Chapter 35: Barnacled Relic
Iskander
The force of Sylvia's mental nudge was gentle but insistent, a soft pressure against the frantic, clinging desperation of my own emotions.
'Child, you must let them breathe.' Her voice was a calm harbor in the storm of my relief.
It was only then I realized how tightly I was holding them, my arms—sheathed in Gawain's reforged armor—locked around Sevren and Delilah like iron bands.
I was trembling, a fine, constant vibration that came from the very core of my being. The dam I had built so high and so strong during those endless months in the Crucible, the wall behind which I'd shoved every ounce of fear, loneliness, tiredness and agony, finally, irrevocably, fractured.
It didn't break with a roar, but with a silent, shuddering sigh. And then the tears came.
They weren't the dignified tears of reunion. They weren't tears of sadness or pain. They were a torrent, a river of pent-up anguish and overwhelming, dizzying joy. I buried my face between my friends, my shoulders shaking with the force of my sobs.
The cold, polished metal of my pauldron was against Sevren's cheek, the warm, living gold of my gauntlet pressed against Delilah's back.
I was a contradiction—a weapon of war weeping like a lost child.
"I… I missed you so much!" The words were ripped from me, raw and cracked, each one a piece of the pain I'd carried alone.
It was the confession of a soul that had believed itself permanently severed from everything good and familiar.
To have them here, solid and real and alive… it was a miracle I hadn't dared to pray for.
'I am happy to see you happy,' Sylvia whispered in my mind, her thought a warm, golden thread woven through my turmoil.
The gentle pun made a wet, choked laugh escape me amidst the tears. Her happiness was a tangible echo in our bond, a shared sun breaking through the long night.
When I finally, reluctantly, loosened my grip and stepped back, wiping my face with the back of a gauntlet that had recently been used to shatter dragon scales, the world seemed sharper, clearer. I took them in.
Sevren, with his intelligent, cautious eyes now wide with shock and concern. Delilah, her usual fiery bravado softened into bewildered compassion.
And then there was Caera. Sevren's sister. She was an enigma, standing a little apart, her posture poised and observant. Her crimson eyes, so unlike her brother's, took in every detail—my new armor, my emotional outburst, the way I held myself.
But it was the sword at her hip that truly snagged my attention. Sevren's sword.
The one I'd taken from the Being of the Fog and gifted to Sevren after he'd nearly died for me. Seeing it on her, seeing how naturally she carried its length and weight, sent a strange pang through me. It was a connection, a thread from my past to this present moment.
She clearly cared for Sevren deeply; the protective way she'd stepped forward to thank me was evidence enough. Theirs was a good sibling relationship, a bond that seemed strong and true. It made the absence of another sibling feel like a fresh wound.
"Delilah," I said, my voice still hoarse from crying as we began to move across the endless ice, our footsteps the only sound in the vast, frozen silence. "Where is Yorick?"
She stopped walking. The change in her was instantaneous and devastating. All the bright, reckless energy that defined her drained away, leaving behind a statue of grief. Her shoulders slumped, and her gaze fell to the intricate patterns of frost beneath our feet.
My heart plummeted. Oh, no. Please, no… The dread was a cold fist closing around my throat. Not Yorick.
'Child, do not assume the worst,' Sylvia cautioned, her mental voice a steadying presence. 'Wait for her to speak.'
Right. I was jumping to conclusions. I had to breathe.
"He…" Delilah's voice was a small, broken thing. "Yorick has been drafted by the Dominion of Etril. He was sent to Dicathen."
The relief that it wasn't news of his death was immediately washed away by a wave of cold, sickening understanding.
The looming war. Of course. It had been a distant, abstract horror while I was trapped in the Crucible. Now, it had reached out its bloody hand and taken someone I knew.
"How is that possible?!" The question burst from me, sharp with disbelief. Weren't Ascenders supposed to be somewhat autonomous? Weren't they valued for their exploration, not as cannon fodder for a continental invasion?
"Your brother wasn't an Ascender?" Caera asked, her tone curious, not accusatory. The others had all turned, sensing the shift in the atmosphere.
I saw a flicker of guilt cross Sevren's face. He'd probably already asked her this, pestered her for information before she'd joined his team, and now felt responsible for bringing the pain back to the surface.
"He was a Sentry," Delilah explained, her voice hollow. She wouldn't meet our eyes, staring at the ice as if it could show her his face. "The Sovereigns… they need Sentries. To break the wards, to find a way into the heart of the Dicathian Beast Glades. They're… specialized for that, you know."
"That's bad," rumbled the crimson-haired Ascender, Taegen. His voice was like grinding stones, utterly devoid of the nuance the situation required. "But his service to the Sovereigns is still something to be proud of, Bobcut One."
The casual dismissal of Yorick's danger, the reduction of his potential sacrifice to a mere 'bad' turn of events, and that infuriating nickname—it ignited a fury in me so white-hot it was a physical pressure behind my eyes. My aether core flared in response, pale gold light flickering dangerously at my fingertips.
'CHILD! CALM DOWN!' Sylvia's command wasn't a suggestion; it was a psychic clamp. She forcefully seized control of my aether flow, damping the violent surge before it could manifest.
The heat receded, leaving behind a cold, shaking anger. She was right. This man, Taegen, was a product of his environment. He was a loyal soldier of the very system that had created this mess. His words weren't meant to be cruel; they were programmed.
"I know that…" Delilah whispered, her voice trembling. She finally looked up, and the conflict in her eyes was heartbreaking. "But I always thought… I always believed I would be the one risking my life for Alacrya and the Sovereigns. Not him. Never him."
The confession was raw, a testament to her faith and her fear. She was a true believer confronted with the brutal, impersonal machinery of the faith she upheld.
She shook her head sharply, as if physically dispelling the sadness. "We need to get out of this Zone soon," she stated, her voice firming with a resolve I recognized. She was compartmentalizing, shoving the pain down to focus on the immediate task: survival.
Sevren and I exchanged a long, knowing look. We both understood. Now was not the time. We nodded in silent agreement, and the somber procession continued its march across the frozen lake.
The silence that descended was heavy, punctuated only by the crunch of our boots and the distant moan of the wind.
Seeking a distraction, for myself and for the curious siblings flanking me, I pulled the Barnacled Relic from my hip. Its rough, ancient surface was cool against my palm, a tangible mystery.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw both Sevren and Caera lean in slightly, their curiosity mirroring each other so perfectly it was almost comical.
Yeah, they were definitely related.
"A dead Relic?" Caera questioned, her head tilted, those sharp crimson eyes analyzing every barnacle and irregularity.
"Oh, is it like that Heart Relic you had when we first met?" Sevren asked, his tone shifting into that of the fascinated researcher I remembered.
"Yeah, kinda. Well, actually…" I trailed off, the weight of the unspoken story—Al-Hazred, the Crucible, Gawain's death—pressing down on me.
"Nevermind. It's a long story." A story that involved cosmic genocide, enslaved Asuras, and a mad Djinn who saw me as his weapon of vengeance. Not exactly campfire tales.
Delilah, who had been walking in a subdued silence, perked up at the mention of a story.
"Now I want to know what happened to you even more!" she declared, her enthusiasm forcibly overriding her sorrow. It was a brave front, and I loved her for it.
The other two members of their party, Arian and Taegen, hung back, their expressions a mixture of wariness and awe.
My appearance—the horns, the grey skin, the terrifyingly ornate armor—clearly marked me as Vritra Blood, a being to be both revered and feared since birth. I couldn't blame their distance.
"Let's just say I harvested it from a fearsome reptile," I said, offering a sliver of the truth, sanded down and stripped of its horrifying context.
"A fearsome reptile?" Caera repeated, her puzzlement evident.
Sevren, ever the pragmatist, skipped the origin story and went straight to the mechanics. "And how do you plan on reviving it?"
"It's not actually dead. Or at least, I don't think it is…" I murmured, turning the Relic over in my hands.
Why would Al-Hazred give me a dead end? Unless… unless the act of reviving it was the key.
Unless he was the only one who could awaken it, ensuring I'd have to bring it back to him to unlock its power. The thought was a splash of cold water. Fuck. I had no idea how to revive a Dead Relic. The Heart Relic had simply… reacted to my aether, to my need. It had met me halfway.
An idea, born of my new, intimate connection with Sylvia, sparked. "Let's try it," I said, a plan forming.
Sylvia, can you get inside the Relic? I asked inwardly. I want to test something. Be my scout. See if there's anything in there to connect to.
'Sure, Child,' she replied without hesitation. Her will-o'-wisp, a tiny sun of loyal devotion, emerged from my core and, with a faint shimmer, sank into the rough-hewn stone of the Relic.
I gestured for Caera and Sevren to give me a little space.
"I don't think this is the best place to be experimenting with your… toys, Iskander," Sevren observed, his scholar's mind clearly running through a list of potential catastrophic outcomes.
I shook my head, a faint, weary smile touching my lips. "It won't take long. For you, at least." If this was anything like the Heart Relic, my consciousness could be subjected to years of trial within the space of a few external minutes. The risk was mine alone.
Closing my eyes, I focused on the golden, luminous thread that bound my soul to Sylvia's. I could feel her presence now, not just in my mind, but on the other side of a metaphysical barrier, inside the Barnacled Relic.
It was like she had stepped into a dark, silent house, and I was standing on the porch, connected by an unbreakable cord.
With a deep breath, and with Sylvia acting as an anchor on the other side, I pulled. Not my body, but my consciousness. My awareness didn't move; it flowed along that golden tether, through the connection Sylvia had established, and into the waiting darkness of the Barnacled Relic.
The frozen world of ice, my friends, the concerned faces of Sevren and Caera—it all vanished, swallowed by an immense and ancient silence.
Iskander Hyperion
The transition was not a gentle fade, but a violent lurch, a soul being ripped from one reality and slammed into another.
One moment, I was Iskander, a being of tempered aether and Asuran flesh, standing on ice under a snowflake moon. The next, I was… less. So much less.
The first sensation was the crushing weight of my own weakness. My bones felt like glass, my muscles like wet paper. The air, once something I commanded, was now a thin, insufficient medium that my lungs struggled to pull into a chest that felt hollow and fragile.
I was back in the prison of my own past. Iskander Hyperion. Bedridden. Broken.
A wave of pure, unadulterated revulsion washed over me. Not this. Never this again. I hated this body with a passion that was a physical ache.
I missed the powerful thrum of aether in my veins, the unyielding strength of my Asuran form, the simple, profound ability to move without every action being a monumental effort.
How did I know this was another of the Relic's cruel parlor tricks, another fabricated memory like the one in the Heart Relic? Because she was there.
A tiny, steadfast sun in the gloom of the sickroom. Sylvia's will-o'-wisp hovered near the bedside, her golden light a stark, beautiful anomaly in this world of sterile whites and muted beiges.
"Sylvia…" My voice was a reedy whisper, a pathetic scratch of sound. I turned my head away on the pillow, a hot flush of shame burning my cheeks.
"Don't look at me." I couldn't bear for her to see me like this—this shriveled, dependent thing. This was the before. The failure. The life I had fought so hard to escape.
"Child," her voice was soft, a balm poured directly onto my raw nerves. It resonated not in the air, but in the space between our souls. "Don't be ashamed. I love you regardless of the vessel you inhabit. This one, or your beautiful Asuran one. You are what matters. The will that refuses to break."
Her words were a lifeline, but the shame was a riptide, pulling me under. Before I could form a rebuttal, the door opened with a soft, familiar click.
Alfred.
My butler. My real father. He entered with that quiet, dignified grace that had defined my entire childhood. In his hands was a physical newspaper, an anachronism that felt both comforting and deeply sinister.
In the 25th century, news was beamed directly into our homes, curated, sanitized, and controlled. A physical paper was a relic of a freer time, now co-opted as a symbol of clandestine resistance.
"Here, sir. The weekly newspaper," he said, his voice the same calm, steady tone I remembered. He placed it on the bedside table. "Although I wish to remind you, for the umpteenth time, that it's a week lagging behind for news."
It was our old joke, a tiny rebellion in itself. In the despotic state Etharia had become under King Grey, unbiased information was a dangerous commodity. The global net was a tool of propaganda; these smuggled papers were windows to a truth Grey worked tirelessly to erase.
The reason for his brutal censorship, his obsession with annihilating not just the opposing nation of Trayden but its very history and culture and everything related to it? From its allies to even its neighbours? A complete mystery. The man was a sphinx.
The only clue I'd ever had was from the Heart Relic—the name Nico Sever, a childhood friend turned enemy. A memory I couldn't even verify as truthful or the Relic's invention.
Sylvia's light drifted closer, invisible to Alfred, as we both looked at the date.
September 17th, 2468.
The breath caught in my throat. One day after my supposed death. In this fabricated timeline, the life-saving, body-transplanting operation that Agrona and Al-Hazred had set in motion had never happened.
I had simply… continued. Trapped in this decaying shell.
The headlines were a litany of quiet horror. The last war waged by King Grey was over for a while, but the articles spoke of a hollow victory and a king who was now just a husk of pure, directionless malice.
Annexation was complete, and the war machine was already gearing up for a new, unnamed conflict against the next country—Grey's eyes were now on what was once knew as the South American continent.
There were reports of suppressed investigations, journalists found dead, war crimes buried under layers of bureaucratic silence.
King Grey understood war and propaganda with the chilling efficiency of a master surgeon. He knew precisely where to cut to silence dissent.
And the most terrifying part? Despite living in an age of hyper-connectivity, the common people were utterly ignorant.
The tragedies were hidden in plain sight, the scale of the horror too vast to comprehend. Only those in the highest echelons of power, like House Hyperion, could even glimpse the monstrous truth.
"I don't want to read about this hell anymore," I rasped, pushing the paper away. The words tasted like ash.
"Of course, sir," Alfred said, retrieving it without a hint of judgment. His eyes held a deep, unspoken sorrow.
Sylvia was silent. Too silent. I could feel her shock radiating through our bond. This world, with its strange technology and profound, mundane cruelty, was utterly alien to her.
A familiar itch of frustration took hold. I wanted the remote for the viewscreen. A simple, everyday action. My hand, pale and trembling, moved toward the nightstand. The few inches felt like a mile. My fingers, weak and uncoordinated, fumbled.
"Sir, let me h—" Alfred began, stepping forward.
"No." The word came out sharper than I intended. It was a point of pride, pathetic as it was. "At least this…"
'Child, don't strain yourself!' Sylvia's mental protest was laced with alarm.
I spent a year having my limbs vaporized and my spine shattered by a dragon-god, I shot back, the thought fierce and bitter. This is just a remote.
My fingers finally closed around the plastic. A small victory. I pressed the power button.
The screen flickered to life, but instead of the usual programs, every channel was dominated by the same stark, emergency broadcast graphic. A synthetic, emotionless voice filled the room, repeating the same chilling sentence on a loop:
"King Grey has died due to mysterious circumstances earlier this day. No proofs have been found out yet on what happened."
The world tilted.
"What?" Alfred and I said in unison, our voices a mirror of stunned disbelief.
King Grey. Dead. The strongest man on the planet, the untouchable tyrant, the architect of a global nightmare… gone. Not in a blaze of glory or a dramatic coup, but to "mysterious circumstances." It was absurd. Impossible.
I felt Sylvia's wisp tremble violently beside me. A wave of protective instinct surged through me, pushing back my own shock. I reached out a weak hand, not to touch her, but to offer a gesture of comfort in the empty air.
It's alright, Dragon Mama. Don't worry. This is just the Relic. We'll solve this and be out soon.
But my mind was racing. The sheer, immersive detail of this world was staggering. It wasn't just pulled from my memories; it was too rich, too complete.
Alfred's subtle mannerisms, the specific grain of the wood on the bedside table, the exact syntax of the news alert… this wasn't a reconstruction. It felt like a recording. A perfect, aetheric snapshot of a reality.
"Sir, I am going to try and understand what's happening," Alfred said, his face pale.
He understood my need to know and shared it. He left the room, leaving me alone with Sylvia and the droning, repetitive news alert.
King Grey, killed. It was unexpected, but obviously not lamentable. The man was a monster. He had no ideology, no higher purpose. His reign was built on a foundation of blood and a void where his soul should have been.
A void filled with a hatred whose origin nobody knew.
But why did he keep appearing in these Relics? He wasn't just a local tyrant from a world apart, he was a figure these ancient Djinn artifacts seemed obsessed with. A cold, terrible suspicion began to crystallize in my mind.
"Sylvia," I said, my voice tight. "I need you to try something. Enter my body. See if you can… feel anything. Channel aether. Anything."
"Oh, Child… that's impossible," she replied, her tone heavy with a strange sorrow.
"No, it's not," I insisted, the theory forming faster than I could speak it. "I think the reason the Relics can depict my world so perfectly is because of aether itself. Al-Hazred confirmed he knew Agrona pulled me from Earth and thwarted it, that aether bridges the worlds. What if… what if this isn't a memory? What if it's a… a reflection? An echo of what's actually happening, viewed through an aetheric lens?"
"True, the connection is there," Sylvia conceded, her light flickering. "I knew you were a reincarnate the moment I felt your consciousness. But… the aether here, Child. It is… thin. Trapped. My ancestor, Kezess the First, he… he sealed the aether in something called Aether Realm. He cut off the flow. That's why lessers use only mana. The little aether that exists in your world is a stagnant puddle, not a flowing river. I can't manipulate it."
"I… see." The pieces were falling into a horrifying picture. The Relic wasn't just showing me a lesson this time. It was showing me a connection. A bond between the worlds that Sylvia's ancestors had severed.
"Wait," I whispered, the thought a ice-cold dagger in my gut. "The way he died. 'Mysterious circumstances.' That implies something undetectable. A new, invisible weapon… or a form of energy that can travel between worlds. A form of energy like… aether."
The theory I'd joked about with Sevren was now screaming in my mind with terrifying plausibility.
"Oh, no. This might be exactly what happened to me. Agrona was bringing me over, and Al-Hazred interfered. What if… what if someone did the same for King Grey?"
The conclusion was insane, unavoidable. My voice was barely a breath. "Was King Grey… reincarnated? Just like me?"
The silence from Sylvia was longer this time. Heavier. It was a silence that confirmed everything.
"Yes, Child." The admission was a whisper, filled with a profound and ancient guilt. "He was. He… I know him. I… I am so sorry, Child, I should have told y—"
The world stopped.
What?
You knew.
The words didn't form. They detonated in the center of my being.
You knew King Grey?
The betrayal was absolute, annihilating. It wasn't a question. It was the shattering of a fundamental truth. My anchor, my guide, my Dragon Mama… had known the monster of my past life. She had known him, and she had hidden it from me.
The rage was a supernova. It didn't need aether; it was its own primordial force. It was a white-hot fury that rejected the simulation, the Relic, the very rules of this constructed reality.
I didn't solve the Barnacled Relic through insight or understanding.
I solved it with the raw, unvarnished force of my anger.
The sickroom, the bed, the distant sound of the news alert—it all fragmented like glass, dissolving into nothingness.
The return to the Ice Zone was not a transition. It was a violent ejection. I was back on the ice, the cold air a slap against my Asuran skin, the Barnacled Relic hot in my hand. But I didn't see the frozen lake or the concerned faces of my friends.
I stared at the lingering light of Sylvia's will-o-wisp floating around me. We didn't speak; I ignored her. Was I being irrational? Yes, I was.
I could forgive almost anything. Sylvia could blame herself for what her Clan had done all she wanted, but I couldn't accept this.
I hated King Grey. No. Hate wasn't a strong enough word for the amount of repulsion and disgust I had for that inhuman being.
He was the source of the pain and turmoil in my past life that had worsened my condition.
His genocidal campaigns in Etharia against Trayden, and the entire world left scars everywhere. Every move he made carried weight; when someone holds that much political, military, and physical power, even a breath can decide life or death.
Yet, despite all that responsibility, King Grey didn't care. He was a monster—a true monster with no goal other than complete servitude to the God of Misfortune.
Agrona? Kezess? Al-Hazred? Since I was reincarnated, I merely shifted the target of my hatred. I took the fury I held for King Grey and turned it toward them to fuel my defiance against the monsters of this new world.
But the idea that Agrona Vritra is worse than King Grey? Or Kezess Indrath? Al-Hazred? Don't make me laugh.
They are nothing compared to him. They may have lived for thousands of years, but in just forty-one years of life, King Grey committed crimes that eclipse them all.
I remember January 11th, 2456. I was merely twelve, my body not yet fully broken by illness. The war against Trayden was at its peak.
Nuclear weapons had been banned under the Treaty of Perpetual Peace ages ago. War was supposed to be civilized—restricted to Paragon Duels. But that morning, a second sun rose over Trayden's capital.
King Grey had resurrected a technology so terrified, so taboo, that the 25th century had tried to bury it forever.
He had secretly built a nuclear bomb.
And the worst part? He forced us to watch. He hijacked every channel and every device on Earth.
The whole wide world was forced to witness an atomic mushroom cloud paint Trayden in death and radiation.