Odyssey of the Guardian Emperor

The group of humans, under the guidance of three demihumans, toured the Textile District for a while, peeking into different shops and the women spinning and weaving thread and fabric native to the demiplane. Scarlett and Lucy were especially interested in the fashionable women's clothes, something the boys didn't understand too well. That was until they discovered a fascinating fact about all the clothes in the Textile District: Enchantments.

The details as to why were still unclear, but finding a cloth lacking an enchantment was harder than finding a normal one, and yet, the material alone was special.

The garments were soft to the touch, light yet far more durable than they looked. Alaric was starting to suspect at this point that the raw materials used for these clothes were closer than he realised—something that could only be found either in the demiplane, or somewhere within the Barren Mountains, just like the Storm Orbs.

There was one small problem, though.

'So that's him, huh…' he heard a voice as they walked by a group of artisans taking a break. His sharp ears told him where it had come from, but he kept his gaze forward like he'd heard nothing.

'Obviously. Look at those colours. He plays the role of an Outsider well,' another added.

'I hope he leaves soon,' a woman added with a sigh, 'We don't need him. The prince has got us covered.'

LionHeart tensed, but Alaric showed no signs of a reaction. If anything, he appeared to be looking for something. Because of this attitude towards him, Alaric reduced himself to a spectator.

He wouldn't approach the shops or the artisans, leaving his friends to browse when curiosity got the better of them. He always remained outside, watching from a distance with LionHeart and Grun'am keeping him company. To pass the time, the boys discussed enchantments, competing to see who could reason out the most useful of them all.

As they neared the end of the Textile District, Alaric stopped and branched off to a peculiar shop isolated from the rest. In front of it, an older woman was silently spinning a ball of thread. Her hands were held out over a large device, and from her fingertips, aether flowed, commanding the machine.

The old woman's fingers danced, aether streaming from them to guide threads through a gleaming loom, refining wispy strands into a glowing ball of golden thread between her outstretched hands.

She wasn't the first they'd seen doing this, but at a close look, she was the most elegant and proficient at the art. The ball of thread was much like the one Alaric had seen the statue holding in the courtyard of the Pantheon.

For the first time, he didn't feel a wave of negativity wishing he'd leave the demiplane, and so he marvelled at the woman's skill. Alaric stared at her work with wide eyes, which flipped between kaleidoscopic and deep green. He was astonished by what he saw.

While she looked calm, everything she was doing was anything but calm. Aether flew off her fingertips, chaining and taming the wild aether rolling of the threads, forcing it into submission from at least thirty different places at once with the precision of a tailor threading a needle. "You have such beautiful control over your aether. You make it look so easy."

The old woman smiled, keeping her eyes on the work before her, "I have been doing this for over four centuries, Little One. But I'll admit, today is a good day. The aether bends to my will like the wind. Sharp eye—picking me out of all the spin-masters in this district, and in those jarring clothes, no less."

Alaric's suspicion had been right. This was the only shop in the whole Textile district that he could actually visit without causing trouble, so he had to ask, "Everyone's been glaring, like I'm a pest, and I don't know why." He looked down at himself and wondered, "Is it the colour? I think gold and white are a lot more 'jarring' colours. You don't see that kind of colour often where I come from."

The woman looked up from her work for a good long second, allowing her smile to brighten even more, "You must be the one who got old Ungv'ak so excited last week. The reincarnation of his old friend, Soren."

Alaric's heart skipped a beat, "Ungv'ak is…"

"Our leader. The High Sentinel," the woman answered, "I'm surprised he hasn't told you that yet. He must be excited to see you if he forgot to introduce himself."

"Well, I don't know about that," Alaric scratched the back of his head.

"I don't know if it's possible, but… I hope one day, you remember everything from your past life," the woman added, returning her focus to the ball of thread in her hands, "It would save this continent a lot of explanations and allow many old souls some peace."

Alaric nodded, "I'll look into it."

She chuckled, "Ignore my ramblings. It was merely a wish. About your clothes, haven't you noticed the commonest colour of thread we spin here in the Textile District?"

Alaric furrowed his eyebrows. Was it a trick question? He doubted that, but then his answer would still make no sense to him, "Gold… and white. Why are those the commonest colours?"

"Because our thread takes on the colour of our feathers. We spin that thread from the excess feathers we shed and clean it so it's as pure as possible before carefully making fabric for all sorts of things," the woman explained. "That said, our fabric retains one flaw. It is not easily stained, which means we don't have much choice in variety. Clothes that have been dyed are considered very valuable, almost as valuable as the ceremonial clothes of our long-lost Priest of Delphi." At the last part, she raised her eyebrows at the clothes Alaric was wearing.

Alaric felt the blood leave his face. "Ceremonial? These are… sacred?"

"Almost! They're the same colour as the ceremonial ones," the woman chuckled dismissively, "The only other people you'll see wearing that colour are the arrogant Stormrunners who think all the money they've made outside the demiplane somehow makes them superior to us."

Alaric stepped back from her, "Thank you for that information."

"Let me offer you a piece of advice, Great Protector," she added. Alaric gave her undivided attention, "Don't dishonour our hard work by wearing that colour with a sad face. If you must wear something like that, then hold your head high and let us see the smile it is able to bring upon the face of the one our leader holds so dear."

Alaric let out a nervous laugh, "No pressure at all. Would you mind if I returned another time? If I asked you every question on my mind right now, I'm afraid we'd never finish."

"Come back any time. It would be my honour," the woman answered with a smile.

Alaric turned away to leave with a smile. LionHeart squeezed his shoulder and pushed him ahead, "All hail the Priest!"

"Please don't," Alaric looked back as he walked forward.

Scarlett was more than happy to jump in, "I don't know. I think the shoe fits." Laughter rippled through the group, driving it into his mind that they would not be letting this go for a long time.

Right as Alaric turned away from them, he bumped into a running little girl. She'd come out of nowhere, but that thought vanished from Alaric's brain as his hands shot forward, an invocation leaving his lips so fast he barely had the time to register what he'd said.

A torrent of wind erupted below the girl and cushioned her fall while Alaric stumbled into LionHeart's waiting arms. The protector steadied him, "You okay?"

Alaric nodded quickly, more worried about the person who'd bumped into him. Children had always been delicate, but this one felt like a marshmallow. Alaric could imagine three different parts of her body that should have broken from that collision.

Kair'ak walked up to the girl and picked her up. "Are you okay, little one?"

She had long white hair tied in pigtails that dropped below her shoulders. Her eyes, golden and round, flicked between Kair'ak and Alaric before she bowed deeply, "I'm so sorry. Forgive me. I wasn't paying attention."

"I'm not the one you should be apologising to," Kair'ak answered.

The girl looked up and took a second to catch up to Kair'ak's words before nervously approaching Alaric. The green-eyed boy closed the gap between them and raised an arm over her head, glowing green with a Healing spell, "Are you hurt?"

"No, sir. I'm fine," she lied, but Alaric was fooled, and as he felt his aether drain, he knew she was getting better. The girl's nerves seemed to vanish under Alaric's touch, but then another voice cut through the silence.

"TAR'AK, WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING OVER THERE?" a woman yelled.

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Tar'ak turned to the woman and ran over to her, "Sister! I was apologising for…"

"You have nothing to apologise for, child. Don't talk to humans, ever," the sister snapped at the child, grabbing her hand and dragging her away from the scene, "Let's go, before rumours start going around that you want to make friends with them."

As the girl was dragged away, she turned and waved at Alaric with a bright smile on her face—a smile she hid as soon as her sister looked at her, "ARE YOU SMILING?"

"No, sister. Humans bad…"

"Obviously. It's good you're a quick learner," the sister scoffed.

Alaric wanted to laugh at the girl, but her sister's attitude was the perfect counter, leaving him a mess of emotions, unsure of how to react. He'd known there was some negative attitude towards him, but this…

"Par'al, you said they didn't like the idea of me, not the entire human race." Alaric turned to his tour guide.

Par'al rolled his eyes, "The line between those two is thin, given what you stand for. Come. We have much to see."

With that, the group left the Textile District. Alaric took a few deep breaths and managed to get the shock out of his system. First, it was the clothes, and now it was a deep-rooted hatred for his kind. The tour had only started, which made him question just how much trouble he was going to get himself in, for better or worse.

The city turned from calm Spin-masters working threads to large muscular men hammering and dowsing hot metal in water whilst blowing air into massive blazing furnaces. The street itself was hot, and the air was humid from all the steam.

If it wasn't for the noise of hammers against metal on anvils and furnaces cackling with flames and wind, Alaric would have taken note of the smell of sweat in the air, but all that took a backseat in his mind as the world of smithing unravelled before him.

He watched the product of hours of hard, gruelling labour go into hammering steel into submission. He saw the steam and heat from the furnaces cook the smiths until their floors were wet with sweat and black with ash and soot. Amidst the gruesome task of forging, he noticed techniques of Aether control.

The demihumans blew air into their furnaces at the simple wave of a hand, and in those gusts of wind, Alaric saw aether floating into the fire, boosting it far more than normal air should have been able to.

"I'm surprised they still have all their fingers," the boy mused.

"Ugh, so what?! Blacksmiths are impressive. Yay! We know. Everyone's impressive! Can we get a move on?" Par'al edged them on. He wasn't about to wait for Alaric to spend a full day watching how swords were forged, so he did his best to drag them through the Steel District. They did manage to stop by a few of the forges, to his dismay.

As they neared the end of the Steel District, however, Alaric stopped following and saw a man sleeping on a bench, his dirty golden hair flecked with a little white visible underneath the old cape covering his face. He stared at the Copper bracelet on his wrist and decided to approach him.

The man's clothes were torn and rugged, while scars littered his large forearms. Par'al saw where the boy was headed, and his eyes widened in disbelief, his voice a harsh whisper, "What's wrong with that kid? Is his mind broken or something?"

"Something wrong?" LionHeart asked, not about to take insults directed at his charge.

They didn't get to hear the answer to his question as the sleeping man suddenly pulled the hat off his face with a groan. He sat up, his movements strained. His golden eyes flicked open to meet with Alaric's green ones, then he looked away as though he was exhausted, "I'm not taking apprentices. Not even if it's you, Great Protector."

Alaric shook his head, then put his hand on the copper bracelet at his wrist, ejecting a massive amount of golden weapons. Knives, clubs, maces, spears, swords, all of various shapes, styles and sizes. The pile clattered onto the ground noisily, the weapons humming with the power of the aether inside of them.

Par'al's eyes went even wider, "Where did he get all that?"

"The High Sentinel lent us those weapons more than a week ago," LionHeart answered, also curious as to what Alaric was thinking.

The boy walked up to the pile, picked out a single sword and turned to the man. With the sword in hand, he pointed to the pile, "I would like to return the rest of these."

The man raised an eyebrow at the boy, "The answer to that… is no."

"Why?" Alaric gasped.

The man stood up and approached the pile, picking up an unassuming spear among them. He looked the spear over and gave it a gentle swing before looking back at Alaric.

"I can tell from that look in your eyes that you've seen the blood and sweat that goes into making just one of these weapons. The more complex the weapon, the more time it takes to forge one, and don't get me started on the enchantments. One wrong line in the runes, one wrong syllable in the incantations and the whole blade shatters like a stone through glass," the man chuckled. He brought the spear to Alaric and wiped the flat of the blade. It was smooth with minor discolourations and indentations. "My son made this… It was meant to be his attempt at trying to beat me in the forge."

"It's a good spear," Alaric answered. He remembered it well in his battle against the Dark Mage. He remembered all the weapons he used, regardless of how weird that sounded. Each one of them had left an impression on him, managing to stand up to the tyrannical power of the Steel Dark Mage. It had also been his first time wielding that many weapons.

"Aye. It is," the man responded, "Stronger than most you'll find. It's made from the will of a young craftsman chasing after his dreams. It has the power to grow hotter and cut almost anything depending on how hot it gets, but without knowing the story behind it, you'll miss out on what makes it truly special."

"You just told me the enchantment," Alaric answered, "What else is there?"

"The enchantment is all most will ever see," the man added, "But this weapon was imbued with the Will of its blacksmith, and because of that, it grows stronger with the will of its user. Face an opponent you can't beat, and this spear will rise up in quality by a whole star, just to challenge a foe it was never built to face."

Alaric's heart skipped a bit, "Is that even… possible?"

"Didn't you feel it as you battled in the human city?" the man asked, "The way your tools always seemed to take on more than you initially assumed."

Alaric nodded, "But… that happened with most of them."

"Yes," the man grinned, "The rest of these weapons have similar stories. Ungv'ak came to me with that specific request, knowing you'd be challenging a being far beyond your capabilities. They'll serve you more than they can serve anyone else in this demiplane, and we want you to have them."

Alaric held the man's gaze for a while before returning all the weapons into his bracelet, "I'll use them better next time."

The old man chuckled heartily, "I'd expect nothing less."

***

Soon, they left the Steel District, diving into streets dedicated to growing herbs, a market filled with foods, many of which Alaric had never seen, along with treats he welcomed when offered.

Just like Par'al had said, the people of the demiplane were conflicted about his existence, and that meant he often got welcomed by surprise where he expected to be unwelcome. There seemed to be no formula to how he was treated by the demihumans.

Scarlett, Lucy and surprisingly, Kairak bonded over things Alaric found whimsical. Accessories in the Steel district, clothes in the Textile district, and potions in the Aether District, most of which had mind-boggling qualities. He caught them in the Love section of an Elixir shop, reading the descriptions off a scattering of liquids in pink and red vials.

Not seeking to cause any trouble, he let the girls be.

At some point, he found LionHeart staring at a bronze shield and pitched in to help him buy it. Grun'am approved of the big man's taste and also pitched in. In exchange, the demihuman asked LionHeart to spare time in the future for a duel.

The only one in this whole group who wasn't having fun exploring was Par'al. If there was anything positive about him, it was that his snarky comments reduced as they went on.

They'd gone through the whole city and even found time to eat in a massive compound filled with tables. Now, there was one last place they had to visit before seeking out Troy with the alchemists—the Amphitheatre from which Alaric had heard the thrills of an entertained crowd and raw battle the night before.

As the group traversed the city, they approached the colossal structure. In the silence that gripped them, Alaric looked up at the one thing everyone could see from anywhere in the demiplane: The chained pagoda in the distant, stormy sky.

From here, they could see its bottom, concrete and soil hanging at the bottom. An obvious sign that it had been ripped out of the ground and was now forever suspended in the air, tethered to the ground by thick, powerful chains.

"I've been meaning to ask what that is," Alaric asked, pointing upwards.

"That's the Storm Pagoda. To you, it's nothing. The aether up there is too dense for any of you to handle, so it's best you leave it be," Par'al responded nonchalantly before leading them into the large amphitheatre.

The entrance was a dark tunnel leading under the concentric rows of seats, where the spectators let loose, yelling and stomping so energetically that dust trickled down from the ceiling from time to time.

As soon as they'd ducked into the tunnel, Alaric's attention was taken up by the scent of fresh feathers, sweat and petricore. Wind blew outward in gusts, and the deeper into the tunnel they went, the more noise they heard. An excited grin lit Par'al's face, "Looks like we're right in time for a game of Featherbowl. Come on, you slowpokes! Come see what real men were born to do."

Alaric hadn't seen Par'al get hyped up since the day started, which only made his stomach turn. [ His Majesty should teach moody child how to smile more often. ]

[ I'm pretty sure I'm younger than him, WorldHammer. If you haven't been briefed, I'm only fifteen. I'll turn sixteen once we're past the Month of the Willow. ] Alaric responded.

[ I fail to understand. You were born in the month of the Constellation of Death? ] WorldHammer's voice bore a hint of panic as he asked this, as though Alaric had said something horrible.

[ No, WorldHammer. That is the month I turned up in the Five Hills. I don't know when I was born, so we used the last day of the Month of the Willow to mark my birthday. It was a silent wish to keep me out of the Year of the Black Sun. ] Alaric responded.

He would have indulged the guardian some more if they hadn't then emerged on the other side of the tunnel and caught a glimpse of the source of all the noise. A large arena stretched out in front of Alaric, filled with contraptions and machinations that Alaric had never seen before in an arena.

Swinging clubs marked with spikes, spinning blades with barely any space to weave through, walls that slammed into each other like the jaws of a large abomination, dragon heads spitting fire, and several other frightening things.

As though that wasn't enough, the fighting arena at the centre of this obstacle course of madness, filled with sand, was suspended in the air, a deep moat going around it on which the obstacle course of death was built.

Alaric gasped as he stared at the rails keeping him from falling into the abyss below the arena. Just then, something blew right past the rails, shooting through the air like an arrow. A gust of wind blew past them as two more creatures flew past, chasing after the first.

Alaric's eyes locked on the flying beings, and he recognised them to be winged men dressed in armour. The chasing two were dressed in similar leather, new but weak, putting everything into chasing down the first. They weaved through the obstacle course of death like it didn't exist.

The winged demihuman ahead was holding onto a ball made of coiled feathers, much like the ball Alaric had seen the children playing with back at the courtyard in front of the Pantheon. Perhaps the most amusing feature about the man with the ball, however, was his blue hair. Everyone else had gold and white, while he disobeyed this law. Still, his wings shared the same white and gold hue as the others.

"Don't just stand there. Come up here," Par'al called the group to follow him up the stairs and into the stands filled with hundreds of demihumans all chanting, screaming and laughing at the games going on down below.

The game looked exhilarating, and yet Alaric couldn't shake the sinking feeling in his gut.