Chapter 40: City around Me
Iskander Briand
After visiting my new accomodation in the heart of my new city, stepping out of the oppressive grandeur of the Briand Manor and into the streets of Aedelgard was like stepping into a living, breathing history book—one with a deeply confused editor.
My initial impressions solidified with every block I walked. The city was a architectural chimera, a dizzying blend of two worlds.
The core of it, the very bones of the place, whispered of an 18th-century London. Narrow, cobbled streets wound between buildings of soot-stained limestone and dark timber, their upper floors jutting out over the pathways, creating a canopy that blocked much of the grey, cloud-diffused light.
The air was thick with the smell of the sea, yes, but also of smoke, damp stone, and the faint, ever-present scent of fish from the docks.
But layered over this historical foundation was the undeniable, sprawling shape of Old New York.
Aedelgard was built on a peninsula, and a wide, man-made canal—churning with dark, cold water—cut across it, creating a distinct southern district.
This area, with its grid-like streets and denser construction, was the spitting image of old maps I'd seen of Manhattan. It lacked the iconic skyline, of course—no tall skyscrapers piercing the heavens.
Instead, the skyline was dominated by the spires of manors, strange buildings and various monuments.
The mainland sections of the city, across the canal, were visibly poorer. The buildings were more crowded, more dilapidated, the streets narrower and dirtier. But here, in the peninsula's heart, there was a grim vitality.
It was a different energy from Relictombs City. That place felt static, preserved in a bubble of aether, timeless and artificial. Aedelgard felt lived-in.
You could see the centuries in the patchwork of architectural styles, in the way newer stone met older timber, in the scars of past conflicts that had been repaired but not forgotten.
The presence of authority was also more overt here. Guards patrolled in pairs, their uniforms crisp, their backs deliberately turned to display the intricate runes etched into their skin between their shoulder blades.
It was a blatant showcase of power, a walking advertisement for the system's might.
They functioned less like guards and more like a police force, something Relictombs City, with its population of powerful Ascenders, seemed to lack. Here, the enforcement of order was a constant, visible reminder of who held the leash.
I found myself drawn toward the water, my path taking me along a wide, cobbled boulevard that ran parallel to the sea. This was clearly still the wealthy quarter. The buildings here were grander, the streets cleaner, the citizens better dressed.
And then I saw it: a massive, walled enclosure right in the city's center. 'Highbloods Park.' The name was a painfully on-the-nose replacement for Central Park.
But this was no public haven. It was a private preserve, a sprawling rectangle of curated gardens, manicured lawns, and secluded mansions—including my own—from which the ruling class surveyed their domain. A stark, green fortress of privilege amidst the urban stone.
Finally, I reached the sea. The Vritra's Maw Sea stretched out before me, a vast expanse of churning, steel-grey water that met the equally grey sky at a blurred, distant horizon.
The air was fresher here, the salt smell stronger, carrying the cries of gulls and the distant shouts of dockworkers. It was magnificent and bleakly beautiful.
And it confirmed it: Aedelgard was Alacrya's New York. The main port for the continent's largest inner sea, with the rival Dominion of Vechor to the north and the rest of Sehz-Clar to the south.
And then I saw it.
My gaze, sweeping the coastline, snagged on a small, rocky island a few hundred meters offshore. And on that island stood the single most tacky, grandiose, and utterly infuriating sight I had witnessed in either of my lives.
'That's Agrona, Child…' Sylvia's voice was a ghost of sound in my mind, laced with a complex mixture of nostalgia and profound sadness.
It was a statue. A colossal, copper-green monstrosity that was a grotesque parody of the Statue of Liberty from my old world—a monument that had been destroyed decades before my birth in the cataclysmic End Wars.
But where Lady Liberty had held a torch and a tablet, this… thing… held nothing. It simply was. It was a statue of Agrona, and it was a masterpiece of a narcissistic and mildly concerning kink.
The depiction was baffling. Agrona was rendered as a lithe, almost effeminate figure, with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass and features of impossible perfection.
And the horns… they weren't the sharp, practical spikes like mine, or the elegant albeit long curves of Seris's. They were the vast, sprawling, multi-tined antlers of a giant elk.
They looked absurdly cumbersome, utterly impractical. How did he sleep? How did he walk through a door? It was a design choice born of pure, unadulterated vanity.
His attire was even worse. He was draped in the most over-the-top, gaudy collection of junk I could imagine. Jewels encrusted every available surface—his horns were bejeweled, his fingers laden with rings, his wrists heavy with bracelets.
He wore what looked like a form-fitting jumpsuit paired with a flowing cloak and a singular, ornate pauldron. Earrings, a massive necklace, a triangular belt buckle that was itself a galaxy of gemstones… it was a visual assault.
It was the aesthetic of a child who had been told to design a god-king after eating too much sugar.
Sylvia… I thought, my mental voice strained with a disbelief that bordered on awe. I have no intention of offending you, but how in the name of all that is sane could you fall in love with… that?
Sure, the face was sculpted to perfection—a benefit of being an Asura—but the rest of it? It was a carnival barker's idea of divinity.
I am sure there were better candidates for you in Epheotus. The land of actual gods.
Sylvia was everything this statue was not: modest, elegant, understated, her beauty inherent and not plastered on with gaudy accessories. She was kindness and grace; this statue was shouting, preening arrogance.
And its gaze… the sculptor had captured a look of haughty, disdainful ownership. It didn't just look out over Aedelgard; it seemed to look through it, beyond the bay, towards the wider world it sought to dominate. It was the gaze of a being who believed everything he saw was his by divine right.
"What an interesting sight," I murmured aloud, the words a dry, cynical whisper lost to the sea wind.
'He was different back then…' Sylvia's voice was soft, thick with a memory of pain. 'Or perhaps he was merely hiding his true self. The Agrona I knew was a coy knowledge-seeker, possessed of an infinite, burning curiosity. I loved him. And I believe, in his way, he loved me too.'
Coy? Him? The figure represented in this garish monument was the antithesis of coy. It was a declaration of ego so vast it required its own landmass.
I shook my head, a wave of disgust washing over me. This statue, pristine and untouched while the city around it showed the scars of past wars, was the perfect symbol of Agrona's reign. It was more than tyranny; it was a slap in the face to every struggling person in Alacrya.
King Grey had been a monster, but he'd never pretended to be anything else. He'd never erected a giant, golden statue of himself and demanded worship. Agrona did. He reveled in it. He forced his people to look upon this ludicrous effigy and see a god.
Destroying that statue wouldn't just be an act of rebellion; it would be a public service. It would be the first, glorious page of a new chapter for Alacrya, one composed not of narcissistic grandeur, but of justice.
And I would be the one to conduct it.
"I am Aetherman and I don't care about tyranny." I murmured to myself rethinking at the quote of the Dark Knight—rearranged to suit my identity.
—
Leaving the grotesque, copper-green effigy of Agrona looming over the bay, I turned my back on the sea and let the city's rhythm pull me deeper into its heart.
After an hour of purposeful walking, the cobbled streets funneled into a vast, open space that could only be the city's central plaza: Regalia Square.
I had to grant the Alacryans this: they possessed a formidable talent for urban grandeur. The square was an octagon of flawless grey stone, bustling with a controlled energy.
Looming over the plaza stood a towering clock tower, its face a pale moon against the overcast sky, its mechanical heart ticking away the seconds with a precision that felt both impressive and oppressive.
It was flanked by a massive structure of black, gleaming stone that stabbed at the heavens with spires so sharp they seemed to tear at the clouds. It looked less like a building and more like a petrified nightmare of a gothic cathedral, a silent, intimidating monument to an unseen faith—likely faith in the Vritra themselves.
But my destination wasn't the church or the clock tower. My eyes found what I was searching for: the unmistakable emblem of the Ascenders' Association, displayed proudly above the entrance of a formidable, two-story building that dominated one entire side of the square.
Despite the impending Highblood ball in Cargidan, a close event that felt both trivial and immense that would bring me all the way to Central Dominion, I had time.
More importantly, I had a pressing, practical need. The Crucible had forged me in fire, invisible mana attacks and pain, gifting me with immense raw power, a body hardened to its absolute limit, and instincts sharpened to a razor's edge.
But it was a narrow, brutal education.
Fighting the same unstoppable dragon for a year, no matter how varied his attacks, did not grant true combat experience. It taught endurance, desperation, and how to take a punch from a god.
It did not teach finesse, adaptability, or how to fight against a multitude of lesser, but cleverer, foes. I needed to hone the weapon I had become.
Ascenders moved through the plaza with a distinct aura, a blend of confidence and privilege that set them apart from the ordinary citizens.
They were greeted with deference, their paths subtly cleared. I joined their flow, my new, expensive clothes and concealed power allowing me to blend into their ranks. At the entrance, a guard stood watch. I didn't need to speak; I simply produced my Ascender's badge I kept in my aether adapted storage ring.
The guard's eyes flicked to it, then to my face, and he gave a curt, respectful nod, stepping aside to let me pass.
The interior was a cathedral of Alacrya's status quo. The air hummed with low conversations and the crackle of fires warming the interiors. Teams clustered together, checking gear, discussing strategies, their voices a mix of excitement and nervous tension.
I saw Strikers, Casters, Instillers, and Shields, their runes on display like badges of honor. I noticed that there were no Sentries, all of them, like Yorick, were probably sent to Dicathen.
'Child, do you remember Seris's advice about Solo Ascenders?' Sylvia's voice was a cautionary whisper in my mind. 'That they draw too much attention? I understand you now have a solid cover, but I would much prefer you not become a subject of gossip and scrutiny.'
Chill, Sylvia, I thought back, my gaze sweeping across the grand hall. I have no intention of Ascending from here. I just want to… observe. To see the Chambers for myself.
The risk was too high. Not only would a solo ascent from the heart of Aedelgard make me a spectacle, but it would be an open invitation to Al-Hazred. The portals here would link directly to the public access points in Relictombs City.
Leading that mad Djinn's attention there would be unforgivable. I couldn't gamble the lives of everyone in that city on the hope that Al-Hazred wouldn't dare provoke Agrona directly. Trusting the restraint of a millennia-old ghost that desired to annihilate an entire race was a fool's bet.
'So, what is your plan?' Sylvia pressed, seeking confirmation.
I want to Create my own portals, I replied, the idea solidifying into certainty as I thought it. Private ones. Right in the Manor's basement. I have the Creation Goldrune and the Djinn Slate. I might as well use them to their fullest potential.
My attention was drawn to a man who seemed to be the nexus of the activity—the manager. He was bald, broad-shouldered, with a severe face and a perfectly sculpted beard. His dark tunic was cut to prominently display the complex runes etched across his back, a walking advertisement of his power and status.
He moved with an air of absolute authority, directing groups of Ascenders with sharp, efficient commands.
I approached him as the latest team moved toward the inner sanctum. "Excuse me," I said, my voice calm and level.
He turned, his severe eyes scanning me. A frown creased his brow. He clearly didn't recognize me, and in a city like Aedelgard—despite its size—the head of the Ascenders' Association likely knew every Ascender by sight.
"May I know who you are? Are you even an Ascender?" he asked, his tone implying that he doubted it.
"Iskander Briand," I said, keeping my expression neutral. "And yes, I am an Ascender." I showed him my badge.
The change was instantaneous. His eyes widened a fraction, the severity melting into startled recognition. "I am sorry, Highlord. Your mastery of mana must be… terrific. I couldn't tell you were a mage."
The words were meant as a compliment, but they hung in the air, highlighting the very thing I needed to hide—my aether.
"I am the head of Aedelgard's Ascenders' Association, Anvald of Named Blood Torpor. A pleasure, truly," he said, executing a respectful bow. "I hope the city has welcomed you well."
He then immediately turned back to his duties, issuing final instructions to a departing team before returning his full attention to me. The act earned him a measure of my respect. He wasn't fawning over nobility; he was a professional who took his responsibilities seriously.
"And my most sincere condolences for the loss of your foster father," he added, his tone shifting to one of genuine, if formal, sympathy.
The former Highlord Briand. The identity Seris had crafted for me was that of a foster child. I wanted to ask how he died beyond a mere illness, to understand the history of the house I now supposedly led, but that would raise suspicion. Instead, I simply nodded, a gesture of grateful acceptance.
"Appreciated, Head Torpor. As for my request, I wanted to take a look at the Ascension and Descension Chambers, if that's not a problem."
"You are an Ascender as well as the lord of a Highblood, Mr. Briand. You may go on. For any help, I am here as always," Torpor said with a final nod before turning to the next group awaiting his guidance.
Perfect.
———
The tour was brief but illuminating. I saw the Chambers—impressive, complex structures of mana-conducting stone and ancient runes, humming with aether. But seeing them only confirmed my resolve. They were too public, too tied to the system I was working against. I needed something of my own.
I returned to the Briand Manor as the afternoon light began to fade, the grey sky deepening to charcoal. The manor felt even more like a silent, watchful giant.
Inside the main hall I looked around me, deep in thought as I studied the mental map I made of the Manor.
'Child, what are you thinking about?' Sylvia asked, her tone a mixture of curiosity and wariness.
Let's just say, I thought back, the excitement of the plan thrumming through me, that my underground complex will have nothing to envy about Seris's.
The idea of using her private portal was tempting, but the journey to her remote villa was a liability I couldn't afford. I needed autonomy. I needed a sanctum.
With tthat in mind I walked down a narrow, winding stone staircase that descended deep beneath the manor.
The air grew cool and damp, smelling of wet stone and ancient earth. Then the staircase opened up, and I stepped into the cavern right below the Manor where the basement was built.
It was immense. The ceiling was lost in shadows high above, supported by great, natural pillars of rock. The space was vast and mostly empty, a hollow realm beneath the world. The only light came from a few weak mana-lanterns, casting long, dancing shadows that made the cavern feel even larger, more primeval.
But I didn't see emptiness. I saw potential.
In my mind's eye, I already saw it: a central command platform here, forged from seamless aether. Two stable, private portals there, on the right, their frames humming with golden energy instead of purple aether and mana.
A massive training ground on the left, with programmable aetheric constructs that could simulate any enemy, any environment. A place to hone my skills in absolute secrecy. A forge where I could master the Djinn Slate's power without prying eyes.
Agrona could keep his gaudy fortress of Taegrin Caelum. Let him play the god-king in his shining castle. He could keep his version of Castle Doom all for himself.
I had just found my Batcave.
Or rather, my Aethercave. A sanctum of my own making, hidden in the belly of a grieving manor, from which I would learn to wield the power to shatter the gods.
Mostly empty, however, didn't mean empty. Shadows clung to old crates shrouded in dust and cobwebs, and a line of barrels slumbered in the corner, their wood long dry, their purpose—aging wine—forgotten.
I gave a final look at the cavern, remembering what I saw in the Ascenders's Association and a couple of pages from some old comic books. Then, I announced:
"Sylvia—let's get to work!"