"Nonsense, I have you here!"
Sasrir's gaze flicked to me, sharp, as if trying to pin my flippant attitude to some hidden scheme. "You speak as if you will not act until the pieces are aligned," he said slowly. "And yet, you have always acted. Why should this be any different?"
I grinned, leaning back further, letting the pew squeak beneath me. "Because this time," I said, letting the words linger, "the pieces will align themselves. I've nudged the smaller ones, set up the dominoes, and Fate will handle the rest. When Nephis does her little quest, we'll have the remaining Lord Shards, the Cohort will be here, and suddenly… we're the ones controlling the board. All the stuff before that? Just background noise."
Sasrir's lips pressed into a thin line. "Background noise," he repeated, like tasting the words for the first time. "You gamble on inertia, Adam. You trust that the world will move as you wish it to without interference."
"Call it what you like," I said with a shrug. "I've been gambling on worse things for months. And I have a feeling this one will pay off, too."
He let the silence stretch for a beat, then finally inclined his head, as if conceding the point—though the faintest shadow of disapproval lingered in his expression. "Very well," he said finally. "Then we wait. But be aware, the longer we leave these threats unchecked, the higher the stakes will climb. When the Cohort arrives, everything will either be ready—or irreversibly fractured."
I waved a hand lazily. "Then I guess we just make sure the fractures don't hit the wrong places, huh? The rest? Someone else will handle it."
Sasrir's eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing more. He always did this—let me spout my nonsense and then observe quietly, waiting to see if the world bent to my will as easily as I claimed it would.
I leaned back against the pew, letting the shadows of my Soul Sea dance across the cathedral walls. Fate, Shards, rebellions, and Lords—the next year promised to be interesting. But for now, I could afford to relax, because in three months, we'd see who survived the newcomers, and in a year, the Cohort would arrive. Then the real game would begin.
Sasrir finally shifted the mood, leaning slightly back as he let his dark gaze rest on me. "So," he said, voice almost casual, "are you excited to finally advance to Psychiatrist once we return to the Waking World?"
I grinned, letting the tension from our previous discussions fall away. "Excited? That's an understatement." I leaned forward, gesturing with both hands as if painting a picture in the air. "I get to dig into people's minds in ways I never could before. Hypnosis, influence, driving others mad—it's going to be… exhilarating. I've been waiting for this for months, and now it's finally within reach."
Sasrir's lips twitched—just the faintest trace of a smirk. "And what exactly do you plan to get up to once you become a Hypnotist?"
I laughed, a little too eagerly. "The fun kind of stuff, of course. Experiments, practice, pushing limits… and, of course, gathering a few useful allies along the way. I'll finally have the tools to manipulate without relying on guesswork or luck. Subtlety, precision, and absolute control—it'll be amazing."
Sasrir didn't respond immediately, letting my words hang in the cathedral air. Then, after a moment, he asked, his tone carefully measured: "And what of me? Are you excited for me to become a Rose Bishop?"
I blinked, slightly thrown by the shift, then chuckled. "Oh, I see, feeling proud huh? Wanting to show off?"
His expression remained unreadable. "Yes. If only because then my regeneration will make sure my Flaw doesn't kill me," he said simply. No boast, no flourish—just the stark practicality he always carried.
I nodded, understanding exactly what he meant. "Fair enough," I said, smirking. "You may not care about the title or the prestige, but being a Rose Bishop does give you options—and more importantly, keeps you alive. Can't argue with that logic."
He tilted his head slightly, dark eyes assessing me. "I follow reason, Adam. Survival first, everything else second. Titles and power are useful only if you can live to use them."
I grinned wider, feeling the familiar thrill of planning and possibility coursing through me. "Then we're on the same page, as always. Psychiatrist, Rose Bishop… our future will be glorious, and I can imagine it now."
Sasrir's voice, calm as ever, broke the lighter tone that had settled over our Soul Sea. "What of the Visionary Uniqueness?"
I paused, letting my hand hover over the small pedestal I'd conjured. With a thought, the object shimmered into existence: a delicate feather quill, the shaft tipped with a small green gem that caught the faint Soul Sea light and fractured it into shards of emerald brilliance. I lifted it carefully, letting the glow dance across the contours of the feather as I admired it. Even now, after months of study, it never failed to capture my attention.
"It's as beautiful as ever," I murmured, turning it so the gem caught the light just right. It seemed impossibly fragile, yet I could feel the pulsing power contained within it. My Essence hummed along the quill's surface like a river tracing its channel, eager to flow but not yet strong enough to shape anything substantial.
Sasrir's shadowed gaze followed my hands. "Progress on controlling it?"
I shook my head, lowering the quill carefully onto the pew. "Not yet. I can feel my Essence being channeled into it," I admitted, "but it's not enough. Not yet. To truly use the Uniqueness, I need to ascend to Saint—or at least reach the level of an Ascended Terror. Until then, it's like holding a river in my palm: I can feel its current, hear its rush, but no matter how hard I squeeze, it won't bend to my will."
Sasrir regarded me silently, as he always did when I explained these things, measuring the truth behind my words rather than reacting emotionally. "Then it waits," he said finally, tone neutral but firm. "Like all tools, it will yield when the hand is ready."
I nodded, a mixture of frustration and anticipation curling in my chest. "Exactly. Right now, it's more a reminder than a weapon. A reminder of what I can achieve… and of how much farther I need to go." I traced a finger along the quill's shaft, feeling the subtle vibration of raw power contained within. "I've already sensed glimpses of what it could do. But glimpses aren't enough. I need mastery… patience. And when the time comes, I'll have it."
Sasrir's eyes didn't leave me, yet I felt no judgment there—only that quiet, calculated acknowledgment that he understood exactly what I meant. The quill gleamed faintly, green fire trapped in its feather, a symbol of potential yet unrealized.
I lifted it once more against the dim light, letting the Soul Sea's ambient glow dance across the gem. "Someday," I murmured softly, more to myself than anyone else, "this little thing is going to change everything."
Sasrir inclined his head slightly. "Then we wait, and prepare. Everything else is secondary until that day arrives."
I lowered the quill back onto the pew, letting its green glow fade into a soft hum. For the first time in a while, the conversation shifted away from my failures and frustrations. "What about you?" I asked, leaning back slightly and crossing my arms. "The Hanged Man Uniqueness… any progress?"
Sasrir's shadow rippled beside him, subtle at first, then suddenly fracturing like dark glass. Five serpentine heads erupted from it, each twisting independently, eyes glowing faintly as they hissed and swayed. The sheer unnaturalness of it made my stomach tighten—I had never liked staring too long at the manifestation of his power.
He didn't flinch. Didn't even acknowledge the ripple. When the shadows retracted and coalesced back into their normal, silent form, he spoke calmly, as if describing the weather. "Nothing substantial," he said. "It can scare some people, yes. Occasionally enough to make them hesitate, falter. That's about the extent of it."
I raised an eyebrow. "And trying to detach it? Or… pull in the shadows of others? Bend it further?"
Sasrir's lips quirked, faint and almost humorless. "I've tried. Everything short of physically tearing the Shadow from my own body. Nothing happens. It is… inert outside of its intended state. I cannot manipulate it the way you can with your Visionary Uniqueness, nor can I force it to accept additional Essence or material."
I frowned, tapping a finger against the pew. "So it's… just a living presence? Something you can call, but nothing else?"
He tilted his head slightly. "Exactly. It responds to intent, to my presence, but it does not yield itself to effort. The moment I attempt to exert direct control, it becomes nothing more than a shadow again. A weapon only in the indirect sense."
I exhaled, partly frustrated, partly impressed. "So… you're telling me the Hanged Man Uniqueness is more like… an extension of yourself rather than a tool to be commanded?"
Sasrir's expression was unreadable, yet his shadow rippled again faintly, like a slow heartbeat. "It's probably the difference in Symbolism between our two Pathways. Visionary represents Humanity, which can be good or bad, but the Degeneration of the Hanged Man is constant, no matter who is in charge."
I leaned back fully now, rubbing my temples. "Of course," I muttered, a faint smile tugging at the corner of my lips. "Some things are simple to talk about in theory, impossible to execute in practice. You and I both know that all too well."
If Sasrir could become a Shepherd, then he would absolutely become the greatest fighter in the world. If he does it as an Awakened, he can kill Masters with ease. If it's as a Master, then taking down a Saint would be quite managable-provided he had a full seven Cores. The only problem was the moral one-who's Souls would he Graze? According to the novel, the process inflicts extreme pain upon the target, so I didn't want to chose some random schmuk. Monsters were also possible, but their powers tended be to weaker than a Human's.
I glanced at him, letting the thought pass. "Well," I said finally, "at least we're both stuck practicing patience. Nothing new there, I suppose."
He inclined his head slightly, the barest hint of acknowledgment. No amusement, no mockery, just that quiet understanding that had been there since the beginning: he would endure, he would train, and one day, the Hanged Man and my Uniqueness would both answer our intent fully.