Jackal Among Snakes

Zen was quite certain that Argrave had lost his mind.

First, it started with the name mix-up. He thought that Argrave was calling him Ji Meng as some sort of joke or pointed barb, but as time carried on, it became painfully obvious that Argrave genuinely thought his name was Ji Meng. Argrave carried himself with such force and confidence that it was difficult to even consider correcting him.

Second, as they explored this strange realm—the Stormfield, as he called it, and as Zen had come to accept—Argrave often retreated into itself. He would stop speaking for a few minutes at a time, making strange hand movements that might’ve been spasms. When he was finished, he would emerge from this state acting as though he knew everything, like he’d just seen some vision that told them everything they needed to know about the situation. For instance…

“Do you know what this place is?” Argrave asked. He’d been standing on the top of a high peak overlooking the vast plateau of stone for the past hour, yet then suddenly he opened his eyes again and asked that question. In that time, Zen had studied their surroundings on his lonesome. The terrain was very familiar, but much of it was blocked out beneath the haze of the purple sky above.

Zen shook his head. “No. I mean, I think it’s familiar, but I can’t say for—”

“It’s a Phillensian Soul Model. According to everything I’m reading, it wasn’t copied from its inventor. The Emperor of the Great Chu must’ve developed it independently, centuries before Phillen ever did. A genius man indeed. And unlike the Phillensian Soul Model, it’s using our blood as the conduit to our souls. Meaning, to enter and leave the model… the person doesn’t need to perish. And like I suspected, the strength and amount of the blood in question determines the power the soul is capable of exerting.”

Zen nodded as if anything Argrave said made sense. He’d studied the Stormfield, but had heard nothing about Soul Models or ever heard the name Phillen.

“So, what’s the plan?” Zen questioned.

“This place is a model of the whole mountain that the Palace of Heaven is based atop of,” Argrave explained with extreme confidence. “It’s a model without the gates, without everything—just land and sky. I suspect under ordinary circumstances, we’d see everything we don’t—the buildings and all those within them. We’d be able to control the Stormfield—be a hidden hand of god, dominating the battlefield. But with all of our blood mixing into the vessel, and with none of us submitting to one another, the Stormfield isn’t functioning quite right.”

“Right. That’s a sensible deduction,” Zen agreed, not quite sure what he was agreeing to. It sounded right, but how could Argrave know this?

“So, we have to kill every last bit of Sataistador, or make him submit—but I think we both know that’s not likely.” Argrave stroked his chin. “And once that all happens, we’ll have the whole might of the Stormfield at our disposal. The hand of god.” He looked at Zen. “I’m going to give you control of it. And then, we’re going to do Sataistador like he was done before. We’re going to break him. And this time, he’s not going to be getting back up.”

“I’m not sure what it is I’m agreeing to,” Zen finally admitted, sensing that he was being called upon to do something dangerous.

simple.” Argrave put his hand on Zen’s shoulder. “Have you

the domain of necromancy.”

Argrave shook his head like he was disappointed. “In a battle of souls, you can conjure whatever your mind can imagine. It’s a straight-up slugging match of willpower. A Phillensian Soul Model is similar, but it has certain dictates imposed. So—once Sataistador is out of the picture, you’ll be subject to those dictates. Namely, you’ll

he gave a cautious nod. “But you said to

proportionate to the strength that the soul can exert in the model.” Argrave tapped his temple. “I came prepared. Do you know what it’s like

magic, you mean

his head. “Yes, unlimited vital force. Do you have any idea what’s that like? Because I do. I have a very good

to do with it?” Zen questioned, indulging

all in my head so clearly, it feels like I just need to reach out and grab it. I’ve been watching videos about it for what feels like days. I’ve got the itch, and I’ve got a rather

told you’re an A-rank spellcaster.” Zen crossed

his cheek, smiling. “What the hell is an army before absolute power? I suppose

should

face off against Sataistador, alone, while experimenting whether or not

good,” Zen reluctantly consented, without

#####

one—he was generally a little more subtle about his suicide attempts. After so many tries, he’d never once succeeded in taking

feel a strange energy pulsing between him and the Stormfield—it was present in Sataistador, too, though his divinity muffled the sensation enough she barely noticed.

all of them, as though simply appearing out of thin air. It was

of varying strengths—surrounded the Palace of Heaven, directly attacking Argrave’s armies. He had bowmen, infantrymen, and spellcasters all. They harried their soldiers efficiently, pinning them

of the god of war did battle with the gods. Even Law was forced on the backfoot—not from their power, but from their strategy. Sataistador had divided his forces so effectively that they were at a standstill. In time, their superior strength might make itself known, but for now, it was a deadlock. Meanwhile, the Qircassian Coalition descended

were certainly his superior in terms of strength, they were far inferior in terms of strategy and effectiveness. Rook had power, but wasn’t yet used to it. Even if he was, the Sataistador infantrymen weren’t easily broken, constantly covered by the bowmen. And lurking behind all of that was the god of war’s spellcasters, ready

in the dark. But her eyes told of a hidden dance, too—one just as severe, just as powerful. She had [Truesight]. She could see beyond the pale, to realms hidden and unknown. And she saw unimaginable powerdancing in the darkness. Dim echoes, carrying the

some strange eternity. Argrave was fighting desperately in a realm that was neither mortal nor divine.