There is nothing to be seen. Nothing to be cut. This is the truth of the Luminous Edge. When there is nothing but light—that thing that permeates all things even subtly—then you will realize how to cut without cutting. And in that state of mind can be found the First Foothold of Enlightenment.

Treatise On The Ways To Harm With Nothing But Light by Saro Tojosso, Warrior Poet of North Shen

It must be said, once again, that Rengka was someone of nigh-peerless swordsmanship. She has won over greater swordsmen and greater gods than herself. She has brought low grand generals in the past. Her secret was this—her grandfather had been a darkly sorcerer. Practiced the black sacred science of Gu, the black magicks. But before he learned the cultivation of Black Magick, he had learned the Cultivation of Exorcism.

As she reached out with her Shining Blade Art, she suffused her striking blade. The burgeoning spirit of demigod-banishment. The breaking Force that shatters even the gods. This was the first magick she ever learned, taught by her grandfather.

"Remember," her grandfather taught her, as he anointed Rengka with oils extracted from slain vipers. "Remember that there is no greater autocrat than the demigods and the gods. Remember, dear Remei, that the world is not fair, and it is suffering. Remember, Remei, that the ultimate oppressors are the gods. And that you must destroy them too."

Rengka grew up in a time not just war, but in the poverty-stricken north of north Jhanghra. That is to say, she does not enjoy the benefits of the victories of either the Ultranationalist Party nor the Communist Party that both won at different points. But her grandfather believed that the People—the Masses—had attained the great and grand Empyreal Ukase. That the world must be bound under the working class. And the her grandfather told her: "But this will not be enough. Remember, after the working class has slain the ruling class. They must then work with Ghosts and Demons to overthrow the Heavenly Class. The hardcoded castes of Suffering in this world. They must overthrow first the Semidevils, and then the Demigods, and then the Little Gods. And then the Low Gods. And then the High Gods. And then the Demiurges. And then the Chakravartins. And then the Ialdabaoths. And then the Formless Consciousnesses. And then the Absolute. Only when the working class has purged and eliminated and annihilated all the gods and all the higher forms can the Masses ultimately awaken to Violence, and emancipate themselves not just from the strictures of class, but the very strictures of reality."

Rengka, a few years later, would think her grandfather to be mad. Insane. But she did appreciate the God-Expelling Arts he had taught him, now known as the Cultivation of Exorcism.

Her Dragon-Slaying Blade sheared through Sintra Kennin's dark blade barrier. Like a heated knife through softened butter.

Sintra Kennin crashed to the ground.

Pain flowered indescribable. Our dragon warrior looked down at his chest. There—a large gash. Blood mingling with Dark. Thoughts, running: Dark? How could a being such as her wield such heretic, blasphemous sciences? Could this be the doing of Trasan? Blast it all. Blast it all to hell! It fucking stings!

He winced. Witness the scene from the eye of an eagle—a wrecked clearing. Sintra Kennin in a crater of his own failure. Blood pooling. Pooling. Pooling. Intermixed with golden ichor and all-devouring Dark. Sintra's arm looked like it was about to fall off. His armor frayed and broken. His muscled form breathed. Sinewy. A dragon-body rent and pushed to its limit. Black smoke billowed from him. He was a gunshot.

In front of him, Rengka, blade in a perfect arc. Red-gold-black blood sprayed in an arc over her. The arc in which she slashed. But she was not unscathed—the blade barrier had still managed to absolutely break and break and shatter her aerosteel armor. Her Flower Buckler lay in fragments on the ground before her. Broken, now. Huh, interesting. That Flower Buckler is magickally reinforced. For it to be shattered... my foe was truly worthy.

She wore nothing now but her lower plated pants. Her entire upper body exposed to moonlight—the gleam of the Sword Moon (that damned, cursed Moon phase) illuminating the pale of her body. Her broad shoulders, her breasts, her abdomen, the crook of her neck, the hollows of her collarbones. Scratches across her bicep, chest, and hips, but nonetheless unscathed.

In her hands, Pestilent Thorn had expanded into the form of a slashing broadsword. The thorny-body of Pestilent Thorn ripped out and strewn out to match the shape of the great Shennin broadswords.

Quiet followed. Rengka had won. No doubt about this.

She straightened. She turned to Sintra. "I win, now." She said. "But worry not. You have been a worthy challenge."

Sintra Kennin winced as he tried to stand. He could not. He fell to the ground. "High praise to me, a non-fighter."

"Stand proud, then," she said. "I am peerless in the art of fighting."

"I do not doubt that, now." Sintra Kennin said this with his eyes closed. He felt his consciousness slipping away. "But you must admit... much of your confidence lay in that aerosteel armor of yours. What will you do now without it, I wonder...?"

Rengka set her jaw. I will slay all in my path, as I always have, she thought to herself. "I shall let the Moon bless you." Rengka turned. "And I shall finish my duty. By taking the Heaven Dancer."

Sintra Kennin, with his final words, said—"Good luck. If Heaven could not take them..."

Silence. The implication echoed.

Rengka sighed and sat—she had been holding her breath this entire time. Lotus position. Her vitality had not been sapped any considerable amount. She laid calmed Pestilent Thorn on her knees. She spun her hands in a wheel, before putting her fingers into the Flower Sacred Gesture. Or the Flower Mudra. She muttered something; breathed for a moment—a quick meditation to realign her meridians.

Rengka's Spirit flurried through her, healing her vitality. Her wounds stayed, of course. Scratches and bruises. But it did not slow her down any more.

Ten minutes passed. Cold wind. Dark night. Slowly dying dragon warrior. Sintra Kennin... could he still survive, in truth? Her heart felt too light. Sintra Kennin sapped her of most of her Spirit, this is no doubt true. Her psychic winds flurried slow now. I have no more than one fight left in me. She knew this intuitively, as most cultivators do. To cultivate presupposes the eventual understanding of one's Subtle Body—the barely perceptible inner workings of man's form.

Renewed vigor and resolve steeled. She rose to her feet. Not bothering to take up clothes, she ventured in the direction of Raxri's flight.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

---

From this point on, the world will never be the same. Prophecy shattered. Omens reversed. The inauspiciousness of this world knows no bounds. The Selorongian proletariat-mystics had devised a conception for this time of sheer inauspiciousness. Those that followed the Law of Sanjah Kitama, or the teachings of the Thunderbolt Masters and those that have attained Adamantine-Enlightenment, called this the Latter Day of the Law. These Selorongian proleteriat-mystics called this the Time of Gloam. And the Time of Gloam is always preceded by the time of Glimmer. And it is a cycle forever.

But there will always be a Glimmer within Gloam, and Gloam within Glimmer. This is their saying.

But to bring about Glimmer is not a consequence of history. Nay, to bring about Glimmer is to work for it. The suffering within Gloam is not for nothing—it is the very karmic cleansing the world must endure to be flensed of its negative actions and to become clean and pure once again. That is to say—history has no end. And Mankind must work for its salvation.

Many of those in the Flower Barge Doctrine agree with this. That this world is the Unalloyed Realm of the Awakened Sanjah Kitama. And Unalloyed Realms are supposed to be beautiful completely. They are the Heaven-of-Heavens. Those that follow the Flower Barge Doctrine argue as thus—there is no recourse and no excuse for us not to strive to bring about the Unalloyed Realm to this world. To make it manifest.

This aligns with the Tenet of Glimmer.

But when will this Glimmer come about? We know not.

We cling to nothing but the teachings of Messiahs and High Sages. We know that only we can ultimately save ourselves.

---

High Chief Trasan in his lanky form, looked formidable wearing nothing but a cloak of living shadow and robes of quicksilver. Armor of a great adept, he moved through the air like a ghoul-witch. Flying like a mosquito upon the face of the moon.

He saw, in his periphery, as he followed the direction of Raxri's flight. The staredwon between his own Shark Knight, and... a dragon? She can handle herself, said Trasan. But it might be a formidable fight all the same. Humans must work doubly to overcome demigods. And even doubly more than that to overcome gods.

He slunk deep into the shadows to avoid being perceived. He slinked like a shadow coral snake through the trees.

Raxri and that witch that fucked up his Port Chief—Akazha, was it? Dian Gozon?—sat by the side of the river, before a shrine he did not know had been erected. Within, the statue of a lion-headed goddess. Blast. A Shinganawong Shrine?

Trasan's body became Dark. And then he abided.

---

"Wait! Akazha wait!" Raxri and Akazha exploded out of the trees and onto a river bank. The river rushed quickly here. There was a walking path here. No doubt this led to the shore. Just a little bit more.

Akazha looked about. In her head—I know there is only a few hours left before the Transport Ogre-Machine will arrive. Must we hold out for that long?

Raxri collapsed, breathing heavily. The spot they arrived at had a statue to a lion-headed goddess. No, Akazha thought. Not just a lion-headed goddess. This is an Enlightened Being—Shinganawong. She went close to it and lit a candle that had been left for it. No incense, however. She pulled out a stray joss she still found in one of her pockets and lit that. She let the incense smoke alight to the heavens. May the gods and the earth bless us anyway. She performed the triple reverence and uttered: "AHOM SHI NGA NA WONG HOMA."

Raxri said: "We must needs return. Sintra. He—"

"Sintra will be fine!" Akazha had to shout now. To stop the incessant martyr that was Raxri. "He will be fine. He is an accomplished dragon warrior and he is the First Prince of Wetan River. The very earth sides with him. He will be fine and he will not die but we must go now. Before..."

Raxri rose to their feet. Puksa in hand, their grip faltered. What fortitude must I have to survive this crushing oppression? Why must I be hunted for crimes I have no knowledge of?

"Grip your resolve Raxri!" Akazha gripped both shoulders. Raxri was shaking in anxiety. "Set your heart ablaze. We must stand like iron for our brothers and sisters. For you!"

"I've nothing to live for, Akazha," said Raxri. Their eyes could not meet Akazha's. "I... I endanger all that come near me. Perhaps I must give myself up to Heaven to finally end this suffering?"

"Listen to me," said Akazha. "No matter what crime you must have done—for Heaven to come and try and kill you—it must not be a crime by man's standards." Akazha was not sure if she was lying at this point. "Heaven and its machinations operate on logic not of human compassion but of godly bliss and politick. You are not a bad person. You are a person wielded like a weapon."

Raxri blinked. Their glazed over eyes met Akazha's for the first time. "H-How... how would you know that?"

"I just do, okay?" She did not. "I... I have faith in you, Raxri. Your subtle body, your third eye... you are a being whose karma is not dark and not evil. You are not a bad person—you are a victim. Of heaven's machinations. I am on your side."

At this point, they had both sunken to their knees. Raxri fought phantom tears. "Nevertheless—no matter how good I am, those around me are yet endangered by my very presence. I cannot suffer this to happen—"

"No. You need to live, Raxri. For me. For Sintra. You must meet the Ultramystic. You must find her in Blacklight. You must learn and Cultivate Enlightenment and Benevolence and find the world and experience it. You have been given another chance. There must be a reason. Nothing ever happens without cause. That is the Law of Violence."

Raxri did not know what to say now. Again, they teetered on the edge of nihilism and determination. What... what else can they do?

His presence was like feeling a hammer. Akazha felt it before she saw the coagulating, ink-like darkness within the trees.

She rose to her feet, performed seven sacred gestures quickly, and then pointed wrathfully with her pointer and pinky at something within the forest. "UTROKERAT!" Fulminating scarlet lightning burst from her fingertips.

Quicker even than lightning—"KRASAG!" And a shield of mantra garland erupted from darkness. Akazha's scarlet lightning exploded into butterflies and flower petals.

Like a sword being unsheathed, High Chief Trasan stepped out of the darkness. Clad nothing in shadow-garb and their willow-like hair against their gaunt and lithe frame, looking like nigh like a woman that had forgotten to be a man.

His eyes still shone with pure aversion.

"It is time to reveal your powers, witch," said Trasan. He stood tall, even without the throne propping him up. He was around a head taller than Akazha. "And wield all your dark sciences to be able to stop the deluge of magicks I must overwhelm upon you."

Raxri whipped around.

Akazha stepped in front of them. "Raxri. Follow the river. Run as fast as you can."

Stubborn would-be martyr Raxri said: "No. I fight with you. I will die with you if I must!"

Akazha knew there was no hope convincing them otherwise. So instead they said: "Then fight with me. But I wield teleportation magicks and you do not. When I give the command, you must flee. Down the river. Use all of your Lightness to run as quickly as possible. Then I will hold him off for a few minutes. And then I shall apport my body to you. Understood?"

These were all things she could theoretically do. But Akazha was used to fighting adepts of lower Enlightenment than her. What about those of higher Enlightenment? Those that have accumulated more power?

Raxri nodded. "Okay." They raised Puksa.

"Ah, two against one? I do not think that is very fair, now would it?"

"Choose your violence, High Chief Trasan!" Akazha raised her hand and out billowed a blade of pure-Dark. "I know something of the Dark myself!"

"Splendid!" Trasan raised his hands like an opera conductor. Four hands erupted from behind his back, all made of Dark-matter. Despite his sickly experience, he moved with the surety of a warlord. "Excellent indeed! Then let us make your final dance something to be remembered!"

Next chapter will be updated first on this website. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.