Crimson Ascension

Draven slammed the inn's door shut, cutting off Helvan's protest and allowing a moment of peace to appease the flames of turmoil that burned within his mind.

Abyss take him, he never tells me anything until it's too late. Draven had had enough of the Sovran's habit of keeping important things secret, not to mention he had somehow regained his youth and acted as if nothing had happened. To a Chroner, perhaps that was nothing out of the ordinary.

But Finn had been right to freak out.

He looked at the bed. Comfortable. Soft. It was a luxury he could ill afford, for a moment spent in sleep or rest was a moment wasted—an opportunity for his enemies to grow stronger while his power remained stale. Instead, Draven removed his shirt and sat cross-legged on the ground.

The room might be small and unadorned—plain, some might say—but that made little difference. The book in his hand was the only object of value, the only thing worth his time in the moments others might spend resting. Draven flipped through the contents of the Empyrean manual, but quickly threw it aside. Reading it once more was meaningless after the tenth time.

I'm ready, he told himself. With an inhale, Draven summoned the scripture in front of his eyes.

Draven Von Astrais
Dyad Vessel: Refinement [Median]
Blood Path: Reverence [Greater]

There's nothing more I can achieve as a Reverence. He stilled his heart, killed the hesitation, and dived within his soul. Draven had spent a month tracking down Calandor, listening to every whisper of the man's whereabouts.

A month wasted.

The bastard's death did not even satisfy him, only emptiness—memories that reminded him of what he wished to bury. Abyss take me. He sighed, focusing on breathing, on the sound of his heartbeat until all the surrounding noise vanished.

Draven had come to realize his astra and hexion reserves were two times greater than what any Empyreans of his rank should have, courtesy of having an astra before Heightening. It allowed him to bridge the gap to the next rank, Eminence, assuming that his opponents were fools with no training.

He did not want to make that assumption anymore, not with pictures of him spread throughout the Haven. Not when the recompense for his capture was so damned enticing. It would not be long until he faced an Empyrean worth their hexion, someone who not even Helvan could defeat. Not preparing for the inevitable meant certain death.

With a flicker of his will, Draven sent hexion bursting out of his astra and guided it to the center of his chest. Life Meridian, it's time you open up. The current of power slammed into the meridian's barrier with the power of Sovran's punch.

Blood seeped out of Draven's eyes. Pain burst into his chest as if someone punched it open. I'd be damned… this thing hurts! He wiped the blood away, gathering his will once more.

To reach Eminence was not a matter of increasing the size of one's hexion reserves; it meant breaking down the four ethereal limiters of a living being's potential: Life, Protection, Destruction, and Death meridians.

He aimed to break the first one, and with it attain a body that would heal faster unaided by hexion. Most Empyreans began with the Protection meridian, as that granted a boon in durability—a body that was harder to injure. It was the safest, easiest path, granting valuable rewards which no Empyrean dared to overlook.

Except Draven.

If I don't get hurt, how in the abyss will Dyad Vessel grow? Against common sense and Helvan's advice, he decided to tread his path. Expecting the pain, he gathered his will once again, melding it into his reserve.

For hours, Draven let the hexion wear down the barrier surrounding his meridian, willing a constant stream of power to gradually shave away resistance. The barrier became flexible, if only for the tiniest amount, but the progress was tangible. However, his patience came to a end.

Waste of time.

Other Empyreans used this method as they lacked the raw amount of hexion to blast through the meridian. Draven was different, or so he assured himself. The power of an Archon had to mean something.

Instead of commanding a steady flow of hexion to wear down the meridian's barrier, he commanded his entire reserve to attack it. Break! His astra emptied instantly. His will drained to a barely visible size as pain exploded in his chest.

Blood erupted from Draven's mouth as he crumpled to the floor, devoid of energy. Had he run for days, he might not have felt the exhaustion he felt. He could barely see through the haze of lethargy clouding his vision, but the words flowing in his mind did not require eyes to be understood.

Draven Von Astrais
Dyad Vessel: Refinement [Median]
Blood Path: Eminence [Lesser]

That was… harder than I thought, Draven thought as he struggled to get up. Opening the first meridian hurt enough to reduce him to a bloody mess. If the first one is this bad, no wonder there's not a lot of Ascendances around.

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ADVANCEMENT INITIATED

What? Draven stood frozen as he read the words. What's going on? Is Dyad Vessel changing? A myriad of questions flitted through his mind as his body, even devoid of a single drop of hexion, healed with surprising speed. The damage to his lungs stitched itself in mere minutes. The cramps in his muscles relaxed and soothed in moments.

The words rearranged themselves before his eyes, changing, expanding. Evolving. What was once a simple depiction of who he was—or what he was capable of—became more. Draven felt the scripture accessing his body, reading his soul to understand how to better adapt.

ERROR! DUAL SOUL FLUCTUATION DETECTED.

ADJUSTING…

Draven gave up trying to make sense of what the voice spoke, as the cryptic words did not imprint their meanings into his mind, unlike the text he read in the scripture. But after today, he knew what caused the remnant to stumble while reading his soul.

It's sensing the Hemomorph, wherever that damned thing is hiding.

ADVANCEMENT COMPLETED

"Helvan, I swear I'll beat you up one day," Draven murmured as he prepared himself to face whatever the Az'Tenri Circlet threw at him. "Could have at least said something about this."

Draven Von Astrais
Providence: Dyad Vessel - Refinement [Median]

Malediction: None
Path: Blood - Eminence [Lesser]

—

REC: 0

DUR: 0

ART: [0/1]

The first part of the scripture did not change so much, except for the addition of the words Malediction, but what lay underneath was different. What does that even mean? Draven focused on that section, trying to comprehend it.

Without missing his intent, the Az'Tenri Circlet responded. It did not produce words, nor did it speak inside his mind, but somehow Draven understood the meaning of the written text as if he had always known.

Recovery. The first line quantified his natural ability to heal without the aid of hexion, which stood at zero even with the Life meridian wide open. It's a multiplier of sorts. Draven did not take long to reach that conclusion.

Durability and Art. How tough I am and… wait. He focused on the last part again, willing the remnant to produce the knowledge as it did before. Information flowed into his mind, stunning Draven into slack-jawed shock.

If he understood the meaning of those words, its function promised to change everything he knew about battling as an Empyrean.

"Abyss take me," Draven mumbled in horror.

He had been lucky to never have faced another holder of an Az'Tenri Circlet, for If they reached Eminence, it was possible to inscribe the entirety of an Empyrean Art to be used at will—instantly—regardless of how complex it was.

The possibilities were endless.

Unwilling to waste another second, Draven dived into his soul and focused on beckoning hexion from beyond the rift. Beckon. Imbue. Beckon. Imbue. He repeated the tenets until he lost track of time—until his reserve had enough crimson liquid to allow for experimentation.

Blood spikes are easy. Draven pondered the best way to use the boon the black ring had bestowed upon him. Shields aren't that useful if I'm just a sitting target. He sighed, for he knew the answer all too well.

"It has to be armor."

Draven exhaled, focusing his will into the pool of refined astra, commanding it to burst forth and take the shape of a suit of armor around him. Altavir had done the same with well-practiced mastery, and given enough time and focus, Draven knew he could do better. But no one would be fool enough to wait until he forged the means to turn a battle around.

The hexion poured out of his skin like vapor, condensing above his black robes, taking a crystalline shape that resembled ruby. Gauntlets formed around his fists, taking shape almost as if unprompted. A thick breastplate stole most of his hexion, carrying a tangible weight even for the body of a Sovran. Spiked pauldrons rose from his shoulders.

Soon, a bulky set of crimson armour covered his entire body. Draven took a deep breath, stood up, and tried to walk around the room. He stopped at the second step.

It's too damned bulky. He willed the hexion to dissipate, spotting the mistake in his thinking. If I don't get hurt, Dyad Vessel is all but useless. Whatever armor he wore had to enhance his prowess, not cripple his potential.

Draven abandoned thought, closing his eyes, and let the hexion mold around his body as he moved. Soon, his mind was drawn to the time he faced Altavir—to the memories that eluded him, to the disturbing dream he had before awakening as a Sovran.

The red suns shone brightly in the sky. The Hemomorph ruled the red plain with vicious supremacy, adorned by crimson scales that warded most attacks, sharp claws that cleaved through flesh, and a tail that was everything a spear and a sword wished to be.

Responding to his intent, to his lack of thought, hexion molded around his flesh with a warm embrace. Crimson gauntlets emerged from his skin, protecting his arms to the elbow. Claws sprouted out from each of his fingertips, sharper than daggers. His shoes burst apart as hexion enveloped his toes, feet, and calves, stopping at the knees. Pauldrons adorned by an intricate pattern of scales jutted out of his shoulders like spikes.

A long tail burst out from behind his back. No! Draven shook off the trance, cold sweat forming on his forehead. With a thought, he disintegrated the tail, recalling the mist into his astra.

What in the abyss?

The hexion acted as if guided by something, but he never instructed it to do anything. Something else had.

"You know, we're gonna have to talk about this sooner or later." Draven swallowed a lump down his throat. "And if you want a fight, I'll give it to you. I know you can hear me, whatever you are."

Silence was his only reply.

"So be it."

Draven activated the scripture with his intent, suppressing the anxiety in his heart. The armor disappeared instantly, but instead of returning as liquid to his astra, its hexion vanished beyond his inner sight. Seeking confirmation, he allowed the words to form in front of his eyes.

ART: Hemomorph's Mantle [1/1]

Cold abyss, it's true. Sweat dripped down his neck as he realized his suspicion was not unwarranted. It was not he who guided the formation of his first Blood Armament; it had been the slumbering beast inside his heart—the one whose core beat in a rhythm only he could hear.

The crimson beast under the twin suns.