Sworded Affair

Chapter 163: Sweet Sixteen

[Level up!

Practitioner Emma Knight

True Form: Level 16 Damned Apostle]

Emma waited, expecting several followup notifications at any minute, with her available selections. Instead, what she actually got was…

[Error?

Error!

Error.

Temporal break: -777

User not found.]

“No mid-level upgrades, is that how it’s going to be?” Emma questioned, staring off into the horizon.

[No, this isn’t intentional. Let me work on the System, while you advance. This section is almost over, there’s just one final encounter to go.]

Emma shrugged, turning to face forward and taking the final step past the guard post onto the next stage. The backdrop of the Great Wall disappeared, as she found herself indoors again. Unlike the ancient environment she’d faced until this point, the final room was a strange mixture of the old and the familiar.

Plain white walls and ceiling, lit by candlesticks mounted on the walls. Neat rows of wooden desks and chairs filled most of the floor along a curved auditorium, all of them pointing towards the centre stage below. Each desk came with a roll of paper, a brush, a pot filled with water and a stick of ink. On a few desks, Emma could spot an abacus, but they were in the minority.

[Choose a seat without one, unless you’re confident in your mathematics.]

Emma was not, and claimed her seat accordingly. The rest of the chairs filled up quickly after that, with more phantoms that resembled her enemies on the Wall, though thankfully these ones were not hostile, nor did they register to her System at all.

[Illusions. Holograms, without any physical substance. Pay them no mind.]

A man cleared his throat, drawing Emma’s eyes back to centre stage; he stood behind his own desk, made taller to account for his preferences. He was nothing special to look at: elderly and balding, what hair remained a light grey verging on white. He wore a leather apron atop his blue overalls, the former stained with paint and the latter falling apart at the seams, exposing small patches of skin darkened by time spent outdoors. Combined with the collegial atmosphere, Emma could have mistaken him for a lecturer, were it not for his nametag.

[Fragment of Will (Sectmaster Horizon) - Level 30]

Even his fragment is Level 30? How strong was he in real life?

[In the mid-80s. About as strong as one could become on Earth, during the lean times.]

“Welcome, disciples, to the Hall of Learning.” The Sectmaster began, cutting off Emma’s reply.

“The first and oldest building in the Sect, which once housed our predecessors in their entirety, long before the expansion, and the raising of the Pavilions. But whilst many of the duties once performed here have been reassigned, the remit of education remains unchanged. Today, the best and brightest of you have gathered, from all walks of life, to consider one simple question. Who are you?”

A few spectres were quick off the draw, grinding ink sticks in their bare hands and mixing the powder in the pots of water provided. They dipped their brushes in the resulting mixture, and wrote anywhere between one to five characters. Then, they all vanished, their desks going with them.

“Some of you were hasty just now, and in response to my question, wrote your names. Not technically incorrect, but completely missing the point of today’s session. They will be permitted to try again next month, having hopefully learned the virtue of patience.”

A ripple of laughter followed his proclamation, making Emma glad she’d held back to observe how the ink worked: getting caught by a trick question this deep into the dungeon would have been humiliating.

“Our lives are busy by nature: the desire to ascend drives us ever onward, every moment accounted for in pursuit of the heavens. Yet all too often, our eyes remain upturned, and forget the earth from which we were born and raised. Today, your task is the simplest and most difficult of all: self-reflection. You are to write, as clearly and concisely as you can, the tale of your life spanning from ignition until today. Hold nothing back, and leave nothing out. Chart the course of your life on paper, and see for yourself the choices you made that together make you.”

This time, Emma didn’t hesitate to follow the crowd, putting brush to ink as she began to write. Slowly at first, then faster as she grew accustomed to her tools. The story of a few frenetic months, starting from a blade through the chest and going from there. The paper never ran out, growing new lines whenever she required it, again and again until her work was done.

There’s so little, Emma thought, reading back across a mere three pages. Sure, it cut out a lot of the details, but those three pages summed up the entirety of her existence since the apocalypse hit.

I’m going to live a long time. Possibly forever, since nothing about my new body indicates it’s going to age. What am I going to do with all of that time? What will fill the pages for those who come after?

[You have gained 1x Self-Reflection (3 Pages).

This may have value in certain dark rituals.

Self-Reflection (3 Pages) stored.]

“Good.” Sectmaster Horizon spoke again, drawing Emma’s attention anew. “Take what you have written today, and meditate upon the contents. The past is your foundation, upon which all your future glories are built. Ensuring their stability is of paramount importance when facing the Heavens: even the slightest of doubt can be enough to spawn a Heart Demon, leading to your end. Depart now, disciples, and reconvene ten days from now, after your midday meal. As for our foreign delegation, a word before you go, if you could.”

The remaining spectres faded away, leaving only Emma at her desk, facing the Sectmaster. She reached for Epitaph, only to find that the blade wouldn’t heed her call.

“There’s no need for that,” The Sectmaster shook his head. “I’m already long dead, there’s no need for you to kill a ghost. I just wanted to talk, before the end.”