192. Core (IV)

18 ʜᴏᴜʀꜱ ʟᴀᴛᴇʀ...

Reina stumbled back from one of the worst days she'd had in months. She'd had to pull three teams out of nearby dungeons, evacuate whole sub-Factions, manage all the teleportations and the resettling. She'd just finished getting the last of the emergency tents set up.

She was swaying a little on her feet, woozy by the time she came back home, bone-weary. She was ready to collapse right into Zane and relax at last and let herself drift off. She spent all her time taking other people's worries onto herself—making them feel safe. It was what she did.

She couldn't help but try to help people. And she couldn't help but take on their worries—sometimes she felt her heart was being slowly squeezed all the time. For a while she thought this was how life would always be. She felt like she could never take a breath.

Then she'd met Zane. She'd never felt anything like him before—he just had this presence to him… when she was with him all her worrying was like lightning hitting a grounding wire, dispersing, vanishing into the vastness of him, the steadfastness of him. He felt so solid to her. When she was in his arms it was hard not to feel like everything would be okay. He was there.

She started to smile just thinking of him. She was already feeling lighter, more relaxed just as she rounded the bend, came to their lovely home skyscraper—all wood blocks and vine.

But Zane wasn't there.

She found his note.

He was still breaking through.

Was it meant to take this long? She didn't know—no one had done it before... she bit her lip, pulled her knees up to her chest as she looked out the window at the Warrior Dojo, a solemn sleek stone block cut out against the darkening sky.

"Zane…" she whispered.

She tried sleeping—it wasn't like she could do anything for him now, she told herself. She should sleep. When she woke up it'd all be done. She knew he'd pull through.

But exhausted as she was, she just couldn't do it. So she sighed, curled up, stared out the grand bay windows, and hoped.

***

ʙᴀꜱᴇ ᴄᴀᴍᴘ

ᴅᴇᴇᴘ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʜɪᴍᴀʟᴀʏᴀꜱ

Base Camp was under siege.

A horde of dozens of Core Monsters circled up its slopes from all sides, trying to get at the teleporters within.

And hundreds of the world's finest held the peak. Just as they'd done for nearly a half-day now.

On the Northwestern Flank, a Level 209 Orc Chieftain was bellowing, stumbling up the snowdrifts, dozens of wounds littering its body.

But a barrier of stone and earth stopped it cold—a shifting living wall held up by a hundred Mages. Mages of the 'Lords of Zuma,' the dominant African Faction. Nearly a third of them World Rankers—they wore necklaces, earrings of earthen runed amulets, making a firm formation.

"Hold!" bellowed the bald, muscular Archmage at the fore. They chanted their spells; new stone crusted over the wall, giving it another layer, then another, constantly strengthening...

The Orc Chieftain spat a waterfall of spittle, stared it down with beady red eyes, raised a battering ram of a club—Laws of Earth and Wood flared down its length, giving it the weight of a small mountain…

It clubbed the barrier. It spared none of its tremendous might.

Cracks rippled down the barrier's length. Whole strata of stone shattered, crumbled to dust. Mages screamed. But once the wall stopped shaking, it held—though split down the middle with huge smoking fissures.

The Chieftain snorted, started to recharge—and a volley of spells lobbed over the wall, showering over it. Opening up hundreds of little nicks over its massive body, cutting clawlike wounds over its bulging green muscles. Each one didn't do much. But thrown over nearly half an hour, bleeding it dry, stabbing poisons through its blood—they started adding up.

The Chieftain swayed a little, as though drunk. But it was far from done. Drained, dazed—that was all. Growling, it made to give the barrier another go.

Then the walls opened up.

A single man stepped out, clad in armor of night-black steel. A big man but he carried his bulk well. He gave the impression that every step, every move he made, came precisely. Exactly as he meant it.

He carried a mass of internal wounds from the past several hours of fighting—wounds that had not had time to heal. He was bleeding badly under a mummy's worth of bandages and gauzes, hidden well under the armor. You would not know it from how he moved.

Emeka Eze stared down the Monster. And burned his Golden Lion Godbeast Bloodline—all three drops of it.

His aura erupted.

A Golden Lion manifested overhead, an avatar of the great beast, translucent, faintly flashing, roaring even as he narrowed his eyes…

He stepped in, pupils blazing purple. Reading the flows of Fate—flows he'd gathered after carefully observing the Monster all this time. When it swung for his head he was already ducking, bolting inside, fists flashing, one-two, falling upon its belly like dark meteors—two Seismic blasts. Rippling that thick belly violently—you could see precisely where he'd struck; they were the epicenters of the earthquakes rampaging through its bulky body.

The Chieftain's eyes bulged wide. It choked on its own spewing blood. It stumbled back, off-balance. And the Touch of Death found his opening. He delivered the finishing blow. A smooth, ordinary punch—

BANG.

He stood there for a moment over his fallen enemy, breathing heavy.

Then produced a handkerchief, wiped off the splotch of blood on his gauntlet. His own blood, bleeding out of his forehead bandages. And strode back toward his lines.

"That should be the last of them," said Eze. "This wave, at least. Hold strong. It will not be long now."

"It's been half a day, my Lord," gasped his second-in-command, Ade. World Rank #22—he was bald mage at the head of the Formation, wielding a gnarled steel staff. His thick brow was marred with deep furrows. "That past hour cost us nine more battle-mages of the Elite Battalion. Zane Walker has not shown his face. And the waves are only growing in power—"

"He will come," said Eze simply.

"My Lord," said Ade. He paused, like he was wondering how to phrase it most sensitively. "He… must have seen how that creature crushed the Ice Queen… even brave men could lose their nerve."

To that Eze just let out a grunt. "The sun will sooner rise in the west, than Zane Walker lose his nerve. He'll come."

***

On the southeast flank of Base Camp, a great Blizzard was raging. And a top World Ranker raged within it.

Vanessa Volkova had lost her mind.

She had been unleashing for six hours straight, the point of the spear that was the North Star Faction's army. Even the other top World Rankers fighting beside her watched on in awe—she speared a Core Imp with an icicle as big as a torpedo—it exploded in thousands of tiny fractal slits, throats, eyes; she rained another, then another, and another, screaming in fury—

She unleashed hell over the Monster horde.

No one knew where she was pulling this power from. Even Alexey Tarakanovich, Deputy Faction Head of the North Star Faction, had never seen anything like it—he hadn't known she could do that. And he was her uncle. He had known her his whole life.

Vanessa's eyes had gone pure white. Shining. Like she was channeling some otherworldly power. She gave off an immense aura, an untouchable feeling; in that moment she could have been mistaken for her mother.

Then—around the seven-hour mark—she started to tremble. To waver. The Blizzard started listing on one side.

She closed her eyes. Shuddered. The blinding light was fading from her face, showing the dark tear-trails staining her cheeks.

She swayed one last time, and dropped straight out of the sky. She had blacked out long before she hit the ground—burned herself out.

Alexey gave a shout, summoned a stiff gust of winter wind, bearing her to safety.

"Your mother would be proud," he said to her fallen body. She had bought them crucial time.

They could only hope it would be enough.

***

Zane melded a layer over that first spark of core. Seamless.

One.

Another. Two. Three. Layer after layer following the same motion—a motion he had honed, perfected, through so many brutal tries…

Four. Five.

He was moving now with an intensity, a focus, he'd never felt—it was like his whole soul, his whole mind, was bearing down on this one act.

The only thing that could undo him now was fatigue. He wasn't sure how long he'd been at it. Stamina had never been an issue for him in anything he did—so much so he never thought about it. But now it was creeping in, dragging him back—not in big ways yet. But in little subtle tugs. Trying to muddle his attention. Trying to skew his layering, to make him indulge the slightest careless mistake…

Zane growled. Tiredness was another enemy in his way—that was all. It would not defeat him.

Six. Seven. Eight.

No one layer was particularly difficult. It was the consistency again, and again, and again… the undivided attention he needed to stay perfect for such a long time. One slip-up and all lost.

One slip-up and he might not even have a Core. If he cracked even a little, that rising tide of fatigue would sweep him through. And that would be it.

He had to hold on with an iron grip.

A dozen layers. Another dozen. Another dozen.

It hadn't even solidified yet and he could already feel the difference between weakness and no weakness. That essence… that density… it was hard to believe that was even essence.

And it kept building… building…

One hundred layers. Three hundred. Six hundred. He kept pushing.

Hours passed.

One thousand five hundred. He layered it on with care. Melded it firmly to that shining mass.

It was starting to take shape.

Two thousand. He was more than halfway done now—it didn't much matter to him. He was not thinking of progress. Nor how long until he was done. The only thing on his mind was this moment, this layer… getting it exactly right.

By now the fatigue was an anchor dragging down his whole soul… it had moved far past little slip-ups. It was a grueling fight just to stay awake.

It was a matter of sheer will.

Two thousand five hundred.

Three thousand. He forced his way through. And now his body was trembling, head to toe—his nerve endings felt raw. Every instinct was trying to convince him he couldn't take it anymore.

Zane did not care.

There was a job to be done. And he would see it through.

Again. Again. Again. A constant drumbeat in his soul. Sculpting his greatest work.

He was sculpting himself.

His Core was a reflection of himself. It was who he was—it was, in a literal way, his very core.

Zane was absolute strength. That was the quality he most identified with. He held himself to that standard in all things.

It would hold to his Core too.

Five more layers. He powered his way to the finish.

Four.

Three.

Two.

He laid that final layer with as much care as he did every other.

And at last—

There it was.

ℂ𝕠𝕣𝕖 𝕤𝕠𝕝𝕚𝕕𝕚𝕗𝕪𝕚𝕟𝕘…

𝔾𝕣𝕒𝕕𝕖: 𝕊𝕖𝕒𝕞𝕝𝕖𝕤𝕤

He had achieved a total solidness. A denseness beyond matter—he saw it in the astral plane, a color so bright its aura washed out like the sun—giving everything around it a different color. Making all the rest bask in its power.

It was big. It was strong. Endlessly dense. A vast reservoir of power. He felt a resonance with it—somehow it felt like him.

It felt right—at last.

He let himself stay there. Letting his satisfaction sit warm in his chest.

He'd done it.

He smiled.

Then he stood. Blinked.

Suddenly he was tired out of his mind. Bone-weary. He was ready to go home and collapse right into Reina and drift off. He knew she would take care of him. When he was in her arms it was hard not to feel like everything would be okay.

He wandered out into the lobby as though in a dream, barely there—it turned out Reina was right outside waiting for him. He blinked blearily.

The moment she saw him she lit up with relief, with joy.

He deposited his body in her care and blacked out.