Chapter 4572: Broken Tiles (Part 2)

"Me neither." The Sekhmet scratched her head.

"As you can see, kids, Auntie is not disconnected from the world energy like Grandma, but she’s not at one with it like me. As I said, I’ve never seen this happen before." Tyris said.

"Neither did I." Salaark nodded.

"We’ll continue this discussion on another day." Scarlett sighed. "I have to go now. There are countless things I need to do, but first things first."

She took a sheet of paper and a large inkwell out of her dimensional amulet, and used water magic to fill the blank pages with thick writing. Once she was done, she also took a small Adamant sphere that she Forgemastered on the spot with a few movements of her fingers.

"Ajatar, I need a favor." She turned towards the Sapphire Dragon. "This is everything I know about the Sekhmet life force. It contains all the data that should apply to those with a body similar to mine but without the powers of a Guardian.

"At the moment, my Scorpicore children are what Drakes are to Dragons. If something happens to me, I beg you, help my kittens to become Sekhmets. Don’t let them wallow in despair because of my failure."

"I can do that." Ajatar shuddered at the idea of a Guardian dying, and rejoiced at the thought of having the Sekhmet indebted to him. "What’s that sphere?"

"This is an insurance policy." Scarlett replied. "Just keep it with you. When the moment comes, you’ll know what to do with it. Until then, consider it a fancy paperweight."

"Anything else?" Ajatar flipped through the pages and started adjusting his bloodline awakening procedure to Scorpicores.

"None." The Guardian of Children replied. "Thank you, and goodbye."

She gave the kids a long, heartfelt hug, wondering whose heart would stop first. Hers or theirs.

Then the Sekhmet Warped to the Forgotten Plume tribe, where the second and final loose end she had left lived.

’I know this is pointless and stupid, but I can’t truly start my journey as Scarlett the Sekhmet if I first don’t close the Chapter about my life as Scarlett the Scorpicore.’

In the blink of an eye, the lush green and the tall trees of the Kingdom disappeared, replaced by the golden shifting sands of the Overlord’s domain.

"What are you doing here?" Ilyum Balkor, Feather of the tribe, god of death, and Blood Magus, stood outside his dimensional tent.

His blue eyes carried the coldness of a glacier, and the snow-white streaks in his golden hair made him look even colder. Scarlett stared at the contrast between the heat of the Desert and the frosty aura of the man standing before her.

Balkor hadn’t aged a day since his attack on the White Griffon. Quite the contrary, he had grown in power, and his dwindling life force would be much harder to extinguish if the Sekhmet so desired.

"For a long time, I’ve hated you, Ilyum Balkor." Scarlett replied as the wind ruffled his Magus black robe and her simple day dress. "For a long time, I wanted to kill you, but everything changed when I turned into a Guardian.

"Or rather, so I thought. Now I see things with much more clarity, and I’ve come to check whether I was foolish as a Scorpicore or drunk on my alleged wisdom when I became a Guardian.

"I’ve come here to learn something about you, Balkor, and hopefully something about myself as well." The Sekhmet opened herself to Mogar with no reserves, letting the voice, visions, and ripples flood her being as she stared at the god of death.

His voice turned into the long, ululating wail Balkor had let out over two decades ago upon returning to his destroyed village. He sounded younger, but the pain and anger that fueled his screams were as timeless as life itself.

Balkor’s mouth was closed, but his grief was like an open wound from which his unending cries bled. Balkor’s figure changed as well. He was no longer a man, but a burned corpse with one pristine eye filled with Decay and another aflame with the red light of undeath.

His skin was charred and wreathed in a thick mist. Whether it was darkness magic, Chaos, or simply the steam released by his smoldering flesh, Scarlett couldn’t tell. The only thing she knew was that Balkor still burned with the same hatred that had consumed him for most of his adult life.

She was still trying to decipher the meaning of what she saw and heard, when the tiles falling all around the god of death swallowed her like a tide.

The past was written in stone, but through Mogar’s omnipresent eye its Guardians could witness not only what had come to pass, but what it might have been.

Mogar answered the Sekhmet’s unasked questions and revealed what would have happened had the god of death not started his quest for revenge. Balkor’s first tile didn’t fall, so many others that he had crushed under his heel did.

Scarlett watched the Queen and King before Meron take the young and grieving prodigy under their wing, silently condoning the nobles’ wrongdoings and sanctioning them.

The Griffon Kingdom grew more corrupted, and more young mages died or gave up on their dreams because of the constant harassment from the noble and ancient magical bloodlines.

Society became stagnant and then putrid as everything began to rot while the Royal Court failed to notice the stench from the high towers where they lived. The Scorpicore watched in dismay as the number of students enrolling in the great academies dwindled by the year.

Her revulsion reached its apex when she recognized the coming of a youth she had never liked but had always respected. Krishna Manohar was a talent too great to be ignored and too dangerous to let him grow unchecked.

Strong from their previous success with Balkor, the nobles tried to kidnap Manohar’s mother, Sitri, to keep the young man in check and ensure his loyalty. The Royals learned of the nobles’ plan, but just like with Balkor, they did nothing.

If the nobles succeeded, Manohar would be under control, and the other talented mages wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss the Crown’s offer for protection in exchange for their loyalty.

If the nobles failed, Manohar would join Balkor and become the second Magus-level talent they had at their service. Either way, the Royals won. Or rather, that was the idea.

Without the rise of the god of death, there was no unit of the Queen’s Corps protecting Sitri Manohar, but she was a fierce woman, and she loved her son. She fought like a demon and died as such.

As for her son, Manohar was nothing like Balkor. His madness had always been there, barely contained by his passion for magic and the love for his mother. The constant harassment he endured at the White Griffon and the death of Sitri released both his restraints.

Now literally mad with grief, Manohar rose from the ashes of his village as the god of decay, spreading plagues that turned entire counties and their inhabitants into mass graves.

To make matters worse, his rebellion ignited the fire of vengeance in the still-young but much more erudite Ilyum Balkor.