[Ashborn-B1] 62. Garden of Kings (Patreon)

LXII

Garden of Kings

Vyke’s chest throbbed with the drums of the organ in his chest. “You…expected me?”

Despite the situation, he felt at ease. More at ease than he would’ve had he been back home.

And that unnerved him.

Lips curved on the woman’s oh-so pale face. “Please, take a seat.” Her hand motioned to a pair of chairs in front of her that hadn’t been there before.

Neon’s morning star entered her palm. “Lord Vyke, please head back upstairs. I’ll keep them busy while you search for an exit.”

The woman chuckled. “How noble. However, you won’t find an exit out of this place.” On the banks, dead hands were still locked in prayer. The room had been silent when they arrived—none of the dead murmured their prayers, if they were even really praying—yet the quiet was deeper than before.

Thoughts had paused and waited for an order.

Vyke touched Neon’s shoulder. “Let us take a seat.”

They should’ve been more careful entering the Tomb, let their followers head in first. How could they have expected this? None of their Administrators had mentioned a meeting like this being possible at all.

This wasn’t some spirit or image, but a cultivator. A real person that was in control of this shrine.

Vyke led him and Neon down the red carpet, past the rows of undead, up a short flight of stairs, then to stand before the woman. She as tall as them while seated.

Before the pair sat down, the woman spoke up.

“Ah, my apologies, perhaps it’s better if we take a walk instead. I can see you’re quite tense.”

Neon, who was hovering with her butt an inch off the seat, glared up through her veil.

The woman stood, the same soft curve to her lips as before. Now she was almost twice their size.

‘She’s taller than Ashe.’ And the Dawnflame was one of the tallest disciples in the mystic realm this year together with Duke.

Her long, flowing black robe twirled, the ends kissing the floor. “Sven, lead the way, please.”

From a corner in the chamber, a figure stepped out of the darkness. His black and white attire wasn’t exactly what you’d expect from a butler. A cape trailed behind him, the clasps small spheres of gold. Threads of a similar colour tread the contours of the cape, which showed off a drawing of a skull wearing a crown. Together with the two blades fastened to their hips, Sven was more a ‘knight’ than he was a butler.

The undead servant approached an entrance in the far wall, behind which was hidden an extensive hallway. Or should he call it a display room? The ceiling was too high for him to call it a room, truly, but it was the only descriptor he could think of.

Armoured soldiers lined every step of the way, tips of their weapons resting on the floor or on their shoulders if they weren’t big enough.

“It’s not my intention to intimidate you,” she said. “But we have to pass this hall to reach the garden.”

“Lord Vyke…” Neon whispered.

He hummed in understanding.

[Scorn Warrior - lvl. 60]

[Scorn Knight - lvl. 62]

[Scorn Herald - lvl. 65]

…

Hundreds of them were standing at attention.

“You could’ve killed every disciple in the Tomb by now,” Vyke found himself saying.

“Mmh?” she said, and languidly followed his gaze towards her undead. “Ah. Those. They’re under restriction. Unless I’m being attacked, I cannot order them around. And even if that condition is met, they can only move a certain distance from their station.”

‘Restriction…must be a system-imposed limit.’ Allowing a being like this free reign in the Tomb would make the entire place a death trap, and the system usually played fair.

“It occurs to me that we haven’t yet received your name,” Neon said.

The woman gasped. “You’ll have to forgive me. It’s been so long since I last spoke with anyone other than Sven.” Her loose, white hair tumbled as she shook her head. “The name is Morgana. Morgana Desdemona. You may simply call me Morgan if it pleases you.”

Stained glass picture windows cast the hall in a sombre yet divine hue as they walked. True to his command, Sven, who was himself a lvl. 63 Death Knight, not a mere scorn, led them down the hall. Each step brought them further away from home, and closer to whatever fate awaited them. That knowledge was a chill that dug its ugly hooks into Neon, whose hands trembled and sweat as Vyke clutched them.

The knowledge did no such thing to him. Instead, the pull in chest only strengthened, guiding him forwards.

‘What is this feeling?’ Looking at Morgana, he couldn’t call any feeling of distrust or fear to the surface. To him, it was like he was visiting a sweetheart of an aunt, who’d always made sure to take care or ask after him.

A split appeared in the hallway, and they took a left turn.

“That path leads to the treasure room,” Morgan said. “Depending on what you decide to do, you may visit it afterwards.”

Vyke and Neon latched onto the key term in that latter sentence.

“What are you planning to do with Lord Vyke?” Neon snarled.

“Me?” Morgan said, voice pitched high. “Nothing untoward! Please, refrain from thinking of me as some demon. Consider me…” she thought for a moment, then clapped her hands. “Consider me a remote aunt you’re seeing for the first time! Yes! Exactly that!”

Black eyes dark as an abyss turned and lingered on Vyke, the shadows within them knowing.

Now, he shivered.

They reached a set of double doors. A wave of stale air slipped through the gaps, then rolled through the entire hall, swallowing each and every one of them as the creaking doors came to a halt.

Neon’s breath hitched. Morgan’s smile lengthened.

A domed roof of stained glass depicting figures alien to Vyke’s knowledge showered the chamber in cold light. Pine trees of all sizes littered the space, their leaves and branches meticulously upheld, as if workers were snipping away at their imperfections day and night. The trees surrounded a dais in the centre, where dozens of ornate chairs (or were they thrones?) were arrayed in concentric circles. They weren’t empty. On each and every one sat a translucent figure. Their genders differed as did their attire, so there was no clear relationship between them. But each and every one of them was wearing a crown.

“I call it the Garden of Kings.” Morgan’s heels clanged as she crossed into the chamber, then the soft earth inside the room swallowed the sound.

They followed after her.

“Kings?” Neon said after they’d crossed half the distance towards the altar in silence.

Morgana continued walking without giving her an answer.

Vyke barely paid the interaction any mind. The pulse inside him was no longer a mere pulse. The weariness in his muscles from the amount of running they’d done today lessened with each footfall. His back straightened. Sweat stopped pouring.

They crested the flight of steps up the altar. Once they’d crested the rise, Vyke found his gaze drawn to a seat in the innermost circle. This one, unlike the others, was empty.

Like a fish on a hook, Morgana pulled them unerringly towards it—

A firm grip on his shoulder kept Vyke from taking another step. Neon flourished her morningstar again. “This is far enough. Will you tell us your reason for bringing us here, or do we have to squeeze it out of you, Morgana?”

It must be said, that unlike her undead, Morgana wasn’t a high level.

[Arch-Fiend - lvl. 40]

A higher level than both Neon and Vyke, certainly. But not an obstacle that would be insurmountable. And while the many scorn under her control would lead to their deaths, they were in the room beyond. Only Sven was here. If the two of them launched their strongest techniques at the start, they had a solid shot of killing her before the first of the undead reached them.

Around them, the spirits watched as Morgana strolled further towards the empty seat. They weren’t really watching her, Vyke realised. Their eyes were colourless. Lifeless. Either what remained here on these seats was a husk of whoever they were, or they’d been imprisoned for so long that their minds had completely eroded.

“Do you want to know why I call them Kings?” Morgana brushed her hand over an armrest, where a girl, whose crown had bands in the form of a phoenix’s wings, was seated. Morgana’s fingers caressed her arm, and briefly, a sense of colour returned to the girl’s gaze.

Immediately, the girl’s entire body convulsed, and she pulled with all her might. No wrist wraps or chains held her in place, yet her body didn’t move an inch.

“Ssh, Little Flame,” Morgana whispered, and rubbed the girl’s cheeks. “You’re safe here.”

The light in the girl’s eyes died as soon as it’d come, and she went still.

Morgana turned to regard them…and waited.

Neon’s grip on his shoulder tightened, for she must’ve understood what he did as well.

“They’re all heirs, aren’t they?” Vyke said.

The Arch-Fiend slow-clapped. “A great guess, but not quite. They’re ‘Omens’. That’s what you call them, right? Powerful, talented individuals that have the potential to shape the future of their clan.”

Under the cold light filtering from above, her white hair glistened like silver under moonlight. The light passed her long, sunken features, and left shadows in the grooves which lend her presence weight without having to do anything.

“I’m certain you can tell whose seat that is,” Morgana said.

Marbles clanged together as Neon’s essence spiked. “Lord Vyke.”

Sven didn’t bother stepping closer to the Arch-Fiend or drawing his blades. But the undead’s stance betrayed that could change at any moment.

Vyke cut through the tension. “How did you manage to bind my soul to it?”

Neon stilled.

“Despite what I’m feeling,” Vyke continued, “I do not know you. Neither have I completed a specific task in the shrine that would allow you to bind me.”

He’d been handed the token, sure, but he’d kept the object in his storage ring most of the time. But even if he hadn’t, that shouldn’t have been enough to lay claim on his soul.

No. The only possibility he could think of was that—

A memory pulled to the forefront of his mind. He, and the many followers belonging to their clan, were seated in the courtyard of their estate, tokens in hand, waiting for the mystic realm to warp them inside. He could smell the anticipation in the air. Feel the drizzle of rain on his face, Aedan’s warm hands touching the back of his own.

The sudden appearance of a heavy well of essence behind him made him exit meditation—a gesture of kindness from his Father, who could approach and stand behind him unnoticed for an eternity if he so wanted.

Pyke the Black Death wasn’t a tall man, but he was unsettling. It wasn’t any part of his physique that you could pinpoint which produced the result. ‘His lankiness,’ one could argue. ‘His eyes the colour of dirt,’ maybe. ‘The rotten odour clinging to his skin.’ All of those played a role, Vyke was sure. Yet he didn’t think they were the key.

The key, he thought, were his thoughts.

Vyke, like most children of clan leaders, didn’t see his father often. Had only spoken to him in a casual fashion a handful of times. But every time, without fail, Vyke got a sense.

A sense that his Father had written his death on a slab of stone not unlike those outside this shrine. As if he’d already conceived of every possible way to murder him.

Every cultivator who ever spoke with his Father felt the same.

That’s why Vyke’s muscles went slack when his Father embraced him moments before he would warp into the mystic realm, and whispered in his ears: ‘I love you, my son. May Rosaria guide your way.’

The words brought no tears to Vyke’s eyes. They were too little too late, after everything he’d been put through at the command of his Father. However, a part of him did wonder: Why? Why now?

The spatters of rain on his face faded into the background, and his sight adjusted back to the real world.

“Now I know why,” Vyke muttered.

“Lord Vyke?” Neon said.

Vyke’s eyelids shut. He allowed his thoughts a second to roam inside the self-created darkness.

‘To think he’d sell the fate of his child…’

The life of a cultivator was never fair—being born with talent or into resources and many other factors all depending on luck largely determined one’s potential. However, in all of those scenarios, there yet remained a semblance of control. One could maybe not do much, but they could at least do something.

Vyke’s fate had been sealed from the start. The Tomb had actually opened later than expected—calculations placed the opening twenty years ago—the Court Diviners had been at a loss for why this was, but now it made sense.

The very universe had created the scenario where his father’s debts could be paid.

His armour stopped his nails from digging into his palm. He should be saddened. But he only felt hatred. Not for his father, but for the world.

He sighed. This is why I hate cultivators. Good for nothing, blood thirsty mongrels, all of them…but there was nothing to be done about it.

He turned to Arch-Fiend. “What now?”

“You take a seat. You may resist if you like.”

A futile endeavour. One that would needlessly cost Neon her life.

“Can I ask you for one favour?”

Morgan motioned with an open palm.

“Let Neon escape,” he said. “Please.”

“How touching,” Morgana said. “Consider it granted.”

“Lord Vyke—”

He grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her towards him. “Neon.” Studying her face, he brushed away the threads of marble. “Tell your other half—” Linking his arms around the small of her back, he pulled her closer. She did not move out of the way, merely closed her eyes and leaned into him. They stayed locked for a long moment before Vyke pulled away. “—that I love you. Always have. Always will.”

Stars glistened inside her veil, which fell and wet the inside of her robe. She hadn’t recovered enough to speak by the time he moved towards the throne.

Morgan’s hands linked behind her back. Her gaze flicked from him to Neon, and back to him, lingering on his back after he passed her.

Vyke kept his attention on the chair. He’d thought it ornate at first. However, now that he knew he had to spent the rest of his dreadful existence on it, it was nothing but a rotten pile of trash. ’She could’ve at least put a cushion on it.’

He ascended the steps and gripped the armrest—

A content sigh echoed behind him. “I really am a sucker for romance, aren’t I, Sven?”

“So you are, Milady.”

Hearing the butler speak for the first time made Vyke turn around. He locked eyes with Morgana.

“You don’t need to take a seat,” she said. “Not yet.”

Vyke raised his brow.

Morgan smirked. Her chin turned to the ceiling so the light fell directly on her face. “I’ll offer you a deal you can’t refuse.”