They were ushered back outside. No one bothered actually telling them anything, of course, but the clan leaders started walking with a purpose and none of the visitors were inept enough to linger behind.

The group came to a stop in an open field, where the setting sun left the outsiders squinting at the clan leaders, all standing outlined amidst the golden light. To Martin's senses it was much like every other open patch in the meeting grounds, but it had to hold some significance to the clans. If he pushed, he could feel something in the mana. An whisper, or a fading echo. Nothing that would be dangerous, but this was ground that had been hallowed for generations untold.

It was not the older clan leader that spoke. Not the Raven, not the firebrand, not Breva or the coward. It was one of the remaining leaders who had not received any special visits. A middle-aged man of average height and features. Nondescript but for his blazing spirit. He was easily among the most powerful echelon of clan leaders, and it was he who stepped forward to explain what was going on.

"Interlopers on the Steppes. All of you have come to us uninvited and unsought. You speak of danger, yet slink in to convince us of your superiority. None of this may stand. If you would have the support of the clans, then show yourselves to be speaking the truth, and prove there is weight behind your words."

Martin finally deigned to look at the Laskarians. They were uninteresting, zealots always were. But if he was leaving here successful, he had to make it clear they were the liars. He found the one that had visited the same clan as him glaring daggers, while the rest huddled amongst themselves.

A leader stepped forward. Statuesque and with an expression that looked to be perpetually looking down on those around her. Dariella must have found an apprentice in this one. She spared a look for Martin, green eyes squinting as if daring him to stop her.

He tsked, too quietly for anyone else to catch, but made no other move. If they wanted to show themselves impatient, he was hardly going to stop them.

"Honored members of the clans, I come representing the Order of Decorra. As you have heard from my fellows, our organization is focused on the safeguarding of the world. Outside our planet, vicious forces await, ready to tear our world apart for its riches, to smite its people and grind our civilization to dust in order to get what they want.

"We seek to prevent this fate. For many years, the world was protected. As that protection has faded, local threats that seek to exploit have arisen. Those in Merista have fought against our goals, denying our right to seek out the secrets of magic, and striking out in violence when they don't get their way.

"But do not take our word for it. We bring proof."

She gestured to the side, where one of the other cultivators started pulling items out of a pack. He could feel the magic in all of them. Familiar magic.

Rage swept through Martin, so sudden and hot he almost lost control of everything. Not all mana could leave a signature, but some did. He would have news for Laurel when he got home. She hadn't been thorough enough when she looted their sect if traces of Grandmaster Florin's work were in the grubby hands in front of him.

The display didn't stop with the magic artifacts. Newspapers appeared next. Martin had no doubt each of the slightly crumpled pages contained a description of how horrible Laurel was, how she was driving the entire country of Merista toward ruin. If he was especially lucky, some of his own escapades would be mixed in. There had been plenty after their raid on the Thousand Hands Sect, it had been nonstop work to make sure Adam didn't end up reading any of the descriptions. The man had enough nightmares already.

It kept going. More magic items, some clearly looted from destroyed sects, others shiny and new. Beast parts made up the rest. Claws and feathers and cores from some of the more dangerous things the Laskarians had killed. Martin recognized a few he wouldn't mind nabbing for himself.

When the tidal wave of 'evidence' ended, the clansfolk went to work. The newspapers were mostly passed to the greedy one, presumably he could read Laskarian. Though not all. Shifting ever so slowly to get a better angle, Martin recognized a few of the papers as being published in Verilia. He felt his teeth grinding and purposely loosened his jaw muscles. Some of those same publications had flogged the sect for years. Either they were too pushy and taking over the City, or they were not doing enough to help and hoarding all the magic for themselves. Diligent competence did not lend itself to headlines.

The beast parts were mostly passed over. Greedy was practically salivating over keeping them, but all they proved was that spirit beasts existed. And if someone hadn't figured that out by now, telling them wasn't going to do anything to change that.

The entire review passed in silence. One Martin spent fantasizing about punching the leader of the Laskarians, and seeing how far she would fly.

It took almost an hour for the clansfolk to finish their initial inspection, the sun now half below the horizon, and a strong wind carrying scents of the grasslands into the empty city. At an unseen signal, the focus shifted to Martin.

He bowed low to the clan leaders. The sect did not have so many treasures that he could give them away as gifts. Nor had he thought to drum up some propaganda for the journey. But he hadn't come unprepared.

Without flourish or fanfare, he pulled a memory tablet and a book. The book was handwritten and bound in leather they had commissioned from leviathan hide. It was Adam's recording of the sect and its existence in the modern world. Everything from when Laurel woke up to the most recent winter solstice. It wasn't the only copy, of course. With his improved cultivation and an ink aspect, Adam could create copies almost as quickly as a printing press, and far more artfully.

Bringing the original had been Adam's idea in the first place. The clans understood how an artifact could hold deep meaning to a group, that was made clear in the few texts written about the reclusive culture. It would show a level of respect absent in the Laskarian's offerings.

The memory tablet was also an original, one that usually lived in Laurel's office, and which they had debated whether or not to send on this journey. Inside was Grandmaster Florin's recollection of the last days of the first Citadel of the Eternal Archive, and his exhortation for any survivors to continue.

It had been enough to spur Laurel on, despite being alone and distraught. Then it had spent years as a reminder about what they were working towards. That they now sent it out into the world was meaningful in its own way. Those reminders were ingrained into the entire sect. The symbol would be better served by revealing truth to others.

"Honored leaders of the clans. I was born long ago in a world you would find unrecognizable. Those with magic ruled, keeping their people safe while hungering for the greatest heights. An attack, audacious in its scope and horrifying in its consequences, came when no one was expecting it. My family died, along with that way of life.

"Now, many centuries later, the same group seeks control. We stand against them."

He offered up his two gifts. "These I bring in order to show the truth of my words."

Martin stopped there. These were people who appreciated silence and patience, he would show both.

The book they passed around, each flipping through and reading a few pages from different places they selected at random.

For the tablet, it now rested in the hands of the eldest clan leader. The man's fingers traced down, probing it with mana, maybe.

Then he figured out how to connect to the memory within. His body froze as his mind replayed the message, complete with the emotions of the one who had left it. Grandmaster Florin's despair was genuine and complete. It was not possible to lie in a memory tablet. At least Martin did not know a way.

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Blinking away misty eyes, the elder resurfaced and passed the tablet on to the Raven for the cycle to repeat. When all of the clan leaders had seen it, the sun had long set and the moon was high in a cloudless night sky.

"We thank you all for your offerings. You are welcome to use any existing quarters for the night. We must continue discussing and will reconvene tomorrow."

They moved swiftly after that, without more reason to linger. The Laskarians claimed one of the few structures and created a meal. It didn't escape Martin's notice that a few of the clansfolk were spread around the area. Not interacting with the foreigners, but keeping an eye nonetheless.

For himself he didn't bother setting up camp. He wouldn't be sleeping around this many people who wanted to kill him. Instead he followed his spirit to a dip in the earth, where water had worn away the dirt to reveal hard earth underneath. He settled in for a night of cultivating, reaching his spirit out to merge with the earth below.

*********

"We thank you all for your stories. The Northern Clans have never before joined sides in the conflicts in the wider world. We are content, a state of being hard to fathom for those in the great cities.

"But the world has forced our hand. We have found the evidence compelling on both sides, and we cannot commit today. Our own eyes and ears will be sent out, and from that will our decisions flow."

It was smooth for a nonanswer, but about what Martin had expected after seeing the careful deliberation of the previous day. Why wouldn't they find out for themselves who was telling the truth? That the conflict had escaped them already was a quirk of the culture and landscape. They weren't in a rush.

Martin bowed and said nothing, while the Laskarian leader started to argue.

"You will be shown to the border of our lands," the Elder spoke over them. "An uninvited return will be understood as its own message."

Then the Laskarian rounded on Martin. "This is your fault," he hissed. "Cowards seeking to hide in the past instead of embracing the present and the future. That is all you are, and your weak little sect."

Martin did not grace the idiot with a response, keeping his face placid as he watched the clan leaders.

The gathering was set to last several more days. Cultivating strangers showing up was a reason to hasten the event, but not the only reason they had it. So the leaders returned to seclusion while their guests left to pack their belongings.

All except Breva, who approached Martin alone. "The leaders wished to express their thanks for your family's truth."

"I was honored to share it," Martin replied with a half-bow. It was even true.

"While we did not wish to cause deeper conflict at this time, your gift and your treatment of Vorash have shown respect. For this, we offer you the status of Guest of the Clans. Your presence will be tolerated, and you will be treated with respect amongst all the clans."

"Thank you. I hope when you have investigated further, you see fit to lift that status to Ally."

"Perhaps," Breva admitted. "The tournament you spoke of is intriguing to us. We will likely send a representative."

"They will be welcome."

"I must return to the council meeting, but it was an honor."

"Likewise. But I must ask one question before we go. Are the others also granted Guest status?"

Breva raised an eyebrow. If she knew what he was really asking, she didn't bother commenting on it. "They are not."

"Very well. Then fair skies, Breva. I hope we meet again one day."

***********

The group had been easy to follow. So easy, Martin had gone back and forth repeatedly on whether or not it was meant to be a trap. It had been three days, and so far, he was leaning towards 'not a trap, just stupid'.

He felt the wind change and slowed down, taking a moment to appreciate the landscape before him. The sun beat down on his neck while he looked over the rolling hills. He was far behind the group, who was riding, but that didn't matter. Their trail was a blazing path of trampled plants anyone could follow.

As he went back to running, he spread his spiritual senses out again. From what he had seen of the clan lands, it was all like this. Smooth, sculpted mana flows, but not a Core to be found. He had a theory, but it was so impossible, he was hesitant to even form the whole thought. If he was right, he would need to have some talks with Laurel. Any advantage they could gain for their own Core was something they would grab with both hands.

From Martin's perspective, the mana here reminded him of the Citadel. If the scale was spread out over hundreds of kilometers, rather than confined to a City. Somehow, the people here had something like a diffuse Core, wound throughout all of the clan lands. It had almost none of the benefits of a traditional Core. No City perks, no defenses built in, nothing concrete to keep track of the population. By what he'd seen, it didn't keep dangerous beasts or plants from manifesting within the bounds either.

What it did do, he suspected, was make it far easier to cultivate. The proportion of the population that he'd seen with some sort of order in their spirits, in Breva's camp and the others he had passed on this portion of the trek, was far higher than anywhere else. Maybe that was the secret to how they stayed so removed from the world.

It wasn't a technique that would work in regions with stable populations. Even a Village Core would disturb the flows too much for something like this to work. But that didn't mean the information wouldn't be useful. New perspectives always helped.

He spent the rest of the day musing on the topic, and coming up with a list of things for them to experiment with in Merista. With the army spread thin defending the population, anything they could set up in the more remote regions would be a boon.

It was near midnight that Martin returned all of his focus to the present. The Lakarians had made a habit of stopping each night. They should easily be able to travel for days without sleep, at their level, but to their minds, there was no rush.

A mistake he would be punishing along with all the others. Yesterday, the clan members had left the party, and they had officially passed out of their lands. Martin had toyed with the idea of acting more quickly, but he thought that might not be in the best interest of a mere Guest.

So he trailed the group for another day, well into northern Naxos. The ground became more arid with every hour that passed, as they approached the great desert, and the paradoxically denser populations that survived there.

Which was why he was acting tonight. No need to anger their allies either.

He slowed to a casual pace and dropped any sort of veil as he strolled into the Laskarian camp.

The one on watch leapt to his feet, crying out for the others. At least they weren't so stupid as to assume safety. Martin had considered keeping everything quiet, but that had felt wrong. Perhaps that was his inner need for drama coming to the surface, but he had some rage built up, and these people would know who killed them.

"Come on, wake up everyone!" Martin shouted as he entered into the circle of firelight.

With a quick scan he confirmed all six of the Laskarians were present and moving. There weren't many enchanted items in the camp, it seemed even the Laskarians were finding it difficult to turn their cultivating population into crafters of any skill. But they weren't absent. A few were obvious alarms or defenses. With a thought, Martin enveloped them in earth and crushed them beneath the stone.

Two were attached to cultivators, the last of which was completing the circle around him. Weapons then.

He stared at the leader, her face twisted into a snarl, half-hidden behind hair that had been unbound in anticipation of the evening's rest.

"One chance," Martin said. No more need to hold back from speaking first. "Renounce your country and whatever your piece-of-shit overlords are calling themselves. Tell us everything you know. Then I'll let you live out whatever part of your pathetic life remains."

"Bold words for a man outnumbered. But unlike yourself, the Masters of the Order insist on propriety. All of us who serve in the Imperial Cultivators have been instructed to offer you free passage in exchange for fealty."

"We –"

"I'm obviously not taking that. So you can fuck right off with your offer. How's this for propriety: I'll let you die fighting."

Fear rippled around the camp at Martin's announcement. He watched with his spiritual senses as they sped up their mana, tensed muscles, and adjusted stances. But he didn't strike. It would hardly be sporting if he went first.

Their leader moved, the rest only a heartbeat behind. Not bad coordination. Not enough, either.

Martin pounced on the slowest. The cultivator had a ball of fire in his hand, stretching towards Martin. He died quickly. Expert he might be, but the lack of attention to a strong foundation was obvious, the saturation of the body with mana was haphazard at best. That, and few people could walk off having half their skull caved in with solid granite.

In the same motion, Martin angled the floating rock to block a blow from a body cultivator, and used the momentum to send it rocketing into the torso of the enterprising idiot attempting to conjure lightning. Laurel would enjoy that.

He came out of a spin, facing off against the four still standing. He grinned when he saw two were holding enchanted weapons. An axe and a gun. The grin turned into a full smile when he saw the Laskarian he had run into in Breva's tribe was the one holding the gun.

She smiled right back, training the gun on him from a few meters away. She wouldn't miss. And if a regular bullet packed enough energy to break his skin while he was unshielded, something from that gun would do some real damage. The ax was interesting too, the edge glowing a violent orange.

"Any last words?"

He took a moment to think about summoning earth armor and continuing the fight. Or sinking into the earth to jump up behind them. Maybe pull all the water out of the air and start mixing it up a bit.

"Nope."

Five spikes of earth were already moving before he spoke. There was no gunshot. The light in the ax faded. Advancement didn't count much in the face of practice. These people might only be a stage below him, but it might as well have been worlds away.

Alone, surrounded by his element, with no one and nothing else distracting him? Six wasn't enough. They would need twice that number and another few years fighting together to make it close. The slog from expert to grandmaster was a long, tedious road; one on which they had just embarked and Martin was nearing the end.

With a few taps of his feet, he snagged the enchanted items. The kids would need some stronger options when they outgrew the generic gear Laurel had looted from the old citadel.

Using more delicacy than he'd needed throughout the fight, Martin sent his will into the earth and commanded it to move. Dirt roiled and flowed. His own cultivation let him treat the earth like liquid, into which any number of things could sink. Like bodies. Or the rest of a campsite.

Another three minutes, and Martin surveyed the area, the only light that of the moon and stars where it lit the landscape island threw generous shadows. Aside from some unseasonably bare dirt, there was nothing left.

Just another beautiful vista for a visitor to appreciate on a clear night. Chores finished, he turned west and started running again. A few kilometers later, he once more sent his mana into the earth. It writhed beneath his footsteps, until a mound grew up and sped along.

It was faster than running, and right then, Martin didn't want to be out traveling. Or at least not alone. Laughter, smiles, he could use a dose of anything just about then.

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