There's a bit of a problem. Not a huge one. Probably.
My core isn't recovering anywhere near quick enough to survive a trip into the Interdiary. ditating helps, but the damage runs fairly deep—I can't just walk it off like I'd been hoping. All the improvents I've made so far is the only reason that dive into the past didn't just tear apart, apparently.
"There is physical damage on top of spiritual damage," the Knight growls at , annoyed. The Inspiration is awake again now—prodding at my core in an attempt to use a skill reawakened it, it seems, and it doesn't seem pleased by the state of things within my core.
But then it sighs and speaks with a begrudging sort of acceptance that borders on admiration. "I would call it foolish, but... I do not think I would have done any different."
"Glad I have your approval," I say dryly, unable to help myself. The Knight makes a sound that's sowhere between a snarl and a scoff; it takes a mont to realize that it's laughing.
"As you should be," it says once it's finished, mirth still in its voice. "But there is little ti for you to recover. What will you do now?"
I frown slightly. There's sothing it wants from —I can sense that the question is sothing of a test.
"Depends," I say carefully. "What are my options?"
The Knight grins. I can feel it, even if I can't see it. "For most, it would require years of ditation and supplents," it tells . "The strain you have placed on your core is significant. It is not rely from this event—it is the culmination of all your actions until now. Shifting two layers at once, pushing your limits again and again, creating and using Subrged skills... You are teetering on an edge from which there may be no recovery."
I stay silent. What the Knight describes sounds serious, but at the sa ti, it's clearly building up to sothing.
"There is a simple solution," it says. "Death. The body and the soul must be in balance; when the soul is out of balance, the body follows. But the reverse is also true: a perfectly healed body will help your soul recover.
"For a Trialgoer in your position, recovery is simple. Expire as many tis as it takes to heal your soul. Each death will reset your body, forcing your soul into balance. But it will take more than one. In your current state, I estimate..."
The Knight examines my core critically. "Twenty deaths, perhaps."
I grimace. It doesn't sound like there are many downsides to this solution, besides the loop being reset, but I can't say I'm keen on it. There's sothing about the way the Knight says the words, too—a little too smug, a little too knowing.
A thought strikes . "You said this is the simple solution. Is there another one?"
The Knight's grin grows wider and more ferocious. "One you may like," it says, almost purring out the words. "It is dangerous. Foolish, even, for anyone without your particular Talent and resources. It will be painful."
"But?"
"But," the Knight says, "it will make you stronger. You have perfected your third layer of Firmant. Your first two are strong, but they are not perfect. There are cracks. Small and nearly invisible, perhaps, but they are there. Normally, a practitioner cannot modify any layer of their Firmant after performing a phase shift. Phase shifts are permanent.
"Sotis, however," the Knight continues. I can tell it's enjoying itself, though why it's enjoying itself so much I can't quite fathom. It seems to revel in the opportunity to tell about ways to grow—or maybe it just enjoys the process of growth, the feeling of its host gaining power. "When a core is strained to its utmost and survives without cracking, the layers peel apart."
I feel it reach out and do... sothing. Whatever it does, it sends a wave of crippling pain through . My vision goes briefly white, and I make a choked sound, gripping the log beside so hard the wood cracks and splinters; nausea swims through my skull and threatens to make empty my stomach. It takes a mont to register Guard's fans whirring with alarm, one hand on my shoulder and the other on my back, supporting as I double over.
"Are you alright?" he asks. "You did not try to..."
"No," I say, shaking my head and trying to gather my bearings. "That was—that was sothing else. I'm fine. Thanks, Guard."
Guard doesn't seem entirely satisfied with that answer. He stays close to , watching sternly. "Be careful," he says.
"I know."
It takes a mont to figure out what happened—that sudden wave of what felt like fire pouring through my nerves was the Knight flicking my second layer of Firmant. It's making a point. The layers are distinct enough now that it can target one, distinct from all the others.
"You did not need to do that," I say pointedly.
"I did not," the Knight agrees, but it doesn't apologize. "But you need to understand how difficult this process will be. It is not trivial. It is an opportunity."
"How, exactly?" I try not to make my retort too annoyed.
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"You cannot reconstruct a phase shift you have already perford, but when your layers are this distinct, you can... mold them. Add Firmant to them. Fill in the cracks." The Knight is silent for a mont. "You will need to be in an environnt with strong Firmant. And you will need to maintain your focus through the process. Lose it, and you risk shattering the layer entirely."
"So to do this," I say. "I have to maintain perfect focus while simultaneously causing myself debilitating pain?"
"Yes."
"And if I fail, it'll shatter the layer?"
"Yes."
"And you believe it's worth it?"
"You face a dungeon with a rank of Subrged," the Knight says. "Even at the lowest possible rank of Subrged—even with a perfected third layer—to face such danger without your fourth shift is tantamount to suicide. I do not believe it is worth it. I believe it will be necessary, lest the dungeon destroy you, your friends, and half the human Trialgoers with it."
I wince. "You're pouring it on a little thick."
"I am telling you what I believe to be true," it says.
And it is. This isn't just a guess—the Knight knows, sure as anything, that if I don't do this I'm not going to survive.
"It never gets easier, does it?" I ask.
"No," the Knight says. "And if it does, it would only be because of others that hold the burden instead. Given the choice, what would you do?"
It takes a mont to respond. "I would take the burden."
The Knight smiles. "You hesitated."
"Is that so bad?"
"No." The Knight shakes its head. "To so, heroism is as easy as instinct. To others, it is a choice that must be made, over and over again. Neither is worse than the other. But you gave the question thought. You did not simply tell that which you believed I wished to hear. This, more than anything else I have seen so far..."
It pauses, and then to my surprise, it bows. Not physically, obviously, but I can feel it—the gesture of reverence and respect. "I am glad you are my host, Ethan Hill," it says.
"I... thanks," I say, unsure how to respond to the sudden display. "And we're partners. You're part of the team too." I pause, and then add, a little more lightheartedly: "You're going to have to tell your backstory one day, you know."
"One day," it agrees. "But not today."
With that, I feel it slowly receding, its presence fading into nothing more than a warmth within my core. I'm almost tempted to ask for more, but it seems kind of done with talking for the day. Maybe for the week.
So instead I lean back, letting out a sigh. He-Who-Guards reacts to the movent with a small beep of surprise. "You are done?" he asks. "I didn't want to interrupt sothing important."
"I was talking to the Knight Inspiration," I tell him. "And yeah, it's gone back to... hibernating. Or whatever it does when we're not actively talking. Long story short, apparently I can try to reinforce my core once we reach the Interdiary. It's going to suck, but the Knight thinks we're going to need that power."
"You have not recovered," Guard observes with so uncertainty. "Are you sure you are ready to do this?"
"I can only do this if I haven't fully recovered," I say, wincing. "It's basically now or never."
Right on cue, Ahkelios returns carrying a massive armful of... moss, as far as I can tell. There are a few flowers sticking out of it, but more surprising to is that I can sense a distinct flow of Firmant within. It's nearly invisible, even with my Firmant sense.
Actually, I think it'd be completely invisible if I were relying on my normal Firmant sense. I frown slightly—a side effect of the Firmant strain, maybe? That particular ability supposedly erged from so sort of imbalance within my core; if that imbalance was further exaggerated...
Huh. Interesting.
"I'm back!" Ahkelios declares. "What's this about now or never?"
"I have to reinforce my core," I say.
"You have to sleep." Ahkelios dumps the moss onto the ground and begins shaping it into a makeshift bed. I'm actually impressed by how well this works—he uses his Firmant as a sort of scoop and threads it through the moss in a way not dissimilar to how the crows enhance their furniture. "And so do we!"
"I do not need to sleep," Guard volunteers.
"So do we," Ahkelios repeats, even more firmly. He glares at Guard, and there's a beat of silence.
"...I will make an attempt," Guard acquiesces.
I snort. He's not wrong, honestly. We've had a rough few days. It's good to see him asserting himself, though. His next phase shift is going to be interesting.
We're all going to need sothing at the Interdiary. Hopefully, we're strong enough to survive whatever Gheraa's dungeon throws at us while we're there.
Gheraa frowned up at the pillar of Firmant reaching up through the sky. His clothes were in tatters—both the storm and the dangers in his own dungeon had made sure of that.
He had to admit, of all the traps he'd been expecting, he hadn't anticipated the one with all the hands coming out of the walls. Getting caught in that trap was just embarrassing. Arrows, at least, were dignified. But hands? Why would his dungeon even use hands as a trap?
Anyway. All that aside, he'd made it to the eye of the storm and the root of the pillar. From where he stood, enormous tendrils of reality-rending soulrot reached up and clung to that pillar, wrapping around it in a vain attempt to strangle it.
Gheraa wasn't particularly interested in any of that.
What he was interested in was the orb cradled within the branches of what looked like a miniature dead tree. It wasn't really a dead tree, of course—just soulrot so deep that it looked like blackened wood.
But the orb? That called to him. It radiated with potent secrecy.
He reached out to touch it—
—and nearly sank to his knees as a multitude of visions forced their way into his mind. It was a chaotic mass of images he could barely make sense of, though he knew he'd put it together given enough ti.
He staggered to his feet. There was one thing that was clear in those visions. One na that repeated itself, over and over.
The Sunken King is returned.
Gheraa didn't recognize the na, but sothing about it rang with a cold familiarity.
He sat in the midst of the storm and began to dissect what he'd seen. If there was anything that needed a warning...
Well. This had to be it.
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