Outworld Liberators

Denzil let the teachers crowd around his screen without protest. He had his reasons.

Even a man born from the strongest fighting force in the Emperia Continent, perhaps in the whole world, had no business scorning small ties.

Small ties became doors. Free lodging for disciples and elders. Swift notice when a sect traitor surfaced, or when one of their own went missing.

Invitations to expeditions, ruins, and the sort of chance meetings that turned beggars into kings.

Piece by piece, favor by favor, those little exchanges had built the thing outsiders never quite understood.

The Infernal Warfiend Sect was not merely a sect. It had become a Court.

And this lost craft in his hands, these linen screens, stirred him more deeply than he cared to admit.

Denzil read through the usage guidelines with the care of a man studying a blade manual, then followed each step exactly as written.

When the connection steadied, he spoke at once, the words rushing out in a single breath.

"Disciple Jenkii. Are you able to hear me? This is Elder Denzil. Please reply, react, or make a sound if you do. This is a paid service from God Eldric to talk to you."

Jenkii blinked, startled by the sudden voice. The shock passed quickly. Whatever wonder this relic held, its opening spiel was dry enough to grind awe into dust.

"Elder Denzil, I can hear you."

Denzil settled after that. His tone turned calmer, steadier, like a senior guiding a junior across a narrow ledge.

He told her to treasure camaraderie, but never so much that she forgot where her own limits stood.

He spoke of her arts, of how her execution could be cleaner, sharper, less wasteful.

He warned her that the danger around her was too high for pride alone, and that survival would demand more than courage. It would demand ugly thinking and creative hands.

Then, because he was still Denzil, the lecture slipped into teasing.

He remarked that she had been touching the diviner rather a lot, and added that, in his view, the man did look sturdy enough to invite it.

Jenkii made a strangled sound and yanked at her own ears, as though she could drag the heat from her face by force.

Elsewhere, Jekyll was offering Jackson counsel of his own, if that rough brand of mockery could still be called counsel.

He told Jackson to remain shameless, since shame had never fed a man or saved his skin.

He told him to break from his main group when it suited him, because he was no one's nanny and had no duty to die babysitting fools.

He told him to sniff out more fortuitous encounters and stop waiting for heaven to drop one in his lap.

Then Jekyll, shameless in a way only he could manage, asked whether Jackson would sell his Neutral Blood.

Jackson gave a short snort and jammed his fingers into his ears.

The four disciples under Radeon recognized at once that the voices belonged to their elders.

For a moment, they assumed Radeon himself must also be watching, only to wonder why no call had come to them.

Then the answer arrived. Radeon did call them, and he reached all four at the same time.

Radeon told Lifara that patience would serve her better than haste, especially when her overgrowth looked so overwhelming it might draw the notice and scrutiny of passing allies.

Even so, he praised her for being crafty, for matching her choices to the nature of her arts, and for handling the treasures with a careful hand.

Oswin was praised for his actions as well. Radeon did not deny the man's value. He only rebuked that restless urge to display it too eagerly.

"Usefulness proved itself best when it did not beg to be seen," Radeon said.

Thaddeus earned praise for the new techniques he had begun to shape, though Radeon warned him against impatience.

Foundations laid in a rush turned lank and weak, no matter how impressive they looked from a distance.

Fay received her share in full Radeon fashion. The first words she heard were,

"Fay, get your mind out of the gutter," he said.

Radeon pointed out the flaw in her fighting. Her arts lacked variation, and because of that, they were too easy to read.

In any prolonged battle, an enemy with a little sense would soon learn how to make room for them, then punish her for every repeated pattern.

By then, the quality of the service had already begun to sink into the teachers.

There was no choppiness, no delay, no garbled break in the voices. The words came through as clean as if the speakers stood in the same room.

People who had still been lingering on their feet started taking seats of their own, no longer treating the thing as a novelty, but as something real.

Satisfied, Denzil paid twenty five top grade spirit stones.

A single one of those was worth a thousand high grade spirit stones.

Even a man who possessed a thousand high grade stones would struggle to trade for one top grade, since such stones were usually kept for Ethereal Integration cultivators and their cultivation alike.

Plainly, the Sect Master of the Infernal Warfiend Court had been the one to send them over.

The price was ruinous by any honest measure, but the Court was not paying only for a service.

They were paying for a tie to Eldric, and one could say they were giving him a great deal of face.

Denzil was surprised to find that time still remained on Jenkii's linen screen.

He had spoken to her for barely three minutes. He was just about to raise a hand and ask when Eldric suddenly appeared on the screen instead.

"This is your remaining balance. Once it is consumed, you may top up by paying for however much time you need. Keep this in mind. After the week of exploration, there will be no refunds."

Among Radeon's many designs, this was one of the creations he had long wanted to establish.

Information towers. In truth, it was not so different from a network spread across the world.

His aim had always been to build a great fighting force, but that was only one face of it.

What he truly wanted was a web vast enough to let him watch the living beings of the realm and choose his people with his own hand.

Through it, talent could be assessed. Emotions could be read with greater accuracy. Guidance could even be given, a thought placed directly into the mind like a whisper no wind could steal.

And as one part of Radeon's design unfolded, the students below were receiving enlightenment from their masters.

No clear route had been handed to them, no straight command barked into their ears, yet one after another they began finding the exit on their own.

Jenkii soon spotted her juniors and called out to them. Their eyes fell on her at once, and the first thing they noticed was the brown dress she wore.

It lent her a softer charm, plainly feminine without slipping into vulgarity.

"Big sis Jenkii, you're too womanly."

"I thought you were someone else. It was the ugly clothes before, after all."

"To think sister Jenkii was this beautiful. I am in love."

Their voices tumbled over one another, bold with the safety of numbers. Jenkii could only stare at them, caught between offense and embarrassment.

Then Radimir arrived, his own juniors from Netherdemon Sanctum Court trailing behind him.

Their condition was far from good. Dust clung to them. Their breathing was still rough from the flight.

They had clearly spent themselves running from the Flesh Titan from earlier. Even so, not one of them had been eliminated.

It might have looked easy from a distance, but the secret realm had already spat out three hundred disciples.

Those dragged back were not simply dumped outside and forgotten. They were passed through layers of calming arrays, one after another, some to ease the nerves, some to scour away the worst of the horror clinging to the mind, while their immediate injuries were treated in haste.

Even so, the ones still inside hardly looked whole themselves. Their wounds were too plain to ignore.

Lifara saw one disciple with his forearm torn open, flesh ripped away as though something had bitten deep and refused to let go, white bone showing through the ruin.

Another was missing an ear entirely, blood still running in a hot sheet down the side of his neck.

There were more besides. Gashes. Broken fingers. Torn cheeks. Men and women who looked half butchered and yet stood as if such things were no more than a poor night's weather.

They were hardy. That much was plain.

And just like Radeon, Lifara saw not only suffering, but opportunity.

She rubbed her hands together, trying to bleed off her excitement, then drew a long breath.

From the side, she dragged over a broad plank of wood and began to inscribe upon it.

Her strokes were wide and sure. When she finished, she planted the sign where all could see.

Limited time. One hundred slots only.

Full healing for all injuries. Highest bidder wins.

The nearby disciples stared at the words, and several looked as though their eyes might leap from their skulls.

Most of them had been given enough healing pills to survive five grievous injuries on average. Those from the super forces carried at least ten full sets of restoration pills.

Even so, such pills were best reserved for emergencies or used while fleeing.

More importantly, healers and pills were not the same. Pills could mend wounds, but nerves and meridians were another matter.

A cultivator who entered battle in anything less than peak condition was no cultivator worth naming.

Such a person might as well go home.

That was why the crowd did not waste time whispering among themselves.

Their minds were already turning over what they could offer.

The first to step forward was Martin, one of Jackson's juniors.

The devil had not even carried a proper bag when they entered, and now he fumbled through one with awkward, jerking motions.

Not because it pained him to part with treasure. Not because greed had him hesitating either. He was missing a hand.

Jackson had warned him beforehand. He had warned him twice, in fact, about the unknown roots of these people and told him not to be a cheapskate if he wanted to keep breathing with all the parts he still owned.

Martin gave Lifara a long look from head to toe. She seemed the sort who favored plant based treasures, so he laid down not one offering, but three.

Half a Blood Vine. Infernal Cactus Seeds. A Golden Rubber Tree Sapling.

After that, he set a bundle of blood soaked cloth on the table beside them.

Lifara was already pleased. In truth, she had only aimed to squeeze one treasure out of the wounded.

Four offerings felt downright friendly. Still, curiosity got the better of her. She unfolded the cloth and paused.

At a glance, it looked like a bundle of sausages.

Lifara was not so proud as to pretend she knew every treasure under heaven. She pointed at it with one finger, her expression open and mild.

"Brother, may I ask what this sausage-like treasure is?"

Martin nearly burst on the spot. Fury rose all the way to his face before it faltered there.

The woman looked genuinely confused. Innocent, even. He let out a long breath through his nose.

"That's my arm, lass. Not a processed meat product."

Oswin made a strangled sound, eyes gone wet, then turned and walked off while pinching his lips between two fingers as though that alone could hold him together.

Fay and Thaddeus both stood at once and wandered a few steps away, suddenly finding the rocks at their feet terribly deserving of violence.

Jackson, however, was made of worse material. He pointed straight at Martin's face and broke into helpless laughter.

"Brother Martin, why are you flaunting your sausage around?"

That finished whatever dignity remained in the air.

Even Lifara had to cover her head with a silk chiffon to hide herself. Her shoulders trembled beneath it, and though not a sound escaped her, the silent laughter was plain enough.

When she finally mastered herself, she drew out a chopstick and began sorting through the ruined limb with careful little nudges, setting bone and flesh where they ought to be, or where what was left of them still could.

Martin and Jackson watched without interrupting. Neither of them was a physician, but learning was one reason they had come to this place at all, and there was no lesson like one bought with blood.

Lifara took the mangled scraps of his arm and set them back into place with patient hands.

Then she wove in twigs and leaves, building out the missing frame until the limb held a whole anatomical shape once more.

Flesh to flesh. Bone where bone still answered. Then she began to pour her innate healing qi into the ruin.

Martin winced hard enough for the tendons in his neck to stand out, yet beneath the pain he could feel it happening. His arm was returning. The minced flesh had not gone dead.

It still carried the original matter, the original nutrients, enough for her art to seize and build upon.

Slowly, terribly, wonderfully, what had been butchered began to remember its proper shape.

Five minutes later, Martin had a new limb.

It was not perfect. Leafy patches had been grafted onto the skin, green against fresh flesh in a way that looked more uncanny than natural.

"What are these?" Martin asked.

"Well, you only gave me half an arm's worth of sausage..." Lifara faltered. "I mean half an arm of your arm. Not sausage. So I used leaves to make up for what was missing. They will fall away over time once your body grows new skin. I also used wood to replace parts of the bone. Try moving it first."

Martin knew he was asking for the impossible.

Who brought a sack of minced flesh to a healer and expected a miracle?

Even so, he tested it. He lifted the arm, flexed the fingers, then sent qi through it to feel the flow. At last, satisfied, he gave a sharp nod.

"Not bad at all. I thought I'd be stuck with a steel arm forever. Definitely worth it. What is your name? Are you betrothed to anyone yet?" Martin said, his words flying straight to the point like an arrow he had no wish to loose twice.

He did not bother circling the matter. A woman like this was rare.

Lifara blinked once, then answered with proper courtesy.

"I apologize, but I am still young," Lifara said.

As she spoke, she showed him the carved token that bore Radeon's mark, all twelve golden arms worked into it with unmistakable detail.

Martin recognized it at once. The Deity of Necropolis Ossuary. His expression changed on the spot.

"I apologize. Then please allow me to court you. I do not mind waiting a hundred years. Just do not make me a dumb cuck, and I can wait for you as long as I must."

Martin was only seventeen, yet his mind was already swollen with grand ideas of romance.

In the cult, he had seen barely a dozen elders with wives, but those few had looked almost absurdly content, clinging to each other with sickening affection despite being old monsters who could level halls with a sigh.

Martin wanted that. His master had always told him to seize any chance that came his way.

Unfortunately, his master was a bald old inner elder who had remained single for a thousand years.

Every day the old man boasted of trysts here and there, but all Martin had ever seen was a thirsty and pitiful relic dressing hunger up as glory.

Martin refused to end up that way. Not if he could help it.

This woman smelled good. She looked good. She seemed virtuous enough.

Looking at her, even twenty or thirty children did not seem like a problem.

In Martin's eyes, that was reason enough.