Chương 25: Book of the Chariot, Chapter 24: Kimera

This isn't my flat. Fortunately, I'm an old hand at surviving the first few hours of the year by now. It might be my impression but I think the officer talking to me sounds far more respectful now that I speak in flawless Kei-Sah. I decide to leave Deza out of this loop since I have pretty much given up on stopping the explosion, but after a moment of reflection, I still send her the secret hint anyway. Might as well help. Krane is as easy to convince as always.

"I am not surprised we failed," he comments.

"If we faced the Avatar of Malice and another with you in your current state. Do you have a plan?"

"The plan is to get stronger and try again later. I will need you to influence the station so it lasts as long as possible while I study. I have information that will help you."

"Could you present yourself as a seer?" Krane suggests.

"If you predict the explosion, no one will believe you, but after it does happen, your next prediction will be taken more seriously."

"I can't do it openly," I explain.

"The Avatar of Law aligned herself with Kerentis. She had me arrested in a previous loop. The Avatar of Space is aware of the nature of the loop, so I would be under immediate suspicion if I showed precise knowledge of the future. But if you can drip feed them information from an 'anonymous source'..."

"I'll get Might on our side. I am confident the armed forces will have a great interest in keeping the station alive."

"We never found the Avatar of Might, by the way."

"That is curious, yet irrelevant. The army is still there. Tell me what you can and I will make sure we are prepared."

"I'll write down a list. I need to go now. I have an assassin on my arse."

"So soon?"

"What can I say, I'm popular."

"Steve, if Kerentis comes after me to find out who you are… let me die. Do not let my death be in vain." I breathe into the phone.

"I know. I know…" We hang up soon after. With the Defender and clothes obtained, I escape the drone's net with an ease born of practice. It's weird how the trap used to kill me every time and now I can reliably avoid it, yet if I were to make a single mistake, I'd die. I'd just plain get my brain over the corridor's carpets. The line between jaded and reckless is a fine one indeed. While riding the train, I think back on the confrontation with Malice. That guy terrified me, and not just me of course.

He enjoyed scaring everyone with a degree of sadism I had never seen in my life, which leads to my follow-up question. Someone like him would take great enjoyment in the pain and horror he inflicts upon others, so why doesn't he take credit for it? Why doesn't he scream of his deeds over the station's comms? I feel like he would be the gloating sort. He would want Enderlith to know what he'd done. He would revel in it, and yet, nothing. Out of all the attempts I've survived, he's never resurfaced.

There is still much I don't understand. Out of curiosity, I try to draw Malice's face from memory and fail because, let's just say my meagre talent for music never extended to the drawing arts. Not like Enderlith has a central database for faces or anything. I still think that if I can find Malice and Pain's identity, I might be able to intercept them before they get their hands on the bomb. Hypothetically. In a distant future when I'm not getting crumpled like an empty can.

One of the patricians sharing my coach gives me a look of pity after I sigh. It's going to be one of those years. Again. I hope Krane can at least prevent the station from fully dying. It takes a couple of hours of riding and walking to find the Fleshcrafter Garden. Not all districts are made equal. The needles are an open space kilometers high and dozens of kilometers long. Similarly, the Fleshcrafter domain occupies one of those valuable larger spaces.

The first thing that strikes me, before I can even enter, is the luxury on display. The nearest station available to me as an unremarkable commoner opens on a commercial sub-district in shades of red and gold, each store an exemplar of baroque grandeur. Here, one may purchase a second chance at youth, beast eyes, a better future for their descendants or just a huge cock. The trees curve elegantly around stairs.

Polished living bark obediently forms balustrades, arches and covered promenades surging across the void to bind cafes and boutiques in a vertical town that defies traditional space, the ceiling disappearing in a darkness like a starless night. It's a city that never sleeps. Most of the stores are open even at this time of night, each entrance an invitation to the exotic and the forbidden.

Security is remarkable as well: guards patrol the streets in suits of living armor while hidden sentries meld with their surroundings, their weapons one more ornament in a symphony of exquisitely curated nature. All the clerks share a polished physique as immaculate as that of an Earth model after plastic surgery, makeup, and photoshop freed them of their imperfect mortality. Their souls are just as composed and confident.

They are living statues as much as they are people, incarnations of the Fleshcrafter's total control over their forms and living advertisements. A testament to the skills of their employers. I am as amazed as I am impressed and I lose myself in the wonder of the strange displays, curious pets and organic jewelry on my meandering way to the true district's monumental entrance. I think the last shop to the right was selling sex toys that can be temporarily grafted on!

It's amazing what horny people can achieve with immense wealth, magic, and no shame whatsoever. I really must save Enderlith at any cost. I almost expect to be stopped during my climb up the massive stairs, but it never happens. It almost looks like a lonely path made for gods, usurped by undeserving petitioners but the massive decorated statues I walk by harbor a dark secret: dormant souls slumbering in a state of near death.

Each statue is different: one a spiked beast that would be at home as the figurehead of some figurine army, there a judgmental vestal with a mask of clay, her arms blades of alabaster. Those are guardians. I remember thinking it was a miracle that the station managed to push back Transformation's tide with the millions of bodies it could work with, but here is a reminder that despite its doomed status, Enderlith is still home to immense power, ancient and terrible. And rich.

The few other visitors around show a degree of wealth patricians only display on few occasions. The gates are partially open. Beyond is the true heart of the Fleshcrafters guild. I spot branches lit by red bioluminescent strings, sinuous vines and a bark carved into a work of art before I am swallowed by a massive atrium. Like the town before, the hall is decorated in red and gold but where the sub-district aspired to a measure of warmth, this one goes for pure awe.

I find the welcome desk and walk with confidence, trying to look like I belong. A man with hair made of thin horns greets me as I approach.

"Good evening. Welcome to the Fleshcrafter Guild. How may I help you?" His disciplined soul exudes doubt at my appearance but at least I'm not thrown on my ass. Progress. I reply in my smoothest Kei-Sah.

"I would like to petition a specific fleshcrafter."

"Of course… May I ask who, and for what purpose? We also offer more general gene-modding options if you are only getting started," the man offers with a kind smile, doing his best not to look down at my comparatively shabby appearance.

"I am not here for gene mods. I wish to petition Master Fleschafter Kimera for Mnemonic Nodule Memory Training in exchange for assistance with the Metempsychosis Project." The clerk gives me a really, really long look. I feel something at the edge of my perception, not soul-related but I'm probably being examined, somehow. Eventually, he smiles the same kind of plastic happiness displayed by decent actors.

"This is a rather specific request, citizen," he says, inviting comment.

"She assured me it would be enough to get her attention," I reply, taking a bit of a risk.

"I see. Could you give me a moment while I check her availability? Our masters keep extremely tight schedules." He gestures. I feel a soul approaching and turn to face another clerk, this one a woman in white uniform who bids me follow her. So I do. A wall opens to let us through into a tastefully decorated corridor burrowing deeper into the complex. Or the tree, I suppose. It smells really nice too, a floral scent that helps me settle down. It reminds me of the Good Days back on Earth before my parents separated.

Once, we went to Spain to travel — I was eight then. We stayed at an expensive hotel by the beach, the name of which I forgot, but I remember being amazed by the palace-like interior. Every detail had been carefully considered from the clothes to the carpets, curtains, ceiling, perfume, music, everything. Everything was designed to make us feel like we'd been transported to an alternate universe where we actually mattered. The Fleshcrafter's Garden fulfils the same function.

My guide leaves me in a side room, clearly meant to host a small group. Their tea tastes fizzy and weird but with a delicious afternote that leaves me wanting to take another sip. Some time passes, then I feel something at the edge of my perception. A soul, and this one is open. The other person's sphere of control follows the path of the corridor, aiming toward me. It falters when it meets mine. I feel surprise, and so I extend a greeting.

"Hello!" The soul recoils, oozing confusion, then impish embarrassment. I feel an apologetic smile on a young woman's delicate face. Ah, I see, I wasn't supposed to find out someone was checking me out. I return amusement to her embarrassment, then she leaves. Some more time passes. There is a knock on the door which I find strange since there are no souls there.

"Come on in?" I say with hesitation. The person entering is Kimera, mostly as I remember her: the same spines acting as both hair and crown, the pink healthy skin, smoldering dark eyes, high cheekbones on a face that's just a little too sharp. Her dress is half chitin, half red fabric as shiny as the best silk serving to accentuate her tall, thin body. A modest cleavage is her only true concession to femininity. The rest is just a statement of mastery. I stand up, more out of habit than anything.

The body in front of me sits with slightly less grace than I expected.

"I am Master Fleshcrafter Kimera. You petitioned me," she begins.

"You sent a soul awakened to check on me so you know I can tell you're not there," I interrupt.

"Don't you want to have this conversation in person?"

"This is my person. Now, I have questions." I shrug. Whatever. I can't exactly expect people to let their guard down.

"You claim that I told you this little introduction of yours would get my attention, yet I know for a fact we never met. I would not have forgotten you, or your mana signature."

"You have not met me, and yet I have met you. Both propositions can be true," I reply.

"And besides, was it not the truth? I did get your attention."

"You play a dangerous game, 'Steve Prentiss'." If she expected me to react, she must be disappointed.

"You say this like it's a big reveal but the truth is that there is nothing useful in my file."

"Beyond the fact that you appear to be in much trouble," she drily remarks.

"This is the Year of Judgment. We're all in big trouble." Kimera smiles thinly, though it doesn't reach her eyes. She doesn't disagree.

"Enough sophisms, Citizen Prentiss. I demand an explanation."

"Is this room secure?" I ask.

"It's secure enough for us." So no. Ah well, I just hope the guild doesn't have a mole.

"I'm the Avatar of Time." I wait for Kimera to digest this piece of information. It takes rather more time than I expected. Eventually, I feel a soul approach. The Kimera who enters without knocking is the exact same sitting in the chair opposite me. She strides in with the aggressive confidence I remember from a previous loop. True Kimera places a hand on top of her clone, then the soulless shell melts and leaks over the arm of its master before being absorbed. It's all rather gruesome.

Ok, so Fleshcafters don't give a flying fuck about conservation of mass. So I knew and expected that but seeing it is still impressive in a body horror kind of way.

"I never enjoyed puppeteering," Kimera comments before sitting where her clone used to be.

"Alright. Now we are secure. Explain. In more detail, please." So I do. Over the next hour, I explain the loop, how we met and what my purpose is. I explain that I offered them to kill me for research. Kimera questions me with narrowed eyes. Towards the end, she seems surprised by my credibility.

"As insane as it sounds, the story is… plausible. You do realize I will contractually bind you into an execution agreement, and be sure to carry it out before the year is done, correct?"

"Absolutely. A deal is a deal," I reply. Suspicious. So suspicious.

"You have no objection to being confined to this district until you die? With no outside contact?" She asks.

"I would advise you to allow outside contact or we'll never survive until the end of the year, but I'm ok with it if you insist."

"Those disasters you mentioned. I find them… hard to believe, and yet I am convinced that you're being truthful. This is all difficult to accept."

"And I assure you that it was difficult to live through." Kimera falls silent for a while, her dark eyes lost in calculations. I help myself to more tea. It's still hot. I love mana, sometimes.

"I will say, you are much weaker than I expected for the avatar of one of the dragons."

"I get that a lot. It's still quite early in the game, for me." She sits back and groans.

"What you ask for is both difficult and extremely unorthodox. You have to understand that we only accept the most talented young people among the ranks of our apprentices, not to mention you are only of the first awakening! You cannot even cast a single spell yet… By all logic I should have you sweep the ground and clean the gunk off experiment rooms until you at least qualify."

"You could do that," I reply, "if you want to waste both our time. Remember, none of this will matter in the end, only my progress and whatever help you want with your experiments. The faster I get to that point, and the sooner you share in the advantage of the loop."

"Logical, my prospective apprentice. I concede your point."

"As for awakening, I've done it before so I'm confident I can reach the second level within a few months."

"Yes, that would be… better. I must ask, however… why did past me not ask for a soul contract?" Her gaze is intense. I feel like she was building up to this question.

"This is our first meeting as potential trainer and trainee," I explain.

"I'm willing to enter a soul contract, but I need to warn you that it may not carry over to the next loop."

"Then why would I enter an agreement with you knowing that I cannot verify you will commit to it in the long run? You could renege on your promise and I would be none the wiser."

"You could just consider that I have basic intelligence? Archons do not rule in a vacuum. Through you, I can gain the support of the Fleshcrafter Guild. It's literally in my interest to get you your results so you work with me during my reign." For a moment I wonder if I went too far, but Kimera just guffaws.

"You. Archon. Oh, I do love a man with ambition. Are you sure this is our first negotiation, my prospective apprentice? I find you rather convincing for such a green strand of untapped ribo-nucleic acid."

"It's really my first time, yes."

"Hmmm." I wait. Sadly, I've run out of tea. And I need to visit the lavatories. I hope she decides soon.

"Very well. I have elected to believe you." Relief floods my mind. Things are going my way again! This time.

"But I will still kill you at the end. Even if you can't help with experiments." Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

"I already agreed, didn't I?"

"I do love a decisive man. Very well. First, I will explain a few things. The Metempsychosis Project aims to explore soul transfer at the moment of death. In theory, we believe a master fleshcrafter might be able to transfer their soul to a new shell at the moment of death, but it has not been verifiably achieved yet. Obviously we lack experimental data to make meaningful progress in the project so it remains a, hmm, more of an amusing hypothetical than real science."

"And that's where I come in."

"Don't interrupt me, prospective apprentice," Kimera scolds.

"Now, a master fleshcrafter would conduct their own research, but you're not there, and won't be there for a very, very long time. There is, hypothetically, a way to transfer knowledge in a rather reliable manner using a technique called mnemonic nodule. Mnemonic nodules are small benign tumors holding proteins sequenced in a way that can resemble a simplified phonetic alphabet often used in genetics. If you could form those nodules, you could assist me in my research."

"By recording data at the time of death…" I finish. Kimera seems unimpressed.

"Absolutely not. Do you think you'll have the time to rewrite complex data while your brain explodes? Please. No, you will be assisting me with my other research projects until you become proficient enough to assist with metempsychosis itself, if you ever do. The mnemonic nodules will be my method of transferring research data over loops. Unfortunately, getting there will be the first, most difficult step."

"Ok, but I have to ask. If you know I can't help with metempsychosis, why kill me?"

"Because It gives me confidence I'm not being scammed, for one, and two, because I find it funny." She dares me to comment. I think it better to change the topic"Unrelated, but what if I could simply write down the essential parts of your research and copy them back to you?" She glares with naked contempt.

"Even assuming you had perfect recall, it would take months of work for you to copy back every line of genetic code I need for my research. You think we store data in books? If it were that easy, every gene hack from here to the Outskirts could just mod themselves into patrician lookalikes. No, we need to get you up to speed as fast as possible and that's where my part of the bargain comes in. First I have good news.

There is a way for a fleshcrafter to rebuild a body with a higher level of awakening provided they've already reached that peak once."

"Yes! Aha! I knew it." With this I can rebuild myself anew with every loop!

"Your enthusiasm is noted, disciple. Now, as I was saying, there is a way to rebuild a body at higher awakening as an aspect, and conclusion, of an infiltration technique called the 'Meek Visage'."

"Should you be telling me this?" I ask, a bit surprised.

"This sounds confidential."

"Interrupt me one more time and I will send you to your next loop starting with your fingernails." I raise my arms in surrender.

"Since you have already reached your third awakening, you would theoretically be able to return there. Unfortunately, there are several steps. First, you need to be second awakening to jump start the process. This will cut into our available training time. Second, you obviously need great control over your body, and thus will require years of training.

Third, even if you can rebuild your body, it would still take a significant amount of ambient energy — much less than if you had to ascend the normal way, of course, but it is still not an instant process." I raise my hand. Kimera blinks, as if remembering I were here.

"Yes?"

"There might be a way to solve the second awakening thing. If I can reach fourth awakening before the end of the loop, I could start the next at the second step." She stops me with a raised finger.

"But that would be impossible. Everyone with a modicum of talent and enough time can reach second awakening with Enderlith's bountiful energy around. Third awakening requires skill, time and dedication. Fourth awakening is the domain of mighty warriors and mages." I wave my hand around.

"I went from unawakened to third in a single loop, and that was with the help of a retired soldier and three hundred credits worth of mana aid. Surely the Fleshcrafter Guild can do better?" Kimera brushes her pointy chin with white hands tipped with black nails, just a little sharp.

"A remarkable and auspicious display of focus."

"It helps if millions die in horrible agony while I look on, powerless."

"I see."

"Look, consider this. Can the, uh, Visage of the Meek be removed with the help of someone else?" Kimera frowns when she realizes we've run out of tea. She taps a little display and a few seconds later, another clerk comes with a fresh pot. She does not speak until we are alone and holding steaming cups.

"You mean that you would have a fleshcrafter help you recover to your third awakening?"

"Yes! I could go to the depths and between this and Soul Siphon — that's a soul-based absorption technique — I might manage it."

"And manage to escape immediately afterward?" she asks with narrowed eyes. I roll my eyes, annoyed.

"Just strap a collar bomb on my neck. I don't care."

"You do not. And you might succeed in your endeavor. Perhaps. I am myself not familiar with the Visage of the Meek, so I would have to trade for a session… Hmm, apprentice, you raise a valid point. We shall address it in a later loop, after you offer more convincing arguments. And I wish to retract my earlier comment. You do still need the nodule, but you might be able to help me, ah, guide my research in a certain direction with mere notes. Hmmm." She blinks, surprised.

"I cannot believe you convinced me! I do love a man with a silver tongue. Very well. You may not be Archon material now, but I see potential in you. You are like a tiny undifferentiated cell just waiting to be primed. Oh, I so wish I could see the final result!"

"You will." She tuts.

"One version of me shall, but not this one. Your training starts tomorrow. We need to lay the groundwork before we can start thinking about the nodules."

"I'm eager to start."

"No, you are eager to urinate, but your enthusiasm is noted, my disciple. Second door on the right. Oh, let me give security the all clear first, as I wouldn't want you to be vaporized when you step out." This certainly puts a stop to my fast exit.

"You seem to take security seriously," I remark.

"Oh no, those are just the most basic of defenses. You do not warrant our full attention. Gene plagues are the real equalizer. A discussion for another time! Go now, while I clear the administrative hurdles." It looks like I'm in.

As a disciple of the most esteemed Guild of Fleshcrafters, I am granted a dashing red and white uniform of perfect make, apparently self-cleaning, acid resistant and more comfortable than the fluffiest pajama. It is the best and most expensive piece of clothing I've ever worn.

Kimera then leads me to her personal quarters which I would classify as 'messy five star hotel room', a mix between the highest standards of hospitality, and the mess of a long-term tenant with only a middling interest in herself or the space she uses, — in shades of red and gold, naturally. There are piles of notes stabbed on the expensive wood walls, a few vials, and the discarded remains of half-drunk bottles of dietary supplements strewn about.

The 'disciple bedroom' was so far used to store a few spare limbs floating in nutrients, which she moves to a trunk. She insists that I sleep for a few hours, then leaves me with a pile of liberated documents — mostly basic books on anatomy which she insists I learn as soon as possible.

"You have so much to learn before you even qualify as a janitor here," she says with a bit of a scowl.

"I thought, if I were to learn I might as well learn from the best," I explain.

"Rather than learn something stupid I would have to forget afterward." I am not sure this is the correct approach, of course, but at least for cello playing it's best to acquire a proper technique from the start. Since I don't know the first thing about fleshcrafting…

"You say something logical and flattering at the same time, disciple. This is well done. I will be sure to teach you in person, but for now, follow this book which I personally vouch for. It will explain the basics."

"Alright…" I find myself abandoned. Over the four hours that follow, I read the book with a mix of excitement and worry. Excitement, because that's it, I'm going to learn magic, And worry because surely she's not going to cloister me in 200 square meters for the rest of the fucking year without food, right? Right? But no, miracle of miracle, she returns at noon, opening the door like a hurricane.

"Disciple!"

"I'm here."

"It occurs to me that you need food and therefore access to the source thereof: the mess hall. Follow me!"

"I'm glad you thought of that within the first seven days, Kimera."

"It's Master Kimera to you, disciple. Now, hurry! I'm already wasting enough precious research time as it is." Calling the Garden large would be an understatement, even in a station as populous as some countries, it stands out from sheer size. Kimera guides me through red and gold corridors to an elevator that descends, then travels at a speed that forces me to grab a bar while Kimera impatiently moves her fingers in strange patterns, eyes unfocused.

A claw-like appendage grows from her shoulder, changes colors and then gets absorbed again. She huffs her displeasure before frowning at the door which, under the sheer weight of her disapproval, opens on white and sterile corridors. This section of the garden is far from the bold luxury of the atrium, or the more subdued wealth of the master quarters. The corridors are wide and simple with false sunlight falling from glass ceilings on large open grounds.

The false light brings life to colorful trees of the same essence I saw in the Needles. Apprentices walk among the trunks, greeted by gene-modded felines and canines with soft fur and matching personalities. This feels like the equivalent of a university. I never went to university. I guess I can make the time now, haha. The mess hall is massive, easily accommodating near two thousand students and staff. It's packed at this time of the day.

Kimera vaguely points at one of the many buffets before disappearing in a burst of speed, scaring a group of students. I make my way to one of the food islands. Wow. Loading up with stuff I absolutely cannot recognize, I take a quick glance at my surroundings. A few people gaze at me with curiosity and it's clear that I stand out.

I doubt there is a single person under second awakening here, and the older students show the flawless appearance I associate with fleshcrafters, some of them having already made permanent changes to their bodies so that it becomes difficult to tell if someone is from a strange species or made themselves that way. The only clear distinction is by age, with the younger ones yielding the window seats to older students, so I go there so as not to stand out too much.

As I walk, a random soul sweep hits a familiar presence. I meet white irises under a shock of wavy golden hair. The young woman blushes, averting her eyes. She was the one who checked me out when I arrived. The rest of the table notices the interaction and I feel a wave of distrust and hostility rising from the group. They look like they might be slightly younger than I am, or rather, they look slightly younger than what I look like now. I've been twenty-five for more than two Earth years.

"You must be Master Kimera's disciple," a modded woman says with a cold voice.

"She was always so very eccentric," a confident man adds.

"Years refusing any help, and now you?" I smile and realize I should leave, but the soul-awakened woman talks to her neighbor in a hushed voice. Whispers spread across the table and I watch, amused, as the naked hostility turns into polite interest. Soon, I have room to sit. The golden-haired girl introduces herself as Lumie. I expect questions but to my surprise, no one asks about the soul awakening though I do see a few concerned stares.

Out of all the front-loaded shit I've received so far on Enderlith, the other students' earlier scorn is the one I understand the most, and their quick exchanges confirms why. Those lads and lasses are the foremost generational geniuses in the domain of medicine and fleshcrafting out of all the known worlds. They represent the best and brightest students granted entry to the Garden after a gruesome selection process.

The Fleshcrafters have other centers of learning across the worlds, but this is the very best, requiring passage aboard a voidship paid by the guild itself. And here I gain entrance with no skills to speak of, after a mere two hours of interview like the galaxy's happiest pillock. I can imagine the annoyance. Nevertheless and with Lumie's gentle questioning which I artfully dodge, I manage to win the small group over thanks to a few displays of mass telepathy.

Ever resourceful, the young twits then use me to plan their next study session without having to scream over the cafeteria's din. The food is alright. I just have no idea what the fuck I'm eating but the pickled night coral turns out to be delicious, at least. I'm advised to stay away from a few of the buffets if I don't fancy getting my stomach replaced. I have no idea what most of the discussions are about since I don't have the background, but just exposure helps.

This is something I realize when I return to my room. Anatomy, and medicine in general, requires a specific language, and because it is a language, my skill helps with memorization. After a day of effort, I have gone through close to a hundred pages. Hopefully it means I won't get thrown out.

"Name all the bones in the arm starting from the fingertips," Kimera demands. She crosses her arms over her chest. Her eyes narrow with annoyance before I can even open my mouth, a far cry from her previous day's enthusiasm.

"Err. Phalanges, metacarpals, carpals, radius, ulna…" I grab my elbow to help myself remember.

"Variant platula…" Enough humanoid species on the station have an additional bone protecting their articulations that the manual mentions it. I personally had no idea, mostly due to the fact I have touched and been touched so few times these past few years that I might as well join a fucking convent.

"Humerus and clavicle."

"And the scapula, disciple. We count it as an arm bone. Where is insulin produced?"

"In the pancreas, specifically in the 'regulator pumps' I reply, using the Enderlithian term for Islets of Langerhans. Honestly, I prefer the English term.

"Hmm. Which cells are responsible for pain perception?"

"Errr. Nociceptors?"

"Be specific! Pain follows a path all the way to the thalamus. When I ask you a question, I expect the answer to be thorough." Ah, she's angry.

"Sorry master, I, uh, haven't reached that point yet." Kimera struts to my desk, then flips through the manual and sees the pieces of paper I left here and there where I was struggling. Whenever I didn't get something, I wrote it down and Lumie's group kindly helped me during dinner. It's still just a day of effort, however.

"Where are your notes?"

"Ah, they're in my soul book. I carry it across loops. It's very useful."

"So that's why you were confident you could help. Hmm. I have to admit… Founder it's been a while since I was this ignorant. I have to admit that for a single day of study, you appear to have memorized quite a bit. Your motivation does you credit, disciple."

"As I said, the memories of mass death really help."

"Yes, regarding this, I notified my superiors who, of course, dismissed the threat entirely. The important thing is that there is a record of the event. It will help us slow down the apocalypse." She sighs, then sort of deflates. Grabbing a comfortable chair, she dumps the pile of books occupying it on the ground before sitting down.

"I must admit, I was tortured by the belief that I must have been cheated, this afternoon. That I erred in judgment in trusting you, and that surely, you will find a way to take advantage of me. Perhaps a soul awakening ability altered my mind." She gives me a glance.

"Can it?"

"I don't know," I shrug.

"Probably at higher levels?" That doesn't help her.

"At least, you seem honest."

"Look," I tell her.

"If the explosion doesn't happen, just kill me. I'll sign the contract right now."

"You would?"

"I would if it sets your mind at ease." Kimera gives me a long look.

"I lied. Such contracts are actually illegal."

"But who's going to stop you? Just claim it was a lab accident," I suggest.

"Enough. I will decide, but in the meantime, you may not leave the complex without my authorization, and your conversations will be monitored."

"I accept. Fine by me," I shrug.

"Right now I only care about the result and getting stronger. I will have better arguments next time when I bring you the initial result of your research."

"Very well…" She glares a bit more but her heart isn't in it.

"Well, I do love a confident man. It would be a poor use of my time not to give you the benefit of the doubt. Now is the time for me to teach. First of all, do you know what we do here?" I frown, unsure as to what she means.

"Crafting flesh and all that entails?"

"Be specific."

"Errr. Research and formation related to healing, battle flesh magic, gene modding, animal gene modding, biological warfare, and agriculture." I think those are the main departments I saw on this part of the Garden.

"Better, but what you gave me is a list of applications. Flesh crafting, at its core, is using flesh mana to impart modifications onto biological matter. You will use your mana as a catalyst, blueprint, and fuel, to turn that matter into another type of matter. Thus, in order to be proficient in our art, you must learn to understand your target and what you wish to turn it into, and you must have the control and willpower to impart those changes in a controlled manner.

Fleshcrafting is a demanding and complex art which requires significantly more training than most other affinities in order to achieve tangible results in a safe manner. Although life, nature, and the divine aspect of transformation may eventually lead to similar results, the approach is fundamentally different. We are not here to nurture or to force transformation for its own sake. We are here to mold the living to our desire. We are technicians as much as artists.

It is a discipline that suffers no fool, no compromise, and it is one you will master with my guidance, or die trying. What?" I close my mouth, remembering where I am.

"I said, what?"

"No you're… very impressive when you're on fire like that. Figuratively. It's clearly your passion."

"Do not fall in love with me, disciple. We have no time for romance when there is science and learning to be done."

"I actually have all the time in the world." Kimera makes to answer before considering my words, then she shrugs.

"Whatever. Now, listen. The first step on your long journey is to learn the basics while I work on the Visage of the Meek reversal. I ask for your patience, disciple," she finishes with a neutral smile. She lies. I can feel her hesitation from the way her soul wavers between enthusiasm and caution. She still doesn't fully trust me. That's alright. Thirty more days or so, and she will.

Midnight has come, and the Garden rests. The last of the lessons have just ended. I am now lying down in the most luxurious bed to ever grace my uncouth arse. The covers are heavy yet somehow cool, coddling me in cloud-soft fabric as relaxing as the embrace of a loving mother. Maybe that's why I can't fucking sleep. I can't even relax. My mind keeps returning to the fight against malice, and yet it's not the horror of powerlessness that tortures me, but the weight of my inadequacies. I fucked up.

Not meaningfully because the expedition was doomed no matter what, but that doesn't matter. I still fucked up. It doesn't matter that I can now face superior numbers of second awakenings with just my staff techniques. They were desperate, starving fucks and I'm the Avatar of Time. No, the real issue is that I didn't even try to use all the tools in my repertoire. I can briefly pause time to calculate the best options. I didn't do that.

I could have pooled the horror I felt into a soul spell, casting for the first time. I didn't do that. I forgot that those were options because I got overwhelmed and lost focus. None of the skills I acquire matter unless I actually use them.

"Arg!" I can't stand it. I need to do better, be better. Only I can turn Enderlith away from its promised doom. I need more experience. I need to stop freezing when faced with fresh horrors. I can't sleep. The day starts in five hours and I can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see the dead and the twisted and the list of my failures. Why the hell did Chronos even choose me? Jesus. I realize I'm sitting, sweaty, fingers curled over the hem of the red cover.

The urge to stand up to train is strong, but it's also stupid. I need to be awake for tomorrow's lessons. I remember pulling my soul in and letting my fear slip in during the expedition. I try that now. Slowly, my soul sphere contracts until stress dribbles down into the abyss of my mind, piece by piece. I can breathe again. I have been granted a chance to progress quickly at a minor cost. I can't allow my own weakness to get in the way of it. I must learn. I must stop that bomb. Nobody else can do it.