The Culling of the Voiceless was a disastrous struggle, and Kieran reaped the consequences that the bloodbath had sown. He spent several days unconscious but not dead. The Order of War and Flame had made sure of that. As the last one standing of this Culling, Kieran had earned the right to slightly better treatment.
That involved dressing his ghastly wounds, providing food, and potentially earning a name. However, after the initial Culling had concluded, Kieran fell into a comatose state, which made it impossible to claim his rewards.
Luckily, though the Order of War and Flame was replete with fanatics, zealots, lunatics, and madmen obsessed with the grisly sight of War's aftermath and reckoning, they revered honor and treated those who earned it well.
Most of Kieran's rewards were deferred, save for his meals. Those were scarfed down by the voracious followers of War and Flame.
Days passed while Kieran was in a coma, his body healing, albeit slowly and almost imperceptibly. When he awoke, though, it was in a feverish sweat. Every muscle and bone in his body ached and burned like it was seared with some ungodly acid and pummeled by a massive hammer.
He groaned with every stiff movement he performed.
The cloth dressing on his body had grown stiff with the amount of blood it absorbed. A poultice was smeared beneath the cloth, and when it mixed with blood, it emitted a strange burnt smell. Hints of earthy tones and pungent scent mixed as one, making Kieran's eyes water.
However, the pain washing over him in a staggered tide helped bring him to the brink of tears. It was an effortless affair. None of his mental, emotional, or physical defenses seemed to work here. They were blocked, and he hated that.
It felt remedial.
He had trained himself to endure pain and persevere through the unkind thoughts it engendered. Yet, it felt like his every effort was unraveled and stripped bare until it was nothing but a feeble thread.
The fresh experience of pain did, however, keep Kieran's mind clear, so he didn't hate that part of its presence. It sufficed even if it was a sense of perverse sharpness fueled by dark emotions. He couldn't let his mind become dull, tenacity grow faint, or conviction grow feeble in this environment.
It would consume every piece of him if he let that happen.
'I won't… I will overcome this test. I will free Scar of his burden and assume more power in the process.'
Power… the idea of freedom that it brought, that was the embers that grew into the flames of conviction he possessed. But, it was a flickering flame, growing weaker, unstable, and dim with every day spent in this hellhole.
To Kieran, it seemed like every scenario he faced thus far was forged to mock his bottom lines, to test if his proclaimed principles had a breaking point. And to determine whether he would stand firm against the infernal flames of disaster, misfortune, and suffering… or crumble.
Kieran had suffered before. He had experienced disaster as well. And his life was filled with misfortune. His life was a poignant one, touched by bittersweet serendipity. For all that he had obtained, he lost something in return.
To gain this life he lived now, he lost his freedom, choice, and joy. The unfurling of his life had left him cynical but also oddly hopeful. He had met people along the way that made the loss of his parents, the hellish childhood, and the betrayal of supposed friends seem less bleak. They were still caustic experiences that ate away at him, but the healing touch of these forged bonds helped alleviate a tremendous amount of emotional anguish.
Some of his shackles were coming loose, and it showed in how he interacted with Bastion and the others, gradually incorporating himself into their banter and even having harmless thoughts.
For the first time in a long time… Kieran had felt alive and grounded but not mired by titanic resentment or consumed with the thought of vengeance. Somewhere along the way, though it had not been resolved or addressed, his hatred was buried.
In place of that hatred, previously buried curiousness rose to prominence.
As he stared at the ceiling, Kieran closed his eyes.
It felt like seconds or, at most, minutes, but he stayed in this state, languishing for hours upon hours. His soul was still in disarray, like a puzzle that had purposely been taken apart and rearranged in the wrong order.
Kieran was unskilled and incompetent when it came to soul manipulation, but he understood the soul was vastly complex. In addition, he knew from the Arcane One's words that his soul was far more robust than any of his peers.
As an Untaught, a being that knew no guidance and had yet to enter the Priming, Kieran's soul rivaled an Awakened in its depth and solidity but not versatility or utility.
A soul was generally multi-faceted, encompassing a great deal—rather, everything—about a person. Kieran's soul was not just tinged or hinted with vengeance; it was submerged and permeated with it.
It was as if revenge was all he knew.
But that couldn't be true.
Kieran floated in some unknown place, an immaterial place linking body, mind, and soul together, the place where the Self was to be created, fortified, and freed from, but he didn't understand that concept.
Still, Kieran could feel a strange pull, thrum, and weight while at this internal crossroads. He stood to gain a lot from those three principles, but he needed guidance to succeed without catastrophic failure.
'This place must be my soul. Or… at least the outer parts of it. So, where is it?'
Again, Kieran began his search for his Mystic Gate. That power had become an ingrained part of him, engraved deeply into his soul. It was deep-seated and could not be uprooted, nor would he abdicate himself from this power.
It made him unique amongst the Myths.
From what he understood, no Myth before him—Inheritor or Mantle Holder, alike—had ever wielded mysticism. Runes were a language many could learn with time… but Supreme Lettering was a guarded secret shrouded in mystery and veiled by mystical encryption.
Eni gatekept those secrets.
Thinking of the Supreme Lettering produced a severe need. Kieran yearned for his Mystic Gate and for the Compendium's help. He could not talk, and that was an infuriating condemnation for him.
How could he ask questions if he could not speak?
Thus, he needed the help of the Compendium. Even if he couldn't open it, it could at least provide the vast amount of mystical essence required to manipulate the soul.
He wasn't keen on fixing the entire thing. That was a feat no Novice could accomplish. Perhaps his soul would be reverted to its original condition once the Testament of Dying Blood was over. He just needed his mysticism, something to act as an anchor for his sense of self.
This lengthy process began with a thought, but now it had become an onerous search. Some pieces were as fine as a grain of sand, others were as heavy as a colossal mountain and couldn't be moved.
'Book… where the hell are you? I know you're out there. I can feel you, but I just can't get to you.'
The feeble thread could help weave his soul back together correctly, wresting it away from this forced discord, but first, he had to strengthen it. Had to improve himself.
How, though?
Kieran had an inkling, but it came at the price of mass genocide. An unspeakable amount of death would have to take place. He needed more of that Flame… for it to temper him, make him stronger. And enough of it could make him whole.
When Kieran opened his eyes, dull resignation brewed in his gaze.
'I can't become one of them. I won't…'
