Chapter 468: Agreement
(The Eternal Garden)
The tea leaves that Kaelith began preparing hadn’t even fully steeped when Mauriss broke the silence again, his voice relaxed, almost amused, like an artist admiring the ruin they had just finished painting together.
"So. Shall we address the elephant in the garden? The topic we have gathered here to discuss?"
He asked, as Kaelith exhaled sharply through his nose, already regretting not poisoning the tea.
Mauriss continued without waiting for permission, floating a fraction higher above his dreamstone seat. "If the Cult has access to Origin Metal... and Soron is truly preparing to forge with it, then it changes everything. You both know that."
"The six great clans might reconsider their support to the Universal Government if they feel threatened for their lives.
Afterall, there’s no saying what Soron might do with such a blade.
I mean, he is the Timeless Assassin’s son afterall.... Maybe he decides to start going after the people that betrayed his father and dropping them dead like flies," Mauriss suggested, as he shrugged his shoulders with nonchalance.
Kaelith said nothing at first, choosing to focus on pouring the pale golden tea into three cups. Steam curled upward in quiet spirals, as though trying to escape the weight of the discussion.
"I would rather avoid assuming the worst before confirmation," he eventually replied, handing a cup to Mauriss and floating one toward Helmuth, who batted it away with a grunt.
"But if the worst is true," Kaelith continued, "then a single Origin Blade in Soron’s hand would tilt the balance of power in the universe greatly.
None of us want to admit it, but even our combined strength may not be enough to deter him from coming after us like a madman, if he has a weapon forged from the root of existence itself."
Mauriss tapped the edge of his teacup thoughtfully.
"It would explain the Cults’ sudden moves. Why they named a Dragon after so long, and why they have been active as of late. Soron might be feeling very confident."
Mauriss suggested, as Kaelith’s fingers stiffened. He did not wish to admit it, but the logic was sound.
Mauriss looked to Helmuth next, eyes narrowing just slightly. "If Soron enters a blackhole to prepare the origin metal for temperance, then there’s a high chance that the highly skilled blacksmiths within the Cult will then convert it into an unparalleled blade.
Under such an environment, perhaps it’s time we reconsider our approach to exterminating the Cult.
Let’s take a step back, let the Cult expand their borders slightly.
Renegotiate a peace accord that will guarantee no war for another hundred years."
Kaelith gave a reluctant nod.
"A containment strategy. Not ideal, but preferable to a galactic-scale defeat."
Kaelith agreed, however, Helmuth did not seem impressed.
"You’re both pathetic." He insulted, as Kaelith clenched his jaw, while Mauriss only raised an eyebrow.
"You think Soron’s already forged the blade?" Helmuth asked, cracking his neck. "You think he’s had time to enter a black hole and survive the burn cycle? That takes preparation, and I don’t think he’s had it. Not yet."
He walked toward the edge of the pavilion, staring out at the vast silver canopy of the Eternal Garden as it shimmered under the fractured light of the artificial sun above.
"If we’re going to strike, it’s now. While he’s vulnerable. While he’s distracted with training that new brat he crowned. If you want to sit here like cowards and sign treaties, go ahead. But give me the heirloom blade your father left behind, Kaelith. I’ll take it, walk into Ixtal myself, and kill Soron before he finishes forging anything."
Helmuth claimed, as the Eternal Garden fell silent for a beat.
"Absolutely not."
A furious voice came a second later, as Kaelith stood up and pointed a finger towards Helmuth, before curling it into a fist.
"If I give you those blades and send you after Soron, you will not walk out with them intact. In fact, I doubt you will walk out at all. You’ve fought him before, and barely survived—and that was when he wasn’t holding something capable of erasing you from time.
In case you’ve forgotten, he doesn’t necessarily need a blade to kill you.
With a block of origin metal in his hand, he can bludgeon your skull to death,"
Helmuth turned slowly, and this time, the fire in his eyes wasn’t just regular fury. It was a primal rage.
"So what good are those blades of yours if you won’t pull them out?
You’re hoarding them. Like a coward. Like a collector too afraid to risk losing his precious antiques."
Helmuth complained, as Kaelith’s expression did not change.
"No. I’m preserving them, using them as a deterrence to keep the six great clans and the Evil Cult under control." Kaelith reasoned, as Mauriss whistled low, setting his tea down on the arm of the chair.
"Here we go again." Mauriss said, fully expecting another quarrel, as Helmuth stepped forward, the ground beneath him groaning with heat.
"You do know you’re nothing without those blades right? Without them, you’re no stronger than the Gods of the six great clans.
The only reason you’re a part of the same group as myself and Mauriss is because you possess those damn blades!" Helmuth reminded, as Kaelith summoned a single origin dagger from his soul space and pointed it towards the Berserker.
"Oh yeah? Want me to remind you why I’m the leader of this group and not you?" Kaelith said, as Mauriss clapped his hands and chanted "Fight, Fight, Fight" in a hushed tone.
Helmuth did not respond to Kaelith’s threat; as he simply snorted and looked away.
Despite Helmuth’s flamboyance, the fact of the matter was that the three of them were equally matched in terms of power, and none could take the other without facing some severe consequence.
And hence, in the end, Helmuth had no choice but to back off from actually fighting Kaelith.
"Let’s not implode the garden just yet," Mauriss said, as surprisingly he played the peace maker for once.
"Kaelith won’t give up the blades. Helmuth wants war. I want information. So... how about this—"
He floated a little higher, as his fingers began to trace lazy circles in the air, forming illusionary projections of Ixtal, Aegon Veyr’s last appearance, and fragments of known Cult movement over the last month.
"Let’s provoke Soron. Not directly. Not with fleets. Let’s strike where it matters emotionally. Symbolically. Let’s kill the new Dragon."
Helmuth’s eyes narrowed. "Inside Cult territory?"
Mauriss nodded. "If the new Dragon dies inside their lands, and Soron doesn’t respond, then we know he’s truly preoccupied... maybe even inside a black hole. But if he does respond, then we measure the response. Aura signatures. Time dilation. Divine pressure. We’ll know whether the blade has been forged—without ever stepping into a battlefield."
Helmuth gave a low grunt. "You think killing the boy will be easy?"
"I didn’t say it was easy. But I think we have enough sacrificial lambs on our hands to make it happen."
Kaelith remained quiet for a long while.
Then finally, he nodded once.
"Who do you have in mind? I’ve already sent my son to the borders of Juxta, but Soron has him marked...."
Helmuth cracked his neck again, then slammed a gauntleted fist into his open palm.
"I can send my army of berserkers, they will tear a few planets to shreds."
Mauriss snorted. "No. You’ll start an open war if you do that, when what we need is stealth, not spectacle.
We’ll choose someone expendable. Someone capable, but deniable. And if they fail, no harm done. If they succeed... Soron will have no choice but to show his hand."
For a brief moment, all three gods stood in agreement.
Rare. Tense. Fragile.
The kind of agreement that always historically preceded a bloodbath, as Kaelith once again turned back to his tea.
"Then it’s settled. We target the Dragon. And probe Soron’s response."