Chapter 853 – A Gladiator’s Tale (Patreon)

Pav and Rik played as Percy traded blows against Micky atop the barrels.

The dark blue sprite playing the hero of the musical held a blunted twig in each of his four hands, wielding them like quarterstaves as he danced across the wooden platforms. The weapons spun over his elbows and atop his knees, passing from one hand to another without interrupting his rhythm.

His opponent, Mixcoatl – played by a certain grey sprite – wielded a pair of pointier sticks instead, using them like javelins.

Kal punctuated each clash of their weapons with a heavy beat on his wooden drums. Meanwhile, Nephthys used the Merciful Spring domain to distort the air and send colourful sparks flying with each blow. The attacks looked deadly enough, even if the sprites’ colourful bodies were too weak to hurt a mouse.

The Amenthei deity’s domain was the one form of outside magic that the sprites had agreed to include in their plays. The visual effects enhanced their work, but they wanted the performances themselves to win the bearfolk over. Anything more would feel too much like letting Percy manipulate the villagers into giving them what they wanted.

Whenever the sharp tips of Mixcoatl’s spears scraped the hero’s skin, the audience members gasped or yelped in alarm. Whenever it was Mictlantecuhtli’s weapons that struck his captor, the giants cheered or clinked their mugs against one another, the nearest ones sending splashes of crimson ale raining onto the barrels.

Percy and Micky didn’t mind the foaming liquid dripping down their bodies, or the sticky planks beneath their feet. If anything, it reminded them of the blood-soaked sand of the actual coliseum where they’d fought the real Mixcoatl over a century and a half ago.

Sha sang along with the melancholic melody of her fellow sprites, her soft voice lending a hopeful note to the hero’s tragic battle.

The first act of the play had covered Mictlantecuhtli’s capture by Mixcoatl and his separation from his wife. Percy and Micky had taken a few liberties with the story, because some parts were still too painful to recreate faithfully. However, the Huehuan had insisted on drawing from his own past to move the bearfolk, knowing that a genuine tragedy was often more powerful than fiction.

The second and third acts had followed the hero’s training and his first attempt to defeat his nemesis, ending in Mictlantecuhtli’s bitter loss.

The final act covered the fated rematch between the two combatants, though Percy and Micky had altered that event significantly as well. They figured the audience would have an easier time following the hero’s victory if it didn’t involve his possession by an otherworldly parasite.

Before long, Mixcoatl managed to knock three of the hero’s four weapons from his hands. Mictlantecuhtli staggered back, his dark blue body covered in cuts.

Just as the grey sprite approached his captive to deliver the finishing blow, the hero launched a concealed splinter of wood from one of his lower hands, driving it right into his opponent’s chest. The villain collapsed face-first onto the barrel.

Mictlantecuhtli swayed above him for a moment, then sank to his knees. His last weapon slipped from his fingers, and he fell beside his captor, drawing his final breath a heartbeat after Mixcoatl did.

They held their poses as the music faded. Percy didn’t need to use his sensory domain to pick up on the cubs’ sobs or the adults’ applause.

‘We’ll probably gather another handful of signatures tonight. If that’s not enough to convince that thickheaded buffoon to leave the forest alone, I guess we’ll have to try Nephthys’ story tomorrow...’

Nephthys wasted no time unrolling the oversized piece of parchment in front of the bearfolk, asking them to sign it while they were still emotional about the play’s ending. Pav set his kik’lit aside and grabbed the other end, helping her hold it clear of the ankle-deep ale sloshing across the barrel tops.

The cubs’ signatures didn’t count, and most of the adults in the audience had already signed the petition after the previous acts. A few refused to sign despite having enjoyed the story, unwilling to put one of their settlement’s most important projects on hold for the sake of a few good plays.

Still, four of the giant natives happily dipped their thumbs into the spilled ale and pressed them against the parchment, adding their prints near the bottom of the page.

“That’s our thirty-second signature!” Rik exclaimed.

“Thirty-third,” Sha corrected him, rolling her eyes. “But it’s still only a fraction of the villagers.”

“Yes, but it’s more than we ever thought we’d get,” the yellow sprite insisted. “At least it’s better than getting stomped on or flicked away by them without even being given a chance to play.”

“It’s all thanks to Percy and the others,” Kal chimed in. “Not only are they excellent dancers and musicians, but their stories are so much better than the ones we used to come up with.”

“Let’s not get too excited,” Pav said after helping Nephthys roll the parchment up again. “We’re making progress, but we’re almost out of time. The chieftain is going to send a team to start chopping down trees in a couple of days. I doubt we’ll be able to finish the next play.”

“Is that true?!” a bearfolk cub asked, leaning closer. He’d apparently been listening to their conversation. “Are you guys going to fade away so soon?”

“Only if your father doesn’t listen to us,” the pink leader of the sprites said with a small shrug.

The forest just outside the village was the four sprites’ real body.

Percy had thought long and hard about what soul to put inside the World Tree’s seed. While he had created millions of soul clones in his life, he’d only created a couple of familiars, so he still didn’t fully understand that side of his bloodline. It wasn’t like he could freely experiment with it either, unless he was willing to merge his soul with random people and destroy the failures.

From what little he had gathered, he needed a stillborn: a newborn body that could still adapt to changes, with a soul on the verge of death to attract his own.

However, it wasn’t enough to use a regular clone. His wisp would simply assimilate the weaker soul and destabilize the body. That was probably what had happened to the Moirai stillborn that Percy had accidentally possessed when he had first discovered his bloodline. Percy had only managed to stabilize the crow and the Starry Princess by introducing a third soul into the mix. Their beast affinities had probably helped their bodies adapt, too.

The problem was that the body Percy wanted to use this time wasn’t a beast.

He felt that the World Tree’s seed could still work. The other first-generation saplings were suppressing its growth, effectively making it a “stillborn”. Its powerful vitality should also help it adapt to the changes to its soul even without a beast affinity. Percy had no idea whether turning the seed into a familiar would finally allow it to sprout, nor did he know whether he would ever manage to destroy or consume the other saplings to allow his own to grow into a true World Tree, but it currently seemed like his best chance at extending his lifespan.

That still left the question of which third soul to use.

Percy had considered finally attempting to turn Zoris into a familiar, or looking for another dying deity that had mastered a bunch of concepts. However, he still wasn’t sure how to safely release Zoris from the Ring of Sacrilege. He was also uneasy about turning a person into a plant, which was arguably even worse than turning them into a bug. Few people would cope well with being rooted in place and unable to interact with their surroundings. There was no guarantee the new sapling would develop any abilities to help with that, either.

He’d stumbled upon the answer by pure coincidence on Jambavan. The Yaksha were sentient forests – souls that were already used to living as plants. In fact, they were the only plants he had ever found that had developed stronger souls and were capable of thought.

He’d never even heard of another species like that, despite having been to hundreds of greater springs and tens of thousands of lesser springs and barren worlds. The bearfolk living on Jambavan didn’t seem to understand how unique their planet’s natural treasure was either, judging by how poorly they were treating their forests.

Individual trees weren’t that special. Each was just an Orange plant with a very weak soul – not even worth mentioning compared to a World Tree sapling, with or without spiritual blood.

The thing that made the Yaksha special was how their roots formed a vast network, making each forest one giant organism. The collective spirituality of thousands of trees was what gave the Yaksha their sentience. Some forests were larger, older, and healthier than others, though the number of personalities they developed was seemingly random.

Percy had spent decades negotiating with various Yaksha until he found one willing to strike a deal with him. Now, he just had to fulfil his end of the bargain.

“We can’t let that happen!” the cub’s sister exclaimed, breaking Percy out of his thoughts. The two young bearfolk were among the troupe’s oldest and most passionate fans, as well as some of very few children that frequented the pub unaccompanied by an adult, since their parents were apparently too busy to spend their evenings partying. As luck would have it, they were the children of the very chieftain who was trying to chop the forest down.

“Hop on! We’ll take your petition to our father and convince him to turn his axes elsewhere!” the male cub said, offering the sprites his palm.