Chapter 41: Wonder Sylvia
Iskander Briand
"Sylvia, limit my aether by ninety-nine percent."
The command left my lips with a resolve that felt like ice in my veins. With a flick of my finger, I activated the storage ring.
A shimmer of pale gold enveloped me, and in the space of a heartbeat, the fine white suit of Highlord Briand was replaced by the formidable, dragon-scale armor of Aetherman.
The Djinn Slate settled against my hip, its familiar weight a comfort and a reminder of the power I was willingly shackling.
"Child, ninety-nine percent? Isn't that… too much to renounce?" Sylvia's will-o'-wisp form pulsed with anxious light, circling me like a worried hummingbird. Her concern was a warm pressure against the cold certainty of my decision.
"I've been relying on it like a crutch," I stated, my voice firm as I rolled my shoulders, testing the feel of the armor without its usual thrumming energy.
"Raw power is useless without foundation. To truly improve, to master this strength instead of being mastered by it, I need to return to the basics. I need to remember what it's like to fight without a bottomless well of energy at my disposal. I need to return to even before The Crucible."
The construction of the private portals had been effortless, a mere thought channeled through the Djinn Slate.
They now stood in the cavernous basement—twin arches of solidified, shimmering aether that hummed with a connection to the labyrinthine dimensions of the Relictombs.
They were my backdoor, my secret passage. But their existence was also a vulnerability. I didn't know the precise mechanics of Al-Hazred's tracking, but it was aether-based. I was certain of it.
To move unseen through his domain, I needed to become a ghost, a whisper in the chaotic symphony of ambient aether. I had to make my signature so faint it was virtually undetectable even for him.
"I understand the tactical reason," Sylvia pressed, her light dipping close to my face. "But are you absolutely sure about this? To handicap yourself so severely in a place of such inherent danger?"
"It's not a permanent amputation," I reassured her, a corner of my mouth lifting in a faint smile. "The seal is through our bond. If I focus, if I truly need it, I can break the dam myself. It's just… difficult. The concentration required to manually stem the tide of aether wanting to flood my core is immense, even for this upgraded brain of mine."
I tapped my temple. "It's easier, cleaner, if you do it. You're the master craftsman. I'm just trying to learn the trade."
The mystery of it nagged at me. Why was my attraction to aether so violently possessive? Like... aether didn't want to leave me at all costs?
According to Sylvia, even the most powerful Asuras of her clan didn't experience this neither with mana nor with aether—their mana cores didn't actively pull ambient energy with such desperate hunger.
Even her own Father.
My body wasn't just a vessel for aether, or a weapon to wield it, it was a vortex. The answers, I was sure, were buried deep within the Relictombs themselves, in the ruins of the civilization that had understood aether best.
As the seal settled into place, the sensation was profoundly disorienting. The world didn't change, but my connection to it did. The constant, humming song of power that had been my reality for over a year almost since I woke up in this new body faded to a distant, almost imperceptible whisper.
It was like going from seeing in a billion colors to a world of stark grey.
I felt… limited. Finite. Vulnerable. It was the exact same sensation I'd had when I first awoke in the Office Zone, confused and powerless in a new body.
"Let's go, Sylvia," I said, my voice sounding oddly normal in the vast, silent cave of my new home.
Her wisp form hesitated for a second before flowing into my chest, a warm presence nestled against my now-quiet core. With the dregs of the aether I still commanded, I activated the Ascension Portal.
Golden light erupted from the archway, engulfing me, and the world dissolved into the familiar, nauseating lurch of spatial translation.
—
The first thing I registered was the absence of ground beneath my feet.
The second was the deafening rush of wind.
My stomach lurched as gravity reclaimed me with violent immediacy. I was falling. Plummeting through a vast, cylindrical space that felt less like a zone and more like a cosmic chimney.
Far, far above, a single point of blinding white light shone like a distant beacon, the only source of illumination in an otherwise oppressive darkness.
Below, there was only a void, a bottomless black maw waiting to swallow me whole.
Well, this is new, I thought, the absurdity of the situation cutting through the spike of adrenaline. Had I miscalculated the portal's coordinates? Or was this Zone simply a vertical deathtrap?
"Sylvia!" I shouted, the wind whipping the words from my lips. "I take it back! I need you to restore my aether, or I'm going to be Aetherman-shaped paste on the floor!"
Without my full power, I couldn't rely on Creation and Vivum to instantly reassemble me from a catastrophic impact. My Asuran body was resilient, but was it fall-from-a-seemingly-infinite-height resilient? With only one percent of my aether to augment it, I wasn't willing to gamble.
"Sylvia!" I yelled again, straining to feel her presence through our bond.
Silence. Dread, cold and sharp, coiled in my gut. Damn it. Did I underestimate him? Has Al-Hazred already found a way to interfere, to isolate her?!
But no. As I fell, my mind—still terrifyingly sharp even without aether—kicked into overdrive. I focused inward, past the panic, and found it: the golden, luminous thread that bound my soul to Sylvia's.
It was still there, strong and vibrant. She was alive. She was somewhere. Wherever she was, I could still reach her.
Okay, think. How does Static Void interact with kinetic energy? Theoretically, if I removed myself from the flow of time the instant before impact, the force of the collision would never be transferred, right?
It was a theory that had never been tested under these conditions. If it failed, my backup plan was the Djinn Slate: a quickly conjured platform or a parachute.
A pathetic use for the Goldrune, but necessity was the mother of invention.
I used a tiny trickle of my precious, limited aether to augment my eyesight, casting a weak version of night vision into the abyss below. Nothing. Just endless, hungry darkness.
"Sylvia, are you there?!" I called out again, my voice barely a whisper against the roaring wind.
Nothing.
Resignation settled over me. I had chosen this path. Now I had to walk it. I twisted in the air, orienting my body feet-down, knees bent to absorb the impact. I would trust my body, my training, and my runes.
After an eternity of falling, a circular patch of darkness resolved itself into something solid below. A floor of polished, obsidian-like material, rushing up to meet me at terminal velocity.
"Static Void!" I shouted, pouring every ounce of my will and my remaining aether into the command.
The world stuttered.
The roar of the wind vanished. The sensation of falling ceased. I was suspended in a pocket of absolute silence and stillness. I had learned this in the Crucible: Static Void didn't freeze time around me; it plucked me out of time's stream entirely. It was why Al-Hazred, for all his power, couldn't touch me within it.
Unless I found someone with a Static Void stronger than mine—Kezess' name immediately resounded in my head.
My theory was proven correct in the most surreal way possible. I saw the obsidian floor inches from my boots. And then I was on it, standing perfectly upright. There was no impact. No sound. No transfer of energy. I had landed in a world without time, and therefore, without consequence.
But the cost was immense. The effort of sustaining the edict of time through the Static Void technique with my minuscule aether reserves was catastrophic. The moment my feet touched the ground, the Static Void shattered.
The return to reality was a physical blow. Air rushed back into my lungs with a painful gasp, and the silenced roar of the wind returned for a microsecond before dying away, leaving only the absolute quiet of the deep pit.
Every muscle in my body screamed in protest, and a profound, soul-deep exhaustion washed over me. I slumped to my knees, breathing ragged.
"Note to self," I panted, my voice echoing strangely in the immense space, "never, ever use Static Void with my aether sealed at one percent."
I looked up. The point of light above was a mocking, distant lighthouse. I was a castaway at the bottom of the world.
'Child!' Sylvia's voice finally exploded in my mind, laced with panic and relief. 'Are you okay?! I'm coming!'
Where have you been? I thought back, the mental words sluggish with fatigue.
'You need aether, Child! I'm giving it back to you right n—'
No, I cut her off, the thought sharp, final. No pain, no gain. I meant what I said. I need to learn to fight without it. Surviving before I had a core wasn't training; it was desperation. This is different.
A wave of conflicted understanding, laced with unwavering worry, flowed back from her. She didn't agree, but she would obey.
I closed my eyes, shutting out the oppressive darkness. I focused entirely on the golden thread connecting us. I could feel it now, not just as a concept, but as a tangible thing in the fabric of my being.
It felt… closer. Stronger. More dense with potential than ever before. I reached for it with my will, not to pull aether from it, but to pull her.
I gave it a gentle, mental tug.
Squeak!
The sound was absurdly small and high-pitched. A moment later, I felt a tiny, almost weightless presence land softly on my chest plate.
I opened my eyes.
Looking up at me from my breastplate was a mouse.
A perfect, impossibly cute mouse with fur the color of ivory and tiny, intelligent eyes that shone with a familiar, brilliant amethyst hue that perfectly mirrored my own eyes.
A cute, pink nose twitched, and tiny, delicate paws held onto the ornate ridges of my armor. Across its back and sides, fine tracings of gold fur formed an intricate, celtic-knot pattern that seemed to glow with a soft, inner light.
And I could see it. The golden thread of our bond didn't just connect to me. Now, it flowed into this tiny creature. And within it, nestled where a heart would be, was a miniature, fiercely burning golden sun—her will-o'-wisp form, now housed within a body of flesh and blood.
"Sylvia?!" I breathed, all exhaustion forgotten in a wave of utter, bewildered astonishment. "What… what happened?!"
The tiny mouse—Sylvia—raised a minuscule paw and scratched behind her ear in a gesture that was both comical and deeply endearing. Her voice, when it came, was the same familiar tone, but it felt… closer, more immediate.
"When I sealed your aether, the vast majority of it flooded into my will-o'-wisp form. It was an overload, a surge of power I couldn't contain in that state. The next thing I knew, you were going through the portal, and I… I woke up like this in my miniature form."
Oh so this was Sylvia's miniature form, huh? I said in my head. She mentioned to me all Asuras have three forms: human-like one—in Sylvia's case the most beautiful woman to have ever lived—then the miniature form of the Asura, like this mouse, and the true aspect.
A laugh, born of pure delight and relief, burst from my lips. "You used Creation!" I exclaimed, awe washing over me. "You didn't just make that aetheric illusion like before! Or even a will-o-wisp! You used it to craft a real, physical body for yourself! Sylvia, that's… that's incredible!"
My grin widened, then I pouted slightly with a playful expression and said:
"But you know, if you wanted a new form, you could have just asked. I'd have made you something truly spectacular."
The amethyst eyes of the tiny mouse seemed to roll. "Enough about my new… accommodations," she squeaked, her tone embarrassed. "Your aether levels are critically low. That Static Void usage was reckless! I need to dissolve the seal immediately."
"And I repeat," I said, my voice softening as I carefully reached up and offered a finger for her to sniff. She did, then promptly climbed onto my hand and scurried up my arm to perch on my right shoulder, a tiny, warm weight against my neck.
"I don't want it removed unless the situation is truly dire. And this?" I gestured around at the dark, empty pit. "This is barely a warm-up."
I pushed myself to my feet, my body aching but functional. Sylvia, my Dragon Mama, the first Dragon in the multimillennial history of the Indrath Clan to wield a Goldrune, now sat on my shoulder as a magical mouse. The sheer, glorious absurdity of it filled me with a fierce, defiant joy.
She was truly a Wonder Woman. She was my Wonder Sylvia. I bet Kezess Indrath would be absolutely fuming if he saw this.
—
My fingers closed around a protruding stone in the well's wall, its surface cold and rough against my palm. The abyss stretched above, a narrow ribbon of distant light the only promise of escape.
This Well Zone was a test of climbing, a vertical gauntlet. I had to find a way up. The Relictombs, or rather, the Djinn who designed them, never lacked for creativity in their brutal pedagogy.
A sudden movement on my head—a tiny, shifting weight. Sylvia's miniature form, perched between my horns, tensed. Her small nose twitched furiously.
"Child, something is falling!" Her mental voice was a sharp spike of alarm.
A moment later, the howl of wind changed. It was no longer the constant rush of my own descent but a deeper, more violent shrieking, the sound of something massive cutting through the air at a terrifying velocity. The memory of Gawain's crushing power flashed in my mind, a ghost of pain and pressure. I felt Sylvia's tiny body shiver, her ivory fur standing on end.
I turned, not with fear, but with a hunter's focus. This wasn't the cold, empty presence of a Drone. This was something… wild. Primal.
It hit the obsidian floor with a concussive BOOM that shook the very foundations of the pit. Dust and rock shards exploded outwards. And from the settling debris, it rose.
It was a creature ripped from the pages of Earth's most ancient myths. A Cyclop. It stood three times my height, a mountain of corded muscle and pale, thick skin. Its single eye, a massive, bloodshot orb set in the center of its brutish face, fixed on me with a mindless hunger. But it was its hands that held my attention.
Encasing its massive fists were two brutal gauntlets, each molded into the shape of a morning star—spheres of black iron studded with spikes that wept a dark, viscous fluid.
The creature inhaled, a sound like a bellows straining, and guttured something—a wet, choking series of syllables that almost, almost formed words. The near-intelligence in the sound was more frightening than any mindless roar.
A slow, fierce smile spread across my face. Adrenaline, clean and sharp, flooded my system, burning away the last dregs of my exhaustion. This wasn't an executioner sent by a madman. This was a challenge. A gift.
"Child, you should be a bit more worried!" Sylvia's squeak was laced with a maternal panic that was utterly incongruous coming from a mouse on my head.
"If I get worried about a mere Cyclopic Brute," I said, the name clicking into place with satisfying finality, "then I might as well hang up my cape and stop calling myself Aetherman."
The superhero alias felt right, a private joke and a declaration of intent all in one.
I cracked my knuckles, the sound tiny in the vast space, and settled into a ready stance. The Cyclopic Brute needed no further invitation. With a grating roar, it hurled its heavy arms back and then brought them down in a devastating, albeit slow, hammer blow.
The impact was seismic. The obsidian floor shuddered, and a web of cracks radiated out from the point of impact. But without aether, my body was still a marvel of Asuran engineering and self-forged perfection. I was a blur of motion, pushing off with legs that were pure muscle and instinct, launching myself clear of the devastation.
Another spiked fist came crashing toward me. I dropped into a low duck, feeling the wind of its passage rustle Sylvia's fur, and pivoted on my heel, appearing behind the behemoth. I drove my fist into the small of its back with all my strength.
The impact sent a jolt up my arm. It was like punching solid granite. The creature barely flinched, letting out a grunt more of annoyance than pain. A flicker of frustration ignited within me.
This was the reality of my self-imposed limitation.
My blows were strong, superhumanly so, but they lacked the world-shattering force that aether provided. I couldn't obliterate; I had to dismantle. I couldn't overpower; I had to outthink.
Sylvia was a constant, bouncing presence on my shoulder, a tiny acrobat holding on for dear life as I weaved and dodged the Cyclopic Brute's relentless, pounding attacks.
She'd leap into the air as I moved, the golden tether between us pulling her back to me like a yo-yo each time.
"Child, you aren't—" she began, her mental voice strained.
"I have all day, Sylvia!" I cut her off, rolling under a sweeping blow that would have pulverized a building. "Consider this Cyclopic Brute a huge, ugly, and potentially deadly punching bag."
The words were bravado, but they held a core of truth. This was exactly what I needed.
"You could have just Created some target dummies, you know?" she squeaked, incredulous, as she performed a tiny mid-air flip to avoid a flying chip of rock.
"And where is the fun and adrenaline in that?" I retorted, sliding effortlessly between the creature's tree-trunk legs and reappearing behind it. The monster roared in frustration, turning clumsily.
"Moreover," I added, lashing out with a sharp kick to the back of its heel, aiming for a tendon, "you wouldn't have gotten your new body!"
The kick connected, and the Brute stumbled, its single eye blazing with fury. It was a tiny victory, a minute flaw exploited. It felt more rewarding than any aether-enhanced haymaker.
Every punch, every kick, was a calculation. I aimed for joints, for the spot behind its knee, for the wrist controlling the deadly gauntlets. My attacks were needles, not sledgehammers. They didn't cause catastrophic damage, but they chipped away.
The Cyclopic Brute was my professor in this brutal university, and its lessons were written in wind and force. It taught me angles of attack, the rhythm of its tells, the weaknesses in its armor. Without the crutch of limitless power, I was learning to fight all over again. I was learning the art of it.
I dodged another earth-shattering smash, the shockwave washing over me. I stood my ground, breathing steadily, a renewed sense of purpose settling over me. Sylvia, now clinging to a strand of my hair, let out a resigned yet fond sigh.
"We have all the time in the world, Cyclopic Brute," I declared, my voice echoing in the dark pit. "So do your worst."