Chapter 36: With Great Power Comes Great Responsibilities
Sylvia Indrath
Child… Iskander…
The names were a silent prayer on my consciousness, a desperate plea for forgiveness that I knew I did not deserve. We were back on the frozen lake, the biting cold a stark contrast to the sterile, climate-controlled room of his past life.
The transition was jarring, a psychic whiplash that left me reeling.
Iskander stood there, holding the newly revealed Barnacled Relic, his face a mask of calm curiosity. But through our bond, I felt the seismic shockwaves of his hurt, a raw, open wound that pulsed with every beat of his heart.
He hated Art so, so much...
"You revived the Relic!" Delilah's voice was a burst of bright, uncomplicated excitement, a sound that felt alien in the wake of what had just transpired.
She was looking at the object in his hands—no longer a barnacled stone, but a sleek, dark metallic slate with a comfortable handle.
Intricate golden lines etched across its surface glowed with a soft, inner light as Iskander's aether answered its call. And at its center, etched in the same living gold, was that stark, singular 'A'.
The symbol of his hope, now a brand on the instrument of my betrayal. The Barnacled Relic had adapted to him, yes, but it had done so by holding up a mirror to my deceptions.
"It seems so," Iskander said, his voice carefully neutral, a masterful performance that hid the devastation I could feel churning within him.
I had lied to him. From the very first moment his consciousness had flickered to life within the body Agrona forged, I had woven a tapestry of omissions and half-truths. I was too afraid.
Terrified that if he knew King Grey—if he knew that Arthur was here, in this world, living and breathing—his immense, unyielding sense of justice would ignite a path of vengeance that would consume them both.
His moral compass was as vast and immutable as Mount Geolus itself; he would see Arthur not as a complicated, wounded man, but as the monster from his past, a cancer to be excised.
And so, I had chosen silence. I had become what I most despised. Just as I had lied to Arthur for all those months we were together. I lied about the portal that could have returned him to his family, I lied about the fact I knew beforehand I would meet him, lies of hope that were really a chain.
I lied about knowing he was a reincarnate, pretending his secret was his alone. I withheld the truths the Djinn, Ji-Ae, had whispered to me about him in the dark confines of Agrona's fortress.
I said nothing of the egg, my daughter's egg, that I had entrusted to him—a burden and a hope I had placed on his shoulders without his full understanding.
I omitted the terrifying scale of Agrona's plans, the brutal history of Alacrya, the chilling, unforgiving pride of the Asuras of Epheotus and the fate that awaited Dicathen.
I was a symphony of lies. I had tried to do better with Iskander, to be more honest, but in the end, the pattern repeated. When he declared with such fierce determination that he would take me to see Arthur again, my heart had soared with a foolish, desperate hope.
I dreamed they could find common ground, that the two most important people I had left in my existence could somehow become allies, even friends. I didn't want my children to fight.
But that was a selfish, naive dream. I knew, with a cold certainty, that Iskander would immediately kill Arthur if he knew the truth. So, I said nothing. I protected my dream by betraying his trust.
In that moment, holding the truth in the heart of that Barnacled Relic, I saw myself with horrifying clarity. I was no different from the rest of my Clan. I was a deceptive monster, just like my father with his cold, calculated manipulations, just like Agrona with his honeyed words and poisoned promises.
I had used love as a weapon and care as a disguise.
"Let's try it." Iskander's voice cut through my spiraling self-loathing. He held the slate firmly, his fingers curling around the handhold with a familiarity that felt earned through blood and pain I had not been able to shield him from.
"You can use Relics?" Caera asked, her crimson eyes wide with intellectual curiosity. Her brother, Sevren, peered closer, the scholar in him captivated by the artifact even though I saw something else in him.
"Sevren, what do you think is a good shape?" Iskander asked suddenly, his tone forcibly light.
"A good shape? As in squares, circles, et cetera?" Sevren replied, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Just a cube. I don't want you to think of something strange. Anyway, what are you do—"
He was interrupted as Iskander channeled his aether. With a simple, almost casual jerk of his arm, the world obeyed.
A massive cube of solid, pale gold aether erupted from the ice in front of them, six meters tall, perfectly formed, humming with immense, latent power. It was a testament to his growth, to the power he had wrested from his torment.
"Y-you can create things like that just by moving your arm?!" Delilah exclaimed, her voice a mixture of awe and excitement.
"I've heard of Regalias that allow Insitillers or Casters or even Shields to construct barriers or simple forms," Caera murmured, her analytical mind racing, "but this… it's incredible."
"Yeah, yeah, that's the power of Creation!" Iskander announced, a huge, brilliant smile plastered on his face. It was a magnificent performance, a shield against the world. But I could feel the fractures beneath it, the pain he was compartmentalizing with a skill that broke my heart.
"But enough playing, let's get out of here."
Everyone nodded, falling into step behind him. But I saw the way Sevren's eyes lingered on Iskander, the slight frown of concern on his face. He knew him. He sensed the dissonance between the cheerful proclamation and the tense set of his friend's shoulders.
I let myself drift back, hanging a dozen meters behind the group. It wasn't a risk; in this will-o'-wisp form, I was virtually impervious, and the new, profound symbiosis of our souls meant Iskander could recall me to the safety of his core in an instant.
The distance was not physical, it was emotional. A chasm of my own making.
The weight of my failures pressed down on me, each one a stone in a cairn marking my inadequacy. I had failed Agrona, my first love, not only by leaving him, but by being unable to show him a path away from his consuming bitterness.
I had failed Arthur, my second chance, by giving him only fragments—a Beast Will, the Mana Rotation technique... my daughter—while withholding the truths that could have truly empowered him. I had been a ghost in his life, a comforting voice that spoke half-truths.
And now Iskander. My son. The one who had given me everything. He had given me hope when I had none, a purpose beyond my grief, his relentless, cheerful company in the darkness, and a love so unconditional it felt like the Golden Sun of Epheotus.
And what had I given him in return?
A tiny bit of insight into a single edict. The ability to better manage the energy he was already learning to command on his own. I was a footnote in his story of survival, a tool he was rapidly outgrowing.
He didn't need me anymore. The realization was a desolate winter in my soul. His regeneration was a force of nature, operating at a speed that no longer required my guidance.
His understanding of the Creation Goldrune was deepening with every passing hour, an intuitive mastery that I could no longer claim to facilitate. And now he had this slate, a focus that made his power even more precise, more effortless.
He was back with his friends, with people who could share in his victories without the baggage of my lies. They could offer him camaraderie, laughter, a future untainted by the sins of the past. I was an anchor, a reminder of a painful truth and a complicated war he shouldn't have to fight alone.
I had been given a new form, a new life, a second chance at motherhood. And I had proven myself unworthy of it all. I floated in their wake, a spectral guardian who was no longer needed, a mother who had betrayed her child, a goddess who was, in the end, utterly useless.
The golden light of my form seemed to dim against the endless white of the ice, a small, lonely star fading in a vast, uncaring sky.
Iskander
The Djinn Slate—the name felt right, a tribute to its creators and a constant reminder of the ancient, genocidal hatred that had forged it—was a marvel of concentrated intent. It was more than a tool; it was an extension of my will.
With it, the nebulous, world-shaping power of Creation was funneled into a precise instrument. I could feel the potential humming beneath my fingers, a symphony of possibility waiting for my conductor's baton. With practice, I could build anything.
Fortresses. Weapons. Worlds. The thought was intoxicating, a heady draught after a long thirst.
But the euphoria was a thin veneer over a churning sea of betrayal. My awareness was split, a part of me marveling at the Djinn Slate, the larger part acutely tuned to the golden presence drifting a dozen meters behind us.
Sylvia was isolating herself, a silent, self-imposed exile. I felt the echo of her shame and sorrow through our bond, a dull, aching throb that mirrored the anger in my own heart.
I wanted to turn around, to bridge the distance, to demand an explanation and then offer forgiveness. But the hurt was a cold, hard stone in my gut. She had known.
She had known the one thing that could unravel me completely, and she had chosen silence. My hatred for King Grey was a fundamental pillar of my being, more personal and visceral than my animosity for any dictator god or enslaving ancient mage.
Agrona was a monster, but a distant, mythological one. Kezess was a tyrant god that killed countless people, but did so from his throne so far away. Al-Hazred was the victim of an Holocaust twisted into a vengeful and crazy specter.
But King Grey… he was a man. He was originally a human being, flesh and blood, who had looked at the world and chosen to serve the God of Misfortune with a fervor that was both brilliant and abhorrent.
He had no grand, tragic backstory to excuse his actions, no delusional divine mandate. He had made a choice, every single day, to inflict suffering on a scale that was almost incomprehensible to the average man.
A scale that was incomprehensible to the Asuras too probably...
King Grey was proof that humanity didn't need gods to create hell; we were perfectly capable of engineering it ourselves.
Maybe I was being unfair. Perhaps my rage was exaggerating his evil, making him a caricature. But that was the insidious nature of his legacy; even from another world, he could poison my thoughts, taint my relationships.
The confirmation that he was here, that Sylvia had known and hidden it… it was a fundamental breach of trust that shook the foundation of everything we had built together.
The implications were terrifying. If he was here, it was almost certainly Agrona's doing. Who else possessed the knowledge, the arrogance, to pluck a soul from one reality and implant it in another?
King Grey with his flawless, ruthless mastery over ki… if Agrona had given him a body even remotely as potent as mine, but engineered for mana instead of aether…
The consequences were unthinkable. He wouldn't just be a weapon, he would be a paradigm shift. A tactical and martial genius with the power of a demigod.
I could be facing a triumvirate of nightmares—my very own Crime Syndicate: the mad architect Al-Hazred with his army of enslaved Asuras, the calculating puppet-master Agrona, and the bloodlusted, perfectly efficient weapon that was King Grey.
And he had a head start. Sylvia's admission meant she had met him, which meant he had been here for years before me.
How strong was he now? A Scythe just like Seris? Stronger? I looked at my friends—at Delilah's proud, hopeful stride, at Sevren's quiet, analytical confidence as he spoke with his sister. These were the people I wanted to protect.
These were the lives that would be extinguished if a monster like Grey was unleashed upon this world with Agrona's blessing.
I felt like Superman staring down a universe of threats, but my personal Lex Luthor—or of he had a body similar to mine it was better to say Ultraman—was now potentially kryptonite-enhanced.
I shook my head, dispelling the comic book analogy. This was no delusion. This was a terrifyingly real strategic assessment.
My only potential ally in this looming storm was Seris Vritra. A Scythe, deep within the enemy's apparatus. She would have information, resources, a plan. She knew Agrona better than anyone.
She might know about Grey. I would support her project, her rebellion, but I would not exchange one tyrant for another. My terms were non-negotiable: a world free from the whims of gods and genocidal kings.
And there was another potential ally, a wild card Sylvia had let slip: the person in Dicathen to whom she had given her Beast Will. Sylvia was a motherly, emotional, but clearly not stupid individual. They must have something to make them special.
They were at war with Alacrya, but perhaps a common enemy could make for strange fellows. The memories from the Heart Relic—of President Hyperion, the man who had plotted Grey's downfall—flooded back. I had done it once in a simulation. Now, I had to do it for real.
A cold resolve solidified within me, hardening around the core of my hurt like armor.
I swear it, King Grey, I thought, the vow a silent, ironclad contract with myself. You won't be able to hide. You won't be able to run. You won't be able to scream for help. I will find you, and when I will find you, you are going to wish you died by the hands of the Etharian people for what they would have to you will be paradise compared to what suffering I will make you go through.
He didn't deserve a second chance. The millions he had murdered on Earth weren't reincarnated. They were gone, erased into oblivion while he got to play out his revenge fantasy in a new world.
I would do this for them. For the ghosts of my past, and for the living, breathing future of this world. I would not let him turn it into his personal slaughterhouse under Agrona's banner.
The Aetherman will stop Agrona, yes and he will be stopped humanly, but King Grey? No. It is going to be me, Iskander, Hyperion or not, to kill that monster in the most atrocious way the human mind can evoke.
We arrived at a massive, shimmering portal, its energy a familiar beacon leading to a Descension Chamber and, ultimately, to freedom.
"Do we have some spare Simulets?" Sevren asked, turning to the group, his practical mind already on the logistics of our return.
"I think not," Arian, the quiet Ascender, replied.
"No worries," I said, forcing a smile that felt brittle on my face. My fingers tightened on the Djinn Slate. This was its first true test.
Creation, for me, had been about grand acts of survival and violence—shields, limbs, organs.
This required finesse. The intricate, specific magic of a Simulet, an object designed for a single, complex purpose. I focused, pouring my intent into the Slate, visualizing the exact design of the devices my friends held.
"You can Create Simulets now?" Delilah asked, her voice filled with wonder.
"I hope so," I said, the Djinn Slate warming in my hand. Golden light flowed from my palm, swirling and coalescing in the air before solidifying into a perfect, functional Simulet. It was effortless. The Slate did the heavy lifting, translating my will into flawless reality.
"You are headed to the Ascenders' Association in Relictombs City?" They nodded. "Too bad. I have to go to Aedelgard."
"Are you sure?" Caera interjected, a sly smile playing on her lips. "Sevren isn't saying so, but he clearly wants to spend more time with his friend."
"Iskander can do whatever he wants!" Sevren protested, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. I chuckled, the sound genuine for a moment.
"I need to speak with Seris. I have… a lot to do." My gaze shifted to Delilah. "And I'm planning to go to Dicathen. I'll be sure Yorick is fine."
"You plan to join the war?!" Delilah exclaimed, her eyes wide. "Then you really are training to become Scythe Seris's Retainer!"
I rolled my eyes but didn't deny it. The title was irrelevant. If aligning with Seris gave me the means to protect my friends, to hunt down King Grey, and to dismantle the structures of oppression, I would bear it.
My days of careless freedom were over. This power I wielded—forged in pain, tempered by betrayal—was not for my amusement. It came with a price.
"With great power comes great responsibility," I whispered to myself, the most important words in Spider-Man's history, giving a name to the weight I now carried. It was a mantra for the path ahead.
With another thought and a flick of the Djinn Slate, a second Simulet, attuned to Aedelgard, appeared in my other hand.
"See you soon," I said, my smile softer now, meant for them. "I promise I will visit whenever I can."