"Monks and Disciples, when one dwells contemplating upon the danger in things that can be clung to, craving ceases.

With the cessation of craving comes the cessation of clinging. With the cessation of clinging comes the cessation of existence.

Birth, Aging-And-Death, Sorrow, Lamentation, Pain, Displeasure, and Despair all cease.

Such is the cessation of this whole mass of suffering.

These are the perfect consequences of the severing of attachment."

From The Middle-Length Dialectics of the Heaven-Earth Honored One

CW: Sex, Violence

Isura and Goton watched as the battered and beaten and bruised bodies of the Witch and the Heaven-Dancer disappeared into the Ogre Mech. They did not move from their spot. They could not allow Trasan—or the other officials, really—know that they had some sort of connection to Raxri.

It was serendipitous that their daily patrols started at the docks.

Goton scratched his head. "Isura. Did you know that the original Ogre Battle Mechs were actual Ogre Semidevils, Earth Guardians? They were slain by zealous, power-hungry humans and their skins were turned into giant mobile suits and battle robots."

"Yes, mantri. I am aware."

"But the new Battle Mechs were made with a material even better than what the Ogre's semidivine skins were. These new Ogre Battlemechs were made with true godly materials."

"Twentieth-Heaven Orichalcum and the Eastern Sky Malachite. Yes." The giant Ogre battlemech towered over them. The clouds seemed to split before it. The sky itself gave way for it. "A marvel of technology, to be sure. This model is the Razrunan FO-22, or Fighting Ogre-22. It was made in a time far primeval, but the ability to wield it had been rediscovered during the Second World Revolution. And so the battlemechs became a force multiplier in the battlefield, alongside the dragons, garudas, sorcerers, and gunners."

Goton stroked his beard, impressed at Isura's 2WR knowledge. "Wow. I've forgotten that you bear inexplicable knowledge of the second World Revolution. Don't tell me... you're a Communist, Officer Isura?"

Isura smirked. It faded as quickly as it came. "Hardly, officer. I am not that insane. Or brave." He sighed and took a look at his notes. "And no, I am not particularly knowledgeable about the Second World Revolution. I am particularly knowledgeable about battlemechs."

Goton nodded again, an impressed look on his face. "You continue to surprise me everyday, officer."

"But we must speak of the... battlemech... in the room."

"Good one, officer Isura."

Isura continued. "Raxri and Akazha have been compromised. Trasan has cracked down on them. What will happen to us?"

"The Laborers Union will stay strong," said Goton. He scratched his head. Thinking no doubt about what else to add to that statement. He had just learned about that statement after going through the General Education of the Laboreres Organization of Southeastern Pemi. "Uh... I think we'll be fine for now. Whatever beef Trasan has with Raxri, it clearly does not concern us yet."

Isura nodded. "Right. Otherwise, he would have been tearing up the Union offices already."

"Exactly."

"So we have time."

"Some time. Not a lot."

"None of us have a lot of time, detective," said Isura, agreeing. "Our connection in the Nunuk League will be coming when?"

"Next week. He got delayed."

"Ah. So no revolution yet, it seems."

Goton looked at the battlemech as it whirred to life. Electric circuits running through it like karmic veins. "Not yet. But now, I think, we have a better chance."

"Why's that, officer? I am not used to you being so level-headedly optimistic."

"Raxri Uttara. I have a good vibe about them. I don't know. Perhaps truly only time will tell. But the world will never be the same, after this point. I am wondering, however. What if... Trasan figures out we have some connection to Raxri Uttara?"

"That is tenuous at best," said Isura. He adjusted his eyeglasses. "Completely baseless at worst. He cannot create a distinct and firm connection between our people and Raxri Uttara. We have no idea where Raxri Uttara is heading to as well, if Trasan goes looking for them."

"You think Trasan is one of those 108 Swords of Heaven? The ones looking for the Heaven Dancer?"

Isura thought about it. "It's definitely possible. To apply a modicum of logic, the High Chief does not leave his palace much these days. He's sickly and content with the pleasures of the flesh in his chambers. If what Raxri said was true... then Trasan is taking this far too seriously."

Goton crossed his arms. "The tides turn yet, I believe," he said. "Here's to hoping we can steer the ship properly when they do."

The Ogre Battle Mech took a step backwards. Its lumbering, heavy steps made sure that only minimal seawater splashed onto the docks. Then it turned around. The very monsoons split apart as it committed the violence of movement against the winds.

The world will never be the same.

Isura and Goton watched it disappear over the horizon.

After a moment, Goton said: "So... what now?"

Isura looked at his notes. He sighed. "Well... either we go in and look for Sintra Kennin? Or we report back to the union and see what we can do."

"Hm." Goton sighed. "Have you had breakfast yet, officer? Coffee?"

Isura shook his head. "No. That is a good idea, though, yes."

---

"Failure," said Saint Ashtasi, looking at Trasan and the First Shark Knight in his hands. "Fighting against one who hath regressed terribly in their Cultivation and ye still failed. You contrived, sex-pest coeurl. I should spike thee upon that very spot."

Trasan scowled. "I will catch them."

"The Heaven Dancer? Not anymore. Thou hast failed. The Heaven Dancer will now go to Blacklight City and train with the Ultramystic. And then they will be able to recultivate. And then they will gain powers untold. And heaven will shake. And Reyayu will be skewered through with a wrath that will scare even the Supremely Awakened One."

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

Trasan sighed. "I will go to Blacklight City. I have magicks. I can do it. I will find them before they meet with the Ultramystic."

Saint Ashtasi, with calm fury, shattered the back of High Chief Trasan's throne. "Ye are no match for the strength of the Ultramystic. A great mahasiddha, Great Adept. They are one step away from true Wizardhood. From Immortality. It will not be as easy as thy thoughts might tender."

"One last chance, Saint Ashtasi," said Trasan. Still standing there with the barely breathing Rengka. "One last chance and I will prove my worth to you."

Saint Ashtasi sighed. Her fury suddenly turned into joviality. "Reyayu does like a good gamble. Fine! Thou hath one more chance. But just one! Should ye succeed finally, ye will hold a place here in heaven, amongst us. Fail, and thy life is forfeit. And thy name shall be perishment."

Trasan scowled. "It shall be as you say, great one."

"Good," said Saint Ashtasi. "Fail me no more, Trasan of the Dark." And with that, she flickered-glitched-vanished into light.

Trasan's scowl did not vanish. In the darkness now of his throneroom, he ascended into his chambers. It was clean. Spotless. No trace at all of any other debauchery he had performed. He moved to the bed and laid Rengka there.

"Heal me, master," said Rengka.

Trasan nodded. "I will heal you and you will come with me." He kissed her. Her mouth. Her eyes. Her neck. Her collarbone. Her breasts. Her nipples. Her stomach. Her armpits.

He entered her quickly afterwards. As he did, he uttered a low mantra. Under his breath.

As he fucked, her wounds closed. Turned into scars. He sweated. As she healed and recovered, his eyes sunk deeper. His eyebags grew larger. He looked to visibly age as he thrust deep. He took out half of his anger on Rengka. A whetstone for his rage. His fucking was a punishment, his grip on her throat a silent mantra.

This continued until he could not anymore.

Trasan slinked away from the bed after fucking Rengka. He looked sickly. He moved slowly.

Rengka, on the other hand, was completely healed. Full. Skin supple and beautiful.

Trasan walked toward the balcony. He pulled from one of his pockets a lock of pitch black hair. It was weak, near shattering. Trasan walked to the balcony and slid the door closed behind him. There, upon a ritual cauldron where the four legs were fashioned like dragon-dogs, he placed Akazha's strands of hair.

Beside the cauldron was a torch of cyan flame. He lit a match with it, and then started an occultic cyan fire underneath the ritual cauldron. The nephrite-colored cauldron glowed bright turquoise. Nigh-malachite.

As the cauldron heated, he poured beef tallow. And then, gingers. And then, hibiscus leaves. And then, leaves of nightshade. And then bark of the eveningtree. And then venom from a spite-snake.

He mixed it. Again and again and again. Until the strand of hair of Akazha completely dissipated. Wilted. Burned.

"No peace for you, witch. Die a thousand deaths." Trasan coughed at this. As if suffering immediately the karma of his actions. He waved it away. Turned around, returned into his room.

---

"No. What the hell—? Gods... what is happening?"

Raxri awoke to commotion. The darkness of their eyes only very slowly melted away. They had to make a conscious effort to wake up. Their body screamed—No! Not yet! Please! I need you to go back to sleep!

But Raxri's Mind wielded the noose Thunderbolt Noose. Even though they did not realize it yet. Their mind was adamant. They knew what they would have to do.

They broke through the fetters of mental sleep. Raxri felt hollowed out. As if the slumber only tired them out more than it did rejuvenate. With their eyes opened, they realized that they had been moved to a different stratum of the Ogre Machine as it lumbered over the sea.

They were on the ground. A soft pillow on their head. To their right, two Physickers—known because of their stark, pure white and blue clothes (their Pureclothes)—worked over Akazha's barely moving body.

Barely moving.

Imperceptibly so.

Wait. Was it... not moving at all? Was Akazha still?

Stillness is a disquieting thing, paradoxically. When a place is too quiet. Or when someone is too still. It ventures in the realm of the uncanny. The realm of the uncanny which is real. The realm of the real which is the Ineffable, which is God, which is Nothing.

And there, at that very moment, Akazha was the quietness of the uncanny. At that moment, Akazha was the stillness of... death.

How haunting it is. To realize someone is dead. With their mouth still open and their slightly ajar. Like doors to a different realm you can never open. Did she release a death rattle, Raxri wondered, when she died?

Why was I not there when she died?

Is she dead?

Why... Why am I not denying her very passing?

It's true. Raxri knew that for normal people, they should be screaming at the gods. Tearing at their breast. Gnashing their teeth. Reject the reality that someone had died for that was the consequence of grief. That is to say—the consequence of love.

But Akazha's stillness brought with it a stillness in their own heart.

And a grim portent of what is to come.

Raxri's hand ventured up. Moved toward Akazha's cheek.

It was so cold.

One of the Physickers was a sleek and slender man. Broad-shouldered and bespectacled. Despite the dark circles around his face—how long has he been tending to Akazha?—he was exceedingly handsome. A tough sharp jawline contrasted with soft features that made him so approachable, like a lion-dog.

Sorrow vortexed this Physicker's face. "I'm... sorry, ser."

Raxri blinked. Again and again. "Is she...?"

The Physicker sighed. He bowed low to Raxri—a sign of supreme reverrence. "I am Physicker Atrami Torri, graduate of the Pasangmiya Medical University of the island Sakanggan of the Charnel Isles. This here is my colleague, Physicker Feng Jitongka from the island of Serungsung of the Charnel Isles." He gestured to the small, plump woman—skin caramel brown, hair the color of pitch, eyes small like almonds. "We happened to be boarding for Blacklight Town when we were approached by the dockhands. Unfortunately, when we arrived to check upon your friend here... she was too far gone. Her Spirit has all but left her. Her Mindstream has gone to the Interstitial. To Emmara Senje's Maw."

Raxri nodded. Their mind blanked. What were they to do, now? Groveling and screaming and wailing did not seem appropriate. But it did not seem appropriate to act as if Akazha dying... did not do anything either."

"If I may," said Feng. She crawled closer. There, on a purifying keris, was blackened blood. Viscuous. "This is mark of someone slain by a Killing Spell. By some warlock or witch."

"Right," said Atrami, taking off his glasses. "A work of Dark Magick—rare nowadays. Not Charnel Magick, mind you, but Dark Magick. That Magick that works the Ineffable Solid Dark."

"I see," said Raxri. I think I know who did this...

Feng swallowed. She said: "Do you know anyone that might have done this to her?"

A beat. Raxri nodded. "Yes. A Dark Lord. A High Chief."

Atrami breathed. He nodded, saying: "The etiology is clear: she provoked an entity of a significantly higher power tier. Her body is a log of magickal assault. Assailed relentlessy by invisible javelins, en-voiding her blood cells. An anti-cancer."

Feng interjected: "And Dark Magick is rare. A thing of legends. A Cultivation by Demon Sects. Before that, her body exhibited signs of having been already weakened considerably. Witness—these tattoos?"

Raxri looked down. Nodded at the tattoos that lined Akazha's body.

Feng continued: "These are potent anti-magick talisman tattoos. Unfortunately, her body was so weak and frail that the talisman tattoos did almost nothing to stop the Unseen Javelins. It was a classic witchcraft attack. The most basic and simple one in all the isles. The sympathetic killing." Feng pressed her lips together, defeated. "Poor soul."

Atrami said: "You, thankfully, were in much better shape, ser, uh—"

"Raxri," they replied.

Atrami nodded. Grateful. "Right, Dame Raxri. You were wounded and gashed at all sides, but most of your impairments were physical. Healing the Subtle Body would take much longer. We've mostly reduced to scars your largest gashes. Your other injuries have been taped with a healing spring-drenched cotton."

Feng said: "We've also performed the proper mantra rituals. Your body should be getting most of its Spirit back, now."

Raxri thought—It takes two people for something Doctor Myu Fan can do once. "I see. Thank you. I am ever in your debt." They looked down on themselves and they were right. Most of their hurt had become nothing but scars. Parts of their torso, face, and thighs were wrapped in medicinal cottons and strange chewed leaves. "Do you know Doctor Myu Fan?"

Feng looked at Atrami. Then she shook her head: "Sorry, we do not. I-Is she your personal doctor?"

Raxri shook their head. "N-No. No. It's fine." Our Heaven Dancer looked at Akazha's still body. She looked like she could wake up at any minute. Raxri knew she wouldn't. She looked more pallid, now. A bit more... stale. Boring. A bit more... dark.

Did you know? That sentient beings all emanate some small modicum of light? It's how, when we are in complete darkness, we can still see the vaguest of silhouettes. Gods and Demigods have it stronger, but for humans it is plenty strong.

Strong enough to be noticeably disappeared when one had crossed into the Interstitial.

Raxri set their jaw. "Can I... have a minute?"

Atrami and Feng both nodded. "O-Of course! Forgive us." They packed their things—syringes, scalpels, herbs, magick stones, healing springwaters in mantra-inscribed gourds—and stood. "If you will need anything? Please, ring this bell." Atrami gave Raxri a bell. "After a few moments, we will need to wrap her in cadaver-silk. So as to slow her decomposition process. Then we can bury here somewhere, or burn her body."

Where should I even take her?

Raxri reached up to take the bell. No pains, no aches. Healing Magick truly was the best at alleviating the pains and aches that come with true injury. "Thank you. Please, be safe."

Feng bowed by the waist. She folded her hands in front of her chest. "And you be safe as well."

And with that, Feng and Atrami stepped out of the grove that they were in. Raxri realized that they had cleared out an entire row for the both of them. The seats lined the Ogre Machine's Body crosswise.

Raxri's tears came. But they did not feel like crying.

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