia was out there, putting good words of his wines and their effects, securing clients, while the brewery was working day and night to increase its productivity. They didn’t need quality, but quantity, and with Sunday’s sudden wealth it was not a difficult thing to acquire.

Of course, most ‘special’ selections of fruit and lake flowers were reserved by the big names, but he didn’t care about that. His product would be unique whether it was made with the best or the worst.

With nothing else to do, he moved toward the Arcanum, dreading the games that would play out once he stepped inside. An art that would allow him to carry his extra spells would be lovely, but he wasn’t hopeful, considering all his experiences with the place.

He skipped his usual step of bothering Zihei and went straight toward the library. It took him a few tries and he even asked for directions from some hurried and very grumpy undead, but eventually, he found it. It was not the entrance he had used the first time, and the one attending him was not one of the bookwretches roaming about and putting books in their places with the speed and desire of someone paying a fine.

It was an undead who looked like he had been dug out from the ground after rotting for a few months, dressed in a suit, and wearing the fakest smile one could imagine on their face. As much as teeth and bones could smile. He had no eyes at all, nor eyelids, but seemed to stare straight into Sunday’s soul. There was just enough flesh for the guy to not be a full-fledged walking skeleton.

Sunday hadn’t expected such a welcome, but a simple flash of his Arcanum-issued badge had been enough to gain the royal treatment.

It was either the number of contribution points he had or another scheme to prod his talents and identity. He didn’t mind either way. He would make use of all they gave out for free, and take it without remorse. If they expected him to feel indebted later, tough luck. It was not his style.

How had the guy known to wait for him at this entrance though?

“Respectable Initiate,” the undead bowed. Not too low. “Allow me to guide you through what you seek, and provide assistance if need be. My name is Trust, and I’m a bookkeeper, responsible for the well-being of the wretches, and the more important visitors. I, almost alone, hold access to the great Arts you seek on this day.”

Trust huh? I thought my name was weird.

Sunday remained silent a few more moments, and the undead shuffled worriedly. Something clicked but whether it was vertebrae or a jaw, was unknown.

“So, you’re not here to pry into my secrets?” Sunday asked. Being direct often puts off people.

The undead had the presence of mind to look shocked, appalled, and to some extent ready to topple over and die again. The latter might’ve just been a normal state for the guy.

“I assure you, I’ve no intention of overstepping my limitations, for I am just your humble servant on this day. Please, do not distrust me.”

He waited.

Sunday didn’t laugh at the joke but sighed instead.

“Very well. I need access to an art that will allow me to keep more spells than my soul space is capable of. Like a storage situation, you know? I don’t know what they’re called.”

The bookkeeper straightened up. “I see. That’s not an odd request at all, since such arts are quite valuable and sought after. Who would pass on the chance to have more tools at their disposal? Only fools, I’d say! Ha!” he paused. His shoulders slumped just a tad before he spoke again. “Follow me.”

Sunday did, albeit reluctantly. The tall shelves and the oddities of the library were quite ominous in this part of the library. Now that he realized that he was in over his head, Sunday knew that his standing with the Arcanum was a fragile thing – a relationship he mostly had due to their interest in him.

Are they watching me even now?

“Arts of such kind are rare indeed, but we have quite a few. One that might interest you is the Expansion Art. It is quite popular because it allows a mage to grow their soul space in a short time. The process technically may reduce the natural growth of the soul space in future rank-ups, so the art is mostly taken by those who have given up on attaining a higher state.”

“A sacrifice of potential for immediate gains, so to speak?” Sunday asked.

“Precisely. Another art is the Isolated Habitation, which is also close to what you seek. It allows a mage to create a small soul pocket just outside the soul space and turn it into a habitat for the spell he wants to keep there. Swaps are slow and may take a day or two or practice, but it is one of the best for its price.”

This is not what I envisioned. I don’t want to spend two days just to swap a spell! Keeping them at Mera will be faster.

“What’s the price of such an art?”

“The first is valued only at seven hundred contribution points, while the second is a thousand.”

Sunday clenched his teeth. Of course, things wouldn’t be that easy. He had thought that he was rich, but the Arcanum was always one step ahead.

“Are there any of a higher grade?” he asked nonetheless.

“Ambitious, aren’t we? Of course!” Trust turned a corner, giving a wide berth to a particularly ominous-looking bookshelf. Sunday followed suit and squinted. He was pretty sure one of the books had flipped him off or at the very least made a suggestful gesture.

I’m losing my mind.

“There’s the Soul Field Art, which… I wouldn’t recommend it for someone with your personality.”

“Oh, you know me well, then?”

“I apologize if I’ve offended, Initiate Sunday, but your name is quite famous. Your lack of respect for the Adepts, for tradition, for the Council, for the vampires, and all creation is already a hearth story in Blumwin. I’m quite excited to be in your presence.”

Well, that was a bit… unexpected. Things were spreading faster than he had anticipated. Would that lead to gains…?

Trust continued, unaware of Sunday’s surprise. “It is all remarkable and quite refreshing if you ask me. I might keep books save, and rot among the words, but I pay attention to the world. You’re respected and spat on, feared, and mocked, and many wonder who and what you are. I approve of your distrust of me, although you should reconsider. I care only about books, and seeing the Arts I care for blossom in the hands of the worthy.”

“That’s quite the passion you have there,” Sunday noted. “Who named you Trust, by the way? It’s a peculiar name.”

“Alas, I chose it myself in an attempt to change the course of my faith. It worked. Sometimes all people need is to believe you’re a bit trustworthy to give you a chance. You’d be surprised what wonders a name does.”

Yeah, I guess names do matter a lot.

Trust hummed quietly and stopped before a door as tall as three Sundays and as wide as only one. A very strange door.

“To the original topic, the Soul Field Art is an art that requires a lot of dedication and practice. It is something one devotes years to until it bears fruit. It will allow for the greatest spell storage space, without any of the drawbacks. You don’t strike me as someone willing to wait years, though, are you?” He didn’t wait for Sunday to answer, as if there was no need.

“However, there’s another. It’s called the Mirrored Soul. It costs two thousand contribution points and allows you to create a semi-functional copy of your soul space that can be used as storage. You will be able to hold the same number of spells you can currently carry, but they will remain dormant and unusable for a time, even after you swap them out. It is not ideal, but it is one of the best we have to offer. Not that there are many other options left.”

That didn’t sound too bad. An art like that was the best bet, especially if he ever left Blumwin. Holding five spells he could put into the active slots was a great advantage.

“What’s the catch?”

Trust hesitated for the first time. “The Art might lead to some… mental complications. For those who value sanity but lack the means to hold onto it, the presence of a second fake soul-space can be too big of a negative.”

Sanity is overrated anyway.

“Are there any other arts you might recommend? You seem knowledgeable.” Sunday asked instead. He wanted to know as much as possible before making a choice.

Trust puffed up at the compliment. “Of course!”

He put on a strange glove, then snapped a finger. The door suddenly sank further into the wall, then slid down, sinking into the floor. It was a strange choice.

Beyond it were rows of scrolls. Many of them bare, strangely. Each was marked with symbols Sunday didn’t know the meaning of.

“There are arts which will strengthen your body – they are very popular with magi, although they require to be matched to the soul-forging art one practice. Then some sharpen the mind, a favorite of mine to recommend is Clear Water Art, which is said to make the thoughts flow as easily as mountain springs. Some arts will allow you to pick up weapons faster, or give you a sixth sense like those in legend!”

Trust let him inside and the door clicked shut behind them as it slid into place. Sunday felt a pang of claustrophobia wash over, but it quickly went away. This hall was as tall and gloomy as the rest of the library, but it was different too. Almost as if the weight of knowledge and ancient words present all around had crystallized here. The essence was quite peculiar too, and Sunday unwittingly made a revolution of the Black Breath.

He stopped. The revolving essence brought along a sudden sense of clarity.

“Sorry, but… Who are you?” Sunday asked. He felt strange. Almost compelled.

“Ah, I thought my name leaves quite the impression, I’m Trust, and on this day, I am your humble servant,” the undead said.

“And who are you the rest of the time?”

“Oh,” Trust seemed to straighten up. His servile tone shifted and his jaw clicked in the way someone cracked their neck before doing something cool. “I’m a scholar, a lover of knowledge, and the one responsible for keeping this humble branch of the Arcanum from fracturing and making terrible, terrible mistakes. It is quite a lonely existence. That’s why I seldom guide those who need guidance, as I’m doing in this case. Your guests are coming soon, and we want you to be prepared, don’t we?”

Hollow eyes met Sundays, and despite the lack of eyelids or eyeballs, the undead winked.