I made it. The cemetery.
Emory, in his all-black suit and turtleneck, held a small, thin blade. His thick black hair curled at the edges, giving him a wavy, oceanic look.
'Emory. . .' Specter sounded worried.
What's the matter?
'Raise your guard. There are Bersebus Descent fighters nearby.'
Emory twitched. Are they coming here?
'No. . . Actually, they're not even moving.'
Are they dead?
'Not dead. I can sense their Authority. A Crest and a Lining.' Specter was deadly serious.
A Crest and a Lining. The fifth and sixth strongest. What could have left them like this?
'You have two options. One: return to Trila and hunt Circlets until you advance. Or two: take their Authority. If you want into the Mandate, you must choose the latter. The doors are locked.'
Why won't they open them?
'They can sense the Authority pouring from those descendants. The Mandate doesn't take chances.'
There's no point going back to Trila, that's too far of a walk. Specter said they're motionless, letting me sacrifice them easily. This much Authority would advance me to Hierarch II, maybe even III.
Emory fixed his collar. I've decided: I'll get their Authority.
'Wise choice, I would say so myself. To find them, just follow the trail of light blue in front of you.'
A trail of majestic blue light formulated in the air before him, leading south. Emory reached out, his fingers passing through the intangible magic.
He followed it.
He passed wolves and dying oak trees, the landscape opening into a vast tundra. He was deep in rural Houtis now.
As the light led on, Emory yawned loudly. He had been traveling for hours with no sign of the descendants.
'Use your magic key.'
Emory took out the Visionary's Key and twisted it in the air. I imagine myself energized.
His fatigue vanished. Emory jumped, testing his renewed energy, and continued on.
Hours later, the light convulsed. What's happening, Specter?
'You're here.'
The light vanished. Emory steadied himself and advanced. Peering around a bush, a horrifying sight met his eyes.
A man and a woman lay on the ground. There was a grotesque pool of blood spreading slowly beneath the woman's head, and the man's shoulder was disfigured by a gruesome purple infection.
Their chests rose and fell, but otherwise, they were completely still.
Fighting down nausea, Emory crept forward. With each step, the crunch of grass and dirt sounded like a thunderclap in the silence. He feared they would wake at any moment.
A Crest and Lining were foes he could never handle, even if they had horrible injuries.
'The man is a Crest, and the woman is a Lining. Quickly, pull out your blade, turn invisible, and sever their organs. Make sure to bury them after.'
Emory complied without a word. He drew his blade, turned invisible, and moved closer. The sun was sinking, and dusk was nigh.
Who should I go for first?
'The woman.'
Emory's eyes found the woman. The horrid sight of blood darkening the earth beneath her head made his stomach lurch.
He bent down to get a better look.
This. . .
His pupils constricted.
It was the military woman who had come to his house with the psychologist. He was hazy on her name, but he recognized her face.
His breathing quickened.
That means. . . the man. . . is. . .
Patent blonde-hair and a handsome face; the man who told Emory to run away! He protected Emory, albeit for a short time, from the Abolition Hierarchs!
Conflict tore at him.
His hands shook. Specter's voice radiated in his head. 'What are you waiting for? Cut out their organs!'
. .
'Get on with it! Have you forgotten their ancestor?! The blood on his hands?! The 300,000 women he forced himself on?!'
But. . .
'Emory! They are Julius Bersebus's descendants! Take their Authority!'
They're not like the rest! Emory protested, finally picking a side. The military man and woman were allies, not enemies. Even if they had the horrible man's blood running in them, they still saved Emory.
Or, at least, they tried. Why was he thinking so hard? Why had his mind changed? Were his emotions that powerful, swaying his mindset to their behest? He shouldn't care about these two!
Specter's manly voice roared, 'Why are you siding with them?!'
I'm not! I'm not siding with Julius Bersebus, never! But, I won't kill these two.
Before Specter could retort, the blonde-haired man groaned. His eyes stayed shut, but his hand twitched, searching for something.
He muttered, "Ll. . .u. . .vi. . .a." His hand inched toward the fallen woman. "Are. . . you. . . safe, Lluvia?"
Emory dashed to the man's side, dropping to one knee and taking his hand. "Are you alright? Sir?"
The military man's eyes opened, and he stared surprised at Emory. "Who. . . are you?"
Sharing information like his name and his relationship to the military man wasn't a choice after Emory time-skipped. Instead, he gently massaged the man's hand. "Me?"
He paused.
"I am your savior."
The words came unbidden, but in his heart, his flimsy, easily influenced heart, Emory felt it was what the man needed to hear.
The man coughed, blood speckling his lips. "Lluvia. . . Where is she?"
"She's right here. Next to you." Emory turned to Lluvia, his fear spiking. Had she lost too much blood?
Her chest heaved up and down, signaling she was breathing, but the rest of her didn't move. Since Emory had no medical experience, he couldn't really heal the woman.
Hope, which used to be trickling through the air, vanished.
He knelt by Lluvia. The right side of her face was a mask of blood. A piece of flesh—her ear—lay on the ground beside her.
No, she was not okay. "Ms. Lluvia," Emory whispered. "Please, wake up."
Specter.
'What?'
It was interesting how his own, personal Specter, was capable of holding a grudge.
Help me, Specter.
'No.'
You're my assistant, aren't you? I beg of you. Can you figure out a way to save her?
No response.
Emory racked his brain for answers. Specter won't help, and with each second I waste, Lluvia risks dying.
He had a premonition. Visionary's Key! The gateway to a fantastical world. Emory pulled the bone-like key from his pocket and twisted it in the air.
I wish for Lluvia's ear to be healed.
He waited and waited, but nothing happened. "Curses! This isn't a Visionary's Key! It's a fake! What kind of Visionary can't imagine basic things?"
He cursed Sylphossia in his mind.
Unexpectantly, the blonde-haired man's voice said, "Lluvia. . ."
Emory was at a loss for words. Should he lie to this man? Tell him that everything would be alright? What kind of savior does that, though?
He needed help, fast. Time was running out. Emory dug his hand into the pool of blood, fishing out Lluvia's severed ear. With his other hand, he touched the ragged wound on the side of her head.
He ripped a piece of fabric from his suit. "I think I'm supposed to clot it. . . to stop the bleeding. . ."
His hands shook uncontrollably. Why am I so scared? Why do they mean this much to me? Why am I trying everything to save them? Is it because they're a link to my father. . . to my old life? To Simonis? To North Precinct?
Ugh!
He had to find help. Emory sent a silent apology to the two generals and took off running.
As he ran, Specter's voice sounded. 'You're making a mistake.'
If that's what you have to say, I don't need to hear it.
'Not about helping them, that's in the past. You'll bear its consequences later. What I'm talking about is running, and specifically, running in this direction.'
Huh?
'You'll see.'
Emory was getting angry. Why is he so condescending? What does he mean, 'this direction'?
Is it a descendant?
Specter didn't answer.
Specter, am I going to find a descendant?
As he changed direction, Emory collided head-on with someone. They both fell, moaning in pain. Emory, on the ground, rubbed his head and looked up.
He saw a woman—disheveled and unruly. Her brown hair was a mess, with dark bags under copper eyes. Scratch marks marred her freckled skin.
But what was strange was, he recognized this woman.
He'd seen her before. He'd talked to her before!
She massaged her abnormally large forehead. "Ouch. . ."
That voice. He knew it instantly. This was his first target as a Hierarch. This was the girl Sylphossia had forbidden him to kill.
This was Amariel Cline.
Emory stared at her, wide-eyed. "What. . . what are you doing here?"
Amariel wiped sweat from her neck and shuffled toward him. The seventeen-year-old girl grabbed his collar.
Emory tried to push her off but was surprised, again, at her strength. "What's going on?"
Amariel looked at him with a drunken gaze.
"You. . ."