A Novel Concept - A death a day, MC will live anyway!-Chapter 394: Interlude - Hekthorn

Weary of answering a Tier 0’s questions, Hekthorn summoned his Scales Mastery. A universal symbol of Justice, the artifact allowed one to weigh evidence against arguments. The High Marshal occasionally decoupled it from his Concept to use it in a more literal fashion.

Into one pan of the balance, he placed his soul. Into the other, Space. Though the second Concept was not his own, he could still interact with it—a privilege earned through ascension. Tier 1 marked the first step, the point at which one could perceive Concepts beyond their own. Progress toward the Zenith was littered with such miracles.

His soul outweighed the sliver of Space he had selected. The local dimensional fabric buckled under the imbalance, unraveling into a rift that led straight to the tribal encampment. With a single stride, Hekthorn crossed through, waited for Priam to follow, and then released his Mastery. Ambient aether rushed to seal the breach, knitting the wound in reality in a matter of seconds. The primordial fluid had a tendency of restoring equilibrium.

“Thanks for the ride,” said the Champion.

The Tier 5 dismissed him with a grunt.

Once alone, Hekthorn scanned the surroundings, then gave a nod. The tribes had not been razed in his absence. At the edge of his perception, a presence withdrew, and the Demiurge sighed. Pity. Bringing back a Herald’s head would’ve mitigated my failure.

Thinking back on the Fallen soured his mood, especially since his Queen awaited his report. To delay the inevitable, the elf released Domain IV, sweeping across a fifth of the camp. Another Tier 5 might have covered more ground, but this Supremacy had never been his strong suit. His sphere of authority barely reached three hundred paces.

A deluge of information overwhelmed his vivacity. He cut the Supremacy feed, letting the floodwaters recede so he could analyze the data without bursting a vein.

Satisfied nothing was amiss, he stepped forward. Space contracted under a legendary movement skill, and his next stride covered the length of a thousand. He came to a halt atop a deserted rooftop. Redeploying his Supremacy, he confirmed the absence of corruption, counted the clanspeople, monitored the progress of their plans, collected the intel left by his spies, and tracked the Champions who had stayed behind.

“Mmh?”

Just back but already working, the Shadow was burrowing into Aelbe territory. In under five minutes, she infiltrated the manor of their leader, knocked out a maid, and stripped her bare. In disguise, she slipped into the kitchens, grabbed a carafe of Elven coffee, and arranged to be escorted to Léo’s chambers. A sultry sway of her hips hypnotized the two guards flanking her, and in a blink of distraction, she let fall a pinch of powder into the dark brew.

“The surviving Snaherts entrusted her with a poison that could harm a Transcendent?” the Demiurge mused, before noticing the strange behavior of the aether within the decanter. “Radioactive emissions? Shit.”

Only the most backward civilizations remained ignorant of the disruptive effects radiation had on low and mid-Tier aether. All energies and matter interacted with the primordial fluid—as it was the source of all—but alpha and beta particles, and especially gamma rays were notoriously hard to shield against with magical defenses. At least, prior to the high Tiers.

Hence why the extraction, refinement, and possession of such materials were strictly regulated and closely watched. Even a Tier 7 faction like the Empire of Knaya held only limited reserves.

Were Jasmine Kaldwin and her supplier, Kazuki Arashi, not Champions, Hekthorn would have already purged them. Traffickers of radioactive materials were second only to soul-experimenters on his list of extermination priorities.

In this instance, however, he held his hand. The contract between his sovereign and the System bound him to the role of observer.

Activating his mythical identification skill, the High Marshal examined the powder lacing the coffee. He grunted upon recognizing polonium-210. The isotope shed half its atoms via alpha decay in just under five months, making it one of the deadliest radioactive poisons known—a fitting choice for an assassination. Léo could have swallowed a uranium rod and walked away with indigestion. What could kill a mortal wouldn’t make a Transcendent sweat.

Here, he was going to die.

In this case, however, the toxin’s high radioactivity offered some comfort to the Marshal. Without a nuclear reactor, polonium-210 was nearly impossible to synthesize, and its short half-life ensured the hoplite’s supply would soon be depleted. A sweep of Hekthorn’s Domain confirmed it. The mechanized armor had used the radioactive metal as the primary component in an anti-static discharge module.

“All that effort, for nothing…”

“Master?”

Hekthorn gestured for his two apprentices to approach. They had clearly rushed over the moment they sensed his return—no doubt eager to gather intel for their respective sponsors. Ah, I’m bitter today.

“The Champion hoplite’s mech was rigged with polonium to counter potential sabotage via static discharge,” he explained flatly. “It never ceases to amaze me, the lengths to which some civilizations will go to engineer devices that are as intricate as they are pointless.”

His male apprentice shifted uncomfortably, visibly disagreeing. “Master, where were you eight thousand years ago?”

“In your shoes, apprentice to a far less agreeable Demiurge than myself.”

Thyvael smirked. “Eight thousand years ago, the hoplites hadn’t even discovered agriculture. Now they build mechs capable of besting most Tier 0s, and a fair number of Tier 1s.”

“Oh no, not this again,” groaned Nyhlaelle, her tone thoroughly unladylike. “These upstart civilizations only churn out industrial, cultural, and technological revolutions because it’s easy in the beginning. A lot of low hanging fruits, nothing more. Now, they lack mid Tiers and a System to guide them toward a true, magical revolution. Who needs antibiotics when high vitality cures most diseases? Who needs firearms when a Tier 2 archer can loose an arrow beyond the horizon?”

The young elf’s questions were rhetorical. As a mouthpiece for the Queen’s pseudo-conservative faction, she worshiped the System and its magic.

Thyvael grimaced, ready to defend the Crown Prince’s point of view. “Easy to say, when you’re born with enough talent to reach the mid Tiers. But technology—magical or not—lifts a people, not just the individual. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t the Empire’s purpose to protect its people?” He clapped once. “The best way to do that is to give every citizen the means to defend themselves. Hard to manage when ninety-nine percent of resources go to the elite.”

“I’ll admit our empire is a two-speed meritocracy,” conceded the young woman. All the effort in the world might not be enough to develop a Concept. “But a hundred million Tier 4 elves wouldn’t be enough to defeat a high Tier threat. A powerful guardian is essential. Diluting our resources is dooming our future for the sake of populism.”

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

“Some high Tier factions survive without a guardian.”

Nyhlaelle scoffed. “Please… you can count them on one hand.”

“Because it’s nearly impossible, or because it’s rare for a high Tier to let their people steer their own destiny? We should ask the right questions.”

“The question you should ask,” the Demiurge cut in coldly, “is where doubt ends and dissidence begins. Don’t forget that while you wag your tongue, our Queen and Crown Prince are slaughtering millions of corrupted every passing second. Meanwhile, you’re running your mouth.”

Thyvael swallowed. “Apologies, Master. My gratitude belongs, as ever, to Her Majesty.”

An uneasy silence fell. The Empire of Knaya was no democracy.

Nyhlaelle cleared her throat. “Thyvael is an idiot, but he meant no harm.” Despite their differing views, the two elves knew how to stand by one another. In Hekthorn’s opinion, the fact that they were too weak to impose their vision helped preserve their friendship. “He’s simply pointing out that the Empire is stagnating. It was the subject of his third-cycle thesis.”

The Demiurge turned his gaze to Kazuki’s armor. He had to admit, it was a marvel of technology. Everyone knew it was the hardest path to reach the Zenith, but that didn’t mean it was closed. “Go on.”

“The title was On the Fossilization of Knaya,” said Thyvael. “I broke it into two main arguments. First, power and wealth are concentrated in the hands of a few mid-Tiers who see no value in funding mundane research when there’s nothing in it for them personally.”

In truth, the royal court paraded some new gadget into fashion each year, but these met with little success among the Demiurges. After five or six thousand years of existence, escaping one’s routines became an uphill battle. Hekthorn himself loathed when his communication interfaces were updated.

Still, he held his tongue, as commenting on such things would only make him sound ancient.

Nyhlaelle nodded. “I remember. You segued into entrepreneurship, arguing it was impossible to disrupt the market when most of the big brands are over ten thousand years old. The Dean had quite the look on his face when he handed you your diploma.”

“Launching a clothing line or a food franchise in that economic climate is impossible.” Thyvael shrugged. “With millennia old CEOs and bureaucrats, starting a business takes forever. When you only live a century, you need things to move fast, but our elite’s huge lifespan slows progress to a crawl. No offense, Master.” 𝒻𝑟𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝑛𝘰𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝘤𝘰𝘮

Hekthorn pursed his lips. “To be frank, my last building permit took two hundred and thirty years to get approved.” He sighed. “Still, I can’t blame my peers. When you hear the call of the Zenith, personal progression becomes paramount.” He turned to his apprentices. “Criticism is easy; I want a report from each of you in three days, with viable solutions to boost our Empire’s economy.” Not really a homework for future Marshals, but he had felt a little bit offended.

He cut into the concert of grunts upon noticing something. “Léo just drank his poisoned coffee.”

“He didn’t notice?” asked Nyhlaelle. “I know these barbarians lack a legacy to help them refine their aetheric perception—”

“Most of them are self-taught,” said her friend.

“—but a Transcendent should’ve picked up on something. At least the metallic taste.”

“His injury is critical,” said Thyvael. “And he aggravated it further when he lashed out at the Juggernaut.”

“You think he’s going to die?”

“A millionth of a gram of polonium-210 is enough to kill a child,” said Hekthorn. “Given his attributes, his wound, and the dose he just ingested…” The Demiurge tilted his head slightly. “I’d say his agony will last six months.”

Thyvael winced. “Wounded beasts are the most dangerous. The Champions shouldn’t have done this.”

Nyhlaelle shook her head. “It’s not like they had a choice. This Aelbe would’ve butchered them the moment he recovered.”

“By the time he did, the Juggernaut would’ve been unstoppable.”

“The future will tell who was right,” the Demiurge cut in flatly. “I should teach you how to tell the difference between a magical jammer and a radioactive one. I expect you to be in my office in an hour.”

“Yes, Master!”

Once his apprentices had left, Hekthorn completed his sweep, then retreated into his internal world. He materialized in his private quarters, moved the bed—a furniture used solely for recreational purposes—and carefully retrieved the orb hidden beneath.

There was no reason to be so delicate with it as he had no chance of damaging the thing. But reverence was due to any Tier 7 artifact. He was its guardian, not its owner.

Glancing into the mirror, Hekthorn removed his mask and fixed his hair. Once satisfied, he pressed the orb’s lone button and waited. Half an hour later, a billion micro-runes flared to life across its surface. A silhouette appeared, glitched three times due to interference from the Necromoon, then stabilized.

“Hekthorn. Report,” commanded Ayank Knaya. His Queen.

“The Fallen isn’t dead, Your Majesty. I found him in the company of a pure-blood dragon. A Monarch.”

“A Monarch?” The silhouette raised a brow hearing the neutral royal title. As an equivalent to King or Queen, it was typically reserved for asexual beings like elementals or slimes. By contrast, dragons were among the most sexually dimorphic species. “Do you have their name?”

“Vertex A.”

When he saw a flicker of recognition pass through his Queen’s eyes, Hekthorn knew he had made the right choice in withdrawing. For a Tier 1’s name to be known by an Immortal, Vertex had to be far more terrifying than he had guessed.

“The Dragonslayer’s daughter.”

Hekthorn felt his skin crawl. Death itself would have turned him away had he slain Vertex. Neither the Concepts’ Wheels of Reincarnation, the Depths, nor even the Faith Zenith God would have accepted a soul hunted by the monster that frightened monsters.

“Your fear is misplaced,” smiled the Queen. “The worst you risked was a bruised ego. She would’ve thrashed you. She was the one who updated the Tier 1 Colosseum’s hundredth wave eighty three years ago.”

The Demiurge pressed his lips together. As a Tier 5, he feared no Tier 1, not even a pure-blood dragon. Especially not a hatchling under a century old like Vertex. Still, the daughter of one of the rare beings to reach Zenith belonged to a different league. Even more so if she had upended the Colosseum’s rankings. The hundredth wave was shared across all Sectors, and the previous Supreme Gladiator had held the title for millions of years. Only…

“You’re sure it’s the same person? Her projection seemed androgynous.”

“Vertex likely modified her appearance and reproductive system to resist the tyranny of her bloodline… You have doubts.”

“She’s just a Monarch,” Hekthorn replied before realizing his blunder. His queen was a Queen, the female equivalent of a Monarch. He might as well have insulted her outright.

The Tier 5 wanted to slap himself. Since they were communicating at the maximum speed his vivacity allowed, he had no time to weigh his words.

“I mean, reaching the penultimate rank is worthy of a Myth—”

“We both know I don’t deserve my Title,” Ayank interrupted. “And I loathe sycophants.”

Hekthorn dropped flat to the floor in shame. “Forgive me, Your Majesty.”

Silence bled across the room until the orb hissed with static. The Necromoon’s influence was rising.

“Get up. Regarding Vertex, she could ascend further, but that would thrust her into the race to become a Candidate. I doubt she wants that. Not yet.” The silhouette paused, as if weighing an unseen thought. “Did she mention anything regarding our Empire?”

“Only that she didn’t want to see anyone above Tier 1 in the world shard. I believe she’s piloting its collapse to build an internal world… In addition to building on her Myth by crafting her own High Tribulation.”

It was impossible, of course. However, Vertex didn’t seem the type to walk well-trodden paths toward the Zenith.

Ayank narrowed her eyes. “A Pioneer, then. Anything else?”

“Vertex revealed the identity of Priam Azura’s Patron.” Hekthorn nearly said the name aloud, but felt a Law squeeze his world with crushing force. One did not invoke Eternity lightly. “You were right,” he said, throat dry.

The sovereign of Knaya sighed. “First Kaya. Then Eve. Now Priam. At least three dead Candidates have sponsored a single Tutorial. Truly, the Concepts are gathering a golden generation. Because of the war to come?”

Hekthorn stayed silent. Even he knew this was far above his pay grade.

“Very well. Send me a full report before nightfall. And return quickly. I have a new mission for you.”

“At your command!”

Next arc already complete on Patreon (50+ chaps ahead) if you want to find out what happens next!

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