Heretical Fishing

Book 3: Chapter 63: Preordained

Though there had been much to consider, it didn’t take Solomon long to reach a decision. After less than an hour beneath the ground, filled with direction and determination, he raised a hand to the compacted earth. He’d thought the strength of his enhanced body was impressive when he created the cavern, but it didn’t hold a candle to his power now. His arm passed through the soil like a knife through butter, easily carving a way out into the daylight.

Though the corruption had been cleaned away, the surrounding forest was still heavily damaged. No acidic chi remained, but their leaves, bark, and most of their branches were gone, having wasted away while his core was still leaking tainted essence. Despite this, his conscience was clean.

The early afternoon sun shone its warmth over his skin, banishing any lingering worries. He had a path forward, one that would lead to his ascension. He wasn’t yet sure what to do about the cultivator he’d encountered, the man of pure chi that had cleansed his soul, but that didn’t change his course.

Solomon’s plan was simple. He was going to create potions. He was going to experiment. And he was going to gain power. Then, only once he had more strength, he could decide whether to approach the stranger. He took a single step forward, intent on finding his first batch of ingredients, but paused.

With the agony he’d been subjected to earlier, he’d been too distracted to truly notice how much his body had changed. Now that the pain was gone, he closed his eyes, focusing on his other senses.

The smallest of breezes blew, making the remaining leaves shift and sway in the surrounding trees. The sound was almost deafening as it built to a cacophonous roar, only partially muted when the air struck his skin, distracting him.

The scents of the forest came next. Solomon well knew what decaying plant-life smelled like, but he’d never experienced it like this. The aroma was so potent that it dulled everything else, drawing him in. Following a hunch, he tried to reduce his sensitivity. Perhaps it was a skill he’d have to practice. He—

The air immediately behind him, right above where his shack had been, erupted into flames.

Though his body was improved, it was like standing next to the sun, and he dashed away. Well, he tried to. His legs failed him, and Solomon skidded across the recently healed grass, crashing against a dead tree. He’d not picked up enough speed to smash through the half-decayed trunk, so he lay against it, his limbs not doing what he ordered them to.

With his eyes wide and terror crawling up from his abdomen, he witnessed the impossible. A bonfire smoldered in midair, tendrils licking out unnaturally fast. They seemed to weave into a pattern, following invisible threads that made little sense... until they formed a circle. The moment the shape was noticeable, it burgeoned out, slowly burning larger and larger.

Foul wind poured from the gap in the sickly flames, even more rancid than the corruption that had previously tainted Solomon’s core. A wave of nausea washed over him, yet he couldn’t move. Couldn’t escape. Try as he might, he was locked in place. Squinting against the turgid portal’s unholy light, all he could do was watch as the first figure emerged.

A man leaped through, the withering grass combusting around his feet when he landed. He wore flames like a noble would don jewelry, rings, bracelets, and a necklace of flames all moving as unnaturally as the portal. And atop his head, extending into seven flickering points, a crown made the man seem even taller than he was. The air warped around it, the headpiece seeming to suck in its own light.

Solomon recognized the man.

“K—” his voice cut off, and he took a wheezing breath that ended in a wracking cough. “King…?”

Augustus Reginald Gormona’s eyes flicked to Solomon, and he took a step forward. “Fischer...” he said, his hatred burning even brighter than the flames.

Six people came through behind the king. Despite lacking the living fires he wore, the same nauseating aroma oozed from the women. He thought he recognized them from somewhere, but Solomon couldn’t place it.

“No...” the king said, his jaw tensing and relaxing swiftly. “Not Fischer. But I know you… don’t I?”

A jumble of people hopped through the rent in space next, moving chaotically and barrelling into the six women. The women, whose identities were still tugging at part of Solomon’s mind, turned and made to attack the latter group. They tittered and leaped away from the threat, separating around the clearing.

“Free?” “Free!” “Freeee!” they chorused, laughing as they hopped about.

“Now, now,” one of them said, the voice like a punch to Solomon’s frontal cortex. “My little birds are just happy that they can spread their wings. There is no need for violence, handlers.”

“Francis?” he asked, already knowing it to be him. “High Alchemist Francis…?”

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“Little Solomon? Is that you...?”

“Ah,” the king said, recognition coloring his face. “Solomon the Alchemist. I remember now.”

“Gods above!” Francis yelled. “The king! Bow, little Solomon!”

Solomon just blinked. He’d heard Francis’s madness had worsened, but what was going on…? There was a sound like crackling tinder, and the king appeared right in front of Solomon. The next thing he knew, he was suspended in the air, his feet dangling.

“You became a cultivator.” The king’s eyes were inhuman as they seemed to stare through Solomon. “Foolish...”

“Oh,” Francis said. “Oh, oh, oh! You aren’t just an alchemist anymore, are you, Solomon?” He nodded to himself, the question apparently rhetorical. “Wonderful. I didn’t think you had it in you.” He made a waving gesture toward Solomon. “You should let him live, my king.”

“Why?” Augustus Reginald Gormona ground out. “We’re here to kill traitors. Why would I allow the existence of another?”

“Because he’s useful. Just ask my birds.”

“Yes!” “Yes!” “Yes!” the large group of... birds? chorused. “No!” one of them said, causing the others’ heads to swivel her way. “Kidding!” she sang. The silent accusations of the rest melted away, replaced by high-pitched cackles.

Solomon recognized them then, and the pieces clicked into place all at once. The sickly air. The strange power afflicting all those that had arrived. Francis’s presence. The familiar faces…

“Theogonia,” he said, barely able to believe it. “You’ve come from Theogonia.”

“See?” Francis said, smiling and nodding toward Solomon. “He’s useful! Yes he’s a cultivator, but so is everyone here! Well, except for me. Solomon is a senior member of the Cult of the Alchemist, so he’s aware of the... services provided to the crown, your highness. He is a loyal vassal.”

“We will see…”

Solomon crashed to the floor, his limbs still not completely working. The king made a disgusted noise then turned, dismissing him. Another four people stepped through the portal. The moment they were clear, it fizzled out, the fire dying.

“Tom,” the king said, spitting the name. “You said we would find Fischer here.”

Solomon had thought—prayed—that there would be no more surprises today. He was wrong. Lord Tom Osnan Sr., Queen Penelope, and Princess Tryphena had stepped through the portal, accompanied by an unknown man. Among them, only lord Osnan oozed the corrupted chi, having drawn its essence into his core.

“I said Fischer is in Tropica,” Lord Osnan said, looking around.

“And how do you know that?” the king demanded, his adorning flames flaring.

“He told me that he knew my son, who has been living in Tropica for the last few years.” He gestured at the surrounding trees. “This isn’t Tropica. This isn’t the coastal town I pointed to on the map. You brought us to the wrong place.”

The king's fire grew hotter as he took a step toward Osnan, who clenched his fists as vines rose from beneath him, writhing in the air. As with the king’s flames, the power radiated corrupted chi.

“Ah, such chance happenings!” Francis said, broadcasting his voice. “You were stationed in Tropica, Solomon, were you not?”

As all eyes turned to him, Solomon nodded. “Yes. It’s just east of here. Close.”

A vicious grin came to the king’s face. “Good. We can address your insubordination later, Tom.”

The roots rising from Osnan’s feet creaked as they wound around one another, nauseating chi pouring from them. “Why don’t we address it now?”

There was a madness in the two men’s eyes, and the more chi they exuded, the worse it became. If Solomon did nothing, there was a good chance their clash would lead to his destruction.

“It’s my fault!” he yelled, getting their attention. Both hate-filled gazes shot toward him, and he swallowed, his throat dry and scratchy. “I awakened here earlier today by creating a potion. Something went wrong with the concoction, and I… I barely survived.” He nodded at one of the trees. “It wasn’t your arrival that killed everything here. It was me. I’m guessing that’s why you were drawn here instead of directly to Tropica. Neither of you are to blame.”

“Ah, such humble words from this loyal servant. A mere accident, I say!” Francis said. “Nay, perhaps it was divine intervention that—”

Below them, something colossal stirred. The very ground shook, and as Solomon sent his new senses downward, he found it. There was a network down there, a net of sorts that ran in every direction. Though partially intangible, it sprawled out toward the west. Eastward, where Tropica sat and the king was headed, it grew more dense. Every cultivator present must have felt the same thing, because they all looked down, their brows furrowing. Even the ‘birds’ grew serious, the odd network below the only thing that had broken their childlike behavior.

“You see?” Francis beseeched, staring at the king. “Tropica has defensive measures! A mesh of power that spans the distance of mountains! It might have led to our destruction—er, I mean, the destruction of those less powerful than you, my king. Our arrival here was preordained!”

When Solomon felt the pure essence that made up most of the underground object’s power, his suspicions were confirmed. The man that had cleansed him, that being of such pure unrivaled power that had easily healed his poisoned body, was the same person that the king was hunting. He’d seen the man before, in line for coffee at Lena’s Cafe what felt like lifetimes ago. Solomon had noted his odd accent—the same one he’d heard earlier today. The chi held in the mesh below was his. It was Fischer’s. Solomon couldn’t forget how it felt if he tried.

In the silence that followed, none could have been more shocked than Solomon. That’s what he had thought, anyway—up until the moment he spied Tom Onan Sr.

The king noticed too, because he narrowed his eyes on him. “What now, Tom? Thought of some new way to vex me?”

Solomon expected the lord to bite back, to instigate another fight. Instead, he simply shook his head, looking almost sick. “It’s definitely him, Augustus. That power...” A shiver ran down Tom Osnan’s spine. “Fischer is in Tropica, and whatever that thing is below us, he put it there. I’m certain.”

The king started laughing, the sound... wrong. Like someone had thrown wet wood in a raging fire. The ‘birds’ joined in, just happy for an excuse to giggle. “Good,” the king finally said, then cleared his throat. “Fischer has thought to set up a defense, but all he’s done is lead us directly to where he is. Follow the net, find the Fischer.”

Without another word, he turned and faced the east. “Let us introduce ourselves. We wouldn’t want to be ungracious guests...”

The king started walking, trees charring and smoking as he passed. Solomon stood and watched as most everyone fell into step, following his lead. Francis came to his side, a few of his ‘birds’ remaining to cast sidelong glances their way.

“Hang on a second…” Francis said, frowning after them. “Is that the King?”