Despite his bold words, Sasrir planned out our assault with extreme meticulousness. In the novel, the Bone Tyrant was slain thanks to Nephis' overwhelming fire power, which we can substitute for the Unshadowed Crucifix, but it still required Kido's poison grinding it down for several weeks first.
Sasrir's shadow weapons would be useless against the bone projectiles, and they lacked the strength to break them, but distracting and stiffening it for several seconds at a time should be possible. Since I would probably have to tap into the Priest of Light powers, or maybe even Unshadowed, I spent four whole days hunting for the meatiest Nightmare Creatures I could find and gorging myself, attempting to get my body as ready as possible for the strain to come.
The Soul Cores were also a welcome bonus, though the effect was still so miniscule. It took Nephis three, four months to become a Demon so it would probably take me just as long to become a Devil. On the other hand, Sasrir felt like he was about a fifth of the way to becoming a Monster, so that was good.
My body felt like one giant bruise. Every muscle ached from the frantic climb and flight from the Bone-Breakers. My mind kept circling back to the fight with the Golem, to the terrifying dizziness of sudden, massive blood loss.
I needed a reservoir. Every bite was a potential drop of lifeblood I could afford to lose later. I made a small pile of the cooked meat, wrapping it in more strips of shadow-cloth Sasrir provided—a grim emergency ration for after the fight.
Then, I turned my attention to the Unshadowed Crucifix. I held it in my hands, feeling its familiar, comforting weight. But this time, I was trying to understand the valve. I focused on the slightest trickle of intent, causing a single drop of blood to well up through broken skin and being absorbed.
The spikes remained dormant. I pushed a little more, visualising the Sequence 8 prayer. A faint, almost imperceptible warmth spread from the Memory into my hands, but no spike pierced my skin. It was a minuscule draw, a sip of Essence, not the lifeblood price.
It was frustrating, imprecise work. The Memory wasn't a machine with a calibrated gauge; it was a relic that responded to need and sacrifice. I couldn't find a perfect "off" switch or a precise "drip" setting.
The best I could manage was a slightly better sense of the threshold—the exact moment a request shifted from a simple Essence expenditure to requiring a blood price. It was like learning the tension point on a hair trigger. It wasn't much, but in a life-or-death moment, that sliver of forewarning might be the difference between survival and bleeding out.
My progress on the Pathway front was non-existent. I'd cycle through the Spectator and Telepathist abilities, feeling the enhanced clarity, but the feeling of progression, of "digesting" the potion, was utterly absent.
The Acting Method required interaction, understanding, and manipulation of others. Out here, there was no one to read, no one to listen to, no social currents to navigate. Sasrir didn't count. His mind was a mirror of my own, a closed loop. Trying to practice telepathy on him was like trying to hear an echo of my own shout. It told me nothing new. True progress, I realized, was locked behind the gates of the Dark City and its inhabitants.
Sasrir's predicament was equally perplexing. The Hanged Man Pathway's Sequence 7 was 'Shadow Ascetic'. We'd assumed the 'Ascetic' part was the key. But what did that mean out here? He was already living in utter deprivation. He slept on stone, ate only for fuel, and was surrounded by constant danger and discomfort.
He endured the psychic whispers of the Labyrinth without complaint. How much more ascetic could one get? Did it require meditation? A vow of silence? The 'Shadow' part of the title was straightforward—he could manipulate darkness with ease. It was the philosophical core of 'Ascetic' that eluded us. Was it merely endurance? Or was it the embrace of suffering itself? The latter thought was deeply unsettling.
He spent the day in quiet contemplation, his form often dissolving into a pool of shadow that seemed to drink the light around it. Occasionally, he'd solidify, a new, slightly more refined shadow weapon appearing in his hand for a moment before dissipating. He was honing his control, but the fundamental understanding of his role remained just out of reach.
As the artificial sun began to dip, casting long, distorted shadows across the coral, a sense of grim finality settled over us. We were as ready as we could be. We were rested, fed, and had a slightly better grasp of our tools. The gaps in our understanding—how to advance, the true nature of our Flaws, the exact price of power—were still gaping chasms, but we couldn't wait for answers to fall into our laps.
Sasrir looked at me, his expression unreadable in the fading light. "Ready to face the Lord of the Dead?."