241. [BOLERO] The Eightfold Master

  Zacarias’s recurring dream followed him into the Wayside Lotus.

  The contents never changed. It would start with the false awakening as an immobile entity calling itself ‘Zac’. Then came the disembodied voices that first talked about him before one of them deigned to address him directly.

  Zacarias could never remember what the voice sounded like. But harder to forget was how it made him feel. A tingling sense of dread, the kind that knotted your stomach and trickled down your back in the form of cold sweat. At the same time, tender relief. A hug from someone far more loving and generous than you could ever be in turn. Telling you: it’s okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you now.

  He remembered, most of all, what the voice called him. My little spiderling. Only one soul in all his life had ever called him that. And if that meant what it meant, the rest of the dream/nightmare made even less sense than it already did. Best to ignore it best he could… even if he couldn’t seem to shake it off.

  Zacarias rose from his futon in the private room—pitch black, owing to the pre-dawn hour. The Wayside Lotus simulated a natural circadian cycle for the benefit of its guests (regular and predictable, unlike a certain Realm Zacarias and his party had just hightailed out of). Which meant he’d gotten barely a few hours of shuteye, and he felt like it too.

  He tried to go back to sleep, knowing it was a futile effort. After one toss and two turns, he shot out of the futon and folded it up in nearly the same motion. He then stowed it in one corner of the room, even tidier than he’d found it.

  Zacarias was, believe it or not, something of a neat freak. That was unlikely to ever change. Once an Aracnido, always an Aracnido.

  And part and parcel of the Aracnido discipline were the morning drills to run through all the forms and techniques of THE NINEFOLD DAO. Zacarias trudged his way into the courtyard to do just that, cursing the chill of the air against his sleeveless arms. Eben, my man, you could’ve simulated any climate and you chose this?

  In the pre-dawn darkness, Zacarias’s senses sharpened onto the fine subtleties of his weaponized body. The strain of every muscle fiber. The firing of every synapse.

  It was a good session—better than most. The combination of insomnia and frigid weather had its benefits. Yet, as Zacarias relished every surge of strength and power through his physical self, he also rued the paucity of such in the spiritual plane.

  [Blade], [Fan], [Cestus]—so quick as to be all but one movement. [Pauldron] to engage, [Shield] to dislodge, [Cudgel] to dominate. [Staff] to sweep, [Lance] to spear, and then—

  And then nothing.

  He couldn’t find it. Never had it, not even back in his pre-exile days. Never managed to rectify the situation during his travels with Serac and Renna. And now, three descensions and three ascensions later, time was well and truly running out.

  Zacarias held his stance a while, panting heavily as the first hint of daylight trickled into the courtyard. Here, a mere few days before his hard-earned return to Manesfera—to all that he thought he’d left behind—he had to reckon with a simple truth about himself. Or was it really a lie?

  For here was Zacarias Borges-Juventus: the NINEFOLD master who’d never mastered [the Ninth Dao].

  The drills were finished. All things in moderation. An important part of discipline was to take care of one’s body. Stay in top physical condition, ready to overexert oneself when the situation really called for it. Time for a break… and maybe a drink, the hours be damned.

  Zacarias wasn’t surprised to see the teahouse already half-full.

  A handful of Mrigas, dressed in the denims and khakis of Manesferan fashion, sat at their own tables and nursed their own drinks, deliberately separate from each other. At least one fellow patron looked up as Zacarias entered, only to avert their gaze just as quickly. All was silence and gloom. All was despair of the newly displaced.

  Exiles. It was no real surprise that some Tidereigners failed to hack it one Realm up. [Oathbind] and the realities of Manesferan life really were just that poor a match. Perhaps even some of the Templars Serac had worked with in Dawnwick had been of such stock.

  As a fellow exile (the most drastic and thorough example at that), Zacarias could sympathize. Sympathize, yes, but today, he was in no mood to socialize. He made a beeline for the bar—currently absent its resident teamaster. I suppose even Eben has to sleep some time.

  Zacarias was in no hurry. He sat patiently and waited. Maybe, with any luck, he could even catch up on some sleep. Preferably unbothered by dreams or nightmares.

  Three descensions and three ascensions later, the teahouse’s decor and amenities had changed very little. The same muted TV played the same rotation of silent-era films. Does Eben really like this shit or does he think his customers do? Either way, it suited Zacarias just fine as sleep fodder.

  Monochrome turned to poly as the program cut to commercials. Not that Zacarias really noticed or cared. The sleep aid was doing its job. He was just about to nod off in earnest when—

  Zzztttt—kkshhh…!!

  A loud burst of static. Zacarias jolted on the barstool, suddenly wide awake.

  The TV, just a moment ago playing a car commercial on mute, now popped with uneven static, even as the picture became grainy and scrambled. Zacarias, despite being born in the digital era, recognized the effect—like something out of an old and damaged VHS tape.

  After several seconds of confused colors and meaningless shapes, a recording played. Badly garbled and run through a voice-changer besides, but some of the words did come through in fits and starts.

  “—if you—then know—still waiting—guardian ghost—for you—back to—”

  Kkshh—zzttt…

  Along with another burst of static, the recording cut out. So too did the strange VHS-like footage, switching back to the tail end of the car commercial like nothing had happened. Back on mute.

  Then a different ad came on soon after. A dance number. The very same one that played this time two ascensions ago.

  Back then, Zacarias had looked away, afraid of what he might or might not see. Today, his eyes remained glued to the screen. Not because he was in shock (which he was, to be fair), but because to look away now would be to admit he hadn’t changed one bit since this time two ascensions ago.

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  It started with a wide-angle—an ensemble of street musicians and dancers in vibrant colors, hips swaying in time with the bolero Zacarias could hear in his head. Then the angle shifted to focus on one dancing pair in particular.

  The man was familiar to him, though only from the many other times he’d watched the same ad. Tall, tan, and lean, with a heartbreaker smile to match his perfect pompadour. Basically a clean-shaven Zacarias if he’d spent more time in the sun and less time in the gym. As for the woman…

  Zacarias stared at the TV, posture rigid. He held his breath until the camera cut away from the dancing couple. He then let it all out as an extended sigh, sagging his shoulders and leaning back as far as the barstool would allow.

  It’s not her. He couldn’t decide whether to be relieved or dismayed. They’ve replaced her with a different actress. And if that means what it means…

  But the recording? The chopped up message? The mention of ‘guardian ghost’?

  Zacarias turned in his seat and scanned the room. None of the other exiles had looked up from their staring contests with their respective tables. In fact, none of them had moved at all. Did they not hear the disturbance? Or could it be that Zacarias and his sleep-deprived mind had only—

  “A wise man once said”—Zacarias jolted again, nearly falling off his barstool—“happy souls are all alike, but every unhappy soul is unhappy in their own way. Pay them no mind, sir. They’ll either come around on their own time, or not at all.”

  “Dios mio, Eben,” Zacarias complained, massaging his pounding chest. “I’m well within my rights to sock you in the jaw.”

  Ebenezer Yama, the bearded teamaster in a leather jacket, didn’t look a day older than this time two ascensions ago. Nor a hair out of sorts. He ignored his customer’s mock threat to ask, “Are you quite alright, sir? You look like you saw a ghost.”

  Zacarias found it in him to smirk at this… but the reasoning behind the expression was rather murky.

  “Maybe more like I heard a ghost,” the Manusya murmured, almost to himself. “Or didn’t see a ghost where I’d hoped to find one. Either way, yeah, it’s a bit of a doozy. I think your TV’s haunted, brother. You should have it looked at.”

  “Thank you for your feedback,” Eben deadpanned without missing a beat. “In the meantime, would you be wanting something to drink, sir? Hibiscus tea to start with?”

  “No.” Zacarias surprised himself with the promptness of his reply. “Today, I definitely need something stronger, and lots of it. Give me a bottle of your best brandy. And let’s cut the bullshit. By ‘best’, yes, I do mean your most expensive one.”

  “That’ll run you 4,000 ?.”

  Four seconds of [Sinner Aspect], down the drain and into the gullet. Eben brought out a Cerdo Rojo 15. Not Zacarias’s favorite, but it’d have to do. He downed several glasses in quick succession, stopping only to offer one to the teamaster. Eben declined with a barely perceptible shake of the head.

  All things in moderation. Time for a break. Maybe bring the bottle back to the inn and share with his party.

  Zacarias leaned back in his seat and let out another overlong sigh. He closed his eyes, hoping to lose himself in the swirls and sloshes of a sleep-deprived and alcohol-addled mind. It didn’t work. Perhaps he held his liquor a little too well. Perhaps his ghosts were a little more stubborn than was good for them.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Even something weird?”

  “Try me, sir.”

  “You believe in multiple endings?”

  Zacarias kept his eyes closed. But, just for a moment, he thought he could see Eben go completely still.

  “Is this to do with one of your Manesferan pastimes? I’ve heard of the concept, but I wouldn’t say I’m well-versed in—”

  “Multiple endings in a video game? Yeah, I used to think that was all it was. Until… until I experienced it for real. Down in Tidereign, you know. Bro did this thing, and a whole bunch of save states just sort of converged on each other. And then we… I think we changed history. Literally.”

  “Sounds like a trip, sir.”

  “Oh, it was. Especially for my friends who got to travel backward and forward in time. As for me, I just held the fort in the present timeline. Chugging along as I always have, you know. But it did make me wonder…”

  “Wonder what, sir?”

  “Well, put it this way. Let’s say a… situation could go one of two ways. A bad ending and a good ending. Now, the assumption would be there are flowcharts of choices and actions that feed into either the bad ending or the good ending, yes?”

  “Naturally, sir.”

  “But then… where are these branching points? How do I know if what I’m doing now is leading to the good, or if it’s too late and I’m already locked into the bad? How do I know if I’ve reached the point of no return?”

  “I suppose you don’t, sir. Not unless you can see and manipulate time in the same scope as your Tidereigner ‘bro’.”

  “Right. Of course, yeah. Right…” Zacarias was losing steam. He hadn’t felt it yet only moments ago, but now, the liquor was really starting to kick in.

  “But if you want my opinion, sir,” the teamaster continued, “I believe you’re asking the wrong question.”

  “How do you do that, Eben? How do you always seem to know your customers better than they know themselves?”

  “Being sober helps.”

  “Touché. Alright, I’ll bite. How am I wrong? What should I be asking instead?”

  “If I were in your position, sir, I’d be asking myself: what can I do to rig the script in my favor? In other words, the goal isn’t to avoid a fail state. But to set up and lock in my own win condition.”

  Zacarias smiled and shook his head.

  “You sure you don’t know anything about Manesferan pastimes?”

  The teamaster gave no answer. Unless you counted a barely perceptible nod as one.

  Zacarias got up to leave, slightly uneven on his feet. He reached for the bottle of Cerdo Rojo 15, thinking to grab it and take it to go. He then thought better of it, instead pushing it back across the bar.

  “Whichever poor sucker next decides to fall for your extortionist prices,” Zacarias said, “tell them their first drink’s on me.”

  By the time Zacarias stumbled back to the courtyard, the simulated sun was out in full force. He made a beeline (such as it was) back to his room. Serac and Renna would be up soon, but they were big girls; they could miss him for a few hours while he slept himself back into fighting shape.

  Besides, if Manesfera was still what he knew it to be, the girls would have to get used to it. They just might go ‘Zacko-less’ for much longer than a few hours.

  And yet… so be it. Zacarias was done with jitters and stage fright. Done looking over his shoulders at the ghosts that followed him everywhere. Done peeking around the corner for the big bad point of no return.

  His Path led onward and upward. Like Serac. Like Renna. Like all the poor suckers who kept falling for the [Dream] that a soul’s pursuit of happiness was worth a damn in this wicked and inequitable world.

  But first, Zacarias needed to rest. Sleep himself into shape and get back on the grind. Because, in order to turn [Dream] into reality—to set up and lock in his win-con—he first needed to turn a shameful lie into an unimpeachable truth.

  One chapter to go in Book 3!

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