Re: Level 100 Farmer

As Li approached the downtrodden king, the flames on his wings eagerly flickering towards the monarch, Tia stopped him, grasping at his hand. She looked up at him, squinting her eyes through the bright white aura of fire that shone from Li. 

"Papa, can we help him?" asked Tia. 

"It does not seem like there is much to help anymore," said Li as he looked to the king, or whatever was left of it.

Tia nodded and said, "But still, good heart. If I can connect, then I can bring him back. Hard to connect with, though. If papa helps me, maybe we can see?"

"You want me to help you?" asked Li.

Tia nodded eagerly, and through their linked hands, he could sense her intentions. She read his understanding and turned towards the king, staring with her black and green pupils right into the monarch's shadowy visage, no, past it, into his heart, his soul.

And as she did so, Li felt himself linking with her sight, seeing and feeling the same, and he knew what he meant when she asked him to help her. She wanted him to simply be there for her, not only to understand her but also to allow her to better channel power from him, and as she did so, he came to the realization that just as she could draw power from him, so too could he draw from her own unique abilities.

In this case, it was her uncanny ability to read into the souls of others. One that was originally Li's, but he could only express it in the capacity of reading into those linked with him such as his followers. He had done so with Ivo when the man had been crippled. But Tia had taken the ability and made it her own, developing it into something that could universally gaze into others.

Li began to see what she was seeing. The physical world disappeared from his sight as his shared sight with Tia honed in on the king, at first onto his being and then beyond it, into a murky world of fog. 

This chapter upload first at NovelUsb.Com

Everything here was muted, dark. There were muffled sounds that managed to permeate the fog: the clattering of metal, a woman's voice, the drone of many people speaking something indistinguishable. There were sights. The flash of sparks. A glance from red, gentle eyes. 

But, like Tia said before, it was impossible to make out anything. The dwarf's soul was completely clouded over.

"Nothing impossible with papa," came Tia's voice, and Li knew she was right. He would always make sure that no matter what happened, that one statement alone, he would ensure would stand true. He focused on the warmth of Tia's hand and began to transfer his power to her. 

And as he did so, the world of fog began to dissipate, arcs of green driving away the cloudiness, until, finally, the dwarf's soul became clear to read. 

Li recognized this sight. It was where he stood now – the base of Stedheim's three pillars. But this was vastly different. The royal palace he had seen only through its preserved floor and a few sad shattered pillars and supports stood tall and whole.

He found himself in what appeared to be a throne room of vast proportions. It was fashioned of solid, dark stone, indicating a sense of roughness, but the pillars and domed ceiling above were gilded and studded with intricate, curled patterns of precious gems that glittered under a bright orange light. 

The light came from the spherical engine fueling the Triforge. Now that Li could see it active in its full glory, he could witness the enormous spherical dome of metal revolving around the pillar of world vein energy that flickered from the earth, seams in the dome opening up ever so slightly in intervals to let out bright bursts of magical light. 

From the sphere, lines of solidified light – conduits for channeling magical energy – linked the world vein to the rest of the dwarven pillars of Stedheim. In a way, it reminded Li of a science fiction concept he had seen. About something called a Dyson sphere that encompassed the sun to draw its energy.

In front of the sphere, a throne as tall as the ceiling rose up, its stone carved structure lined with indentations of energy. On the throne, there was the unmistakable figure of king Tyr in his original, unblackened state.

As the scene became clearer, it became more immersive until it became memory itself - . 

=============

Tyr looked down at his hands. They were broad, brutish things with thick, calloused digits and knuckles filed down to flats from constant impact.

Hands meant for war. And with these hands, he had warred constantly for the better part of a month now, fending against the demons as they marched upon his home, his mountain, and most importantly, his beloved people. 

And yet, he saw as his hands trembled. How they were lined with so very many scars of varying shapes and sizes. Most noticeably, there were the burns – great big patches of discolored and disfigured flesh that at this point made up more of his hand than unblemished flesh. 

These were hands made for war, and for so long, Tyr had always felt insecure about them. As the third brother in line to a king that had been known for uplifting the kingdom through innovating mining and crafting, he had always felt himself unworthy of his royal blood. Little did he know of golemancy, nor did he have the right mind to take to artificing or even leading.

All he knew was to fight, and for years, that had not done much aside from landing him in occasional trouble and making him leader of a knightsguard that had done precious little for the past few centuries. He was always the failure of the family. One spoken about only in whispers, never able to do achieve more than the ordinary rabble that concerned themselves with the blade, not the gear.

For nobody dared to threaten the dwarves of the Triforge. Reaching the mountains from the Hinterlands was an immensely dangerous endeavor in of its own, and humans forming the six city states of the Alliance were all too focused squabbling among their own to ever pose a true threat.

Thus, the Triforge prospered untouched and seemingly invincible, only ever laid low once during the Second Darkening three hundred years prior, when the world was yet still forging balance after the First Darkening that began it all. 

But what ever were the chances for another Darkening? After the second, the demons had thoroughly been routed, the dragons sending them reeling back in purging dragonflame and the last of the angels sacrificing themselves to seal the evil creatures in their far western lands of chaos, away from any mortal life. 

Alas, fate proved to be a cruel and unpredictable mistress.

For the Lightseal had inexplicably shattered, and another Darkening, the third of its kind, had begun once more.

Now, for the better part of a half year, Tyr had fought. He fought and fought and fought, and then fought again. He saw his men come and go, burning away in hellfire or torn apart by claw or melted by poison. 

He saw his father, the king, fall, then his brothers one by one, until now, it was he, the prodigal son, the useless prince who knew nothing but the fight, who ruled as king, and even now, all he could do was fight, for that was all that he had known. All that he was good at.

It was not enough. 

Tyr clenched his fists.

He should not have been surprised. He was never enough. Never had been. But soon, for once he would be worthy. Worthy of being royalty, of wearing the heavy crown gracing his matted hair, of the sacrifices that so many of his people had made for him, of bearing hopes and dreams all his people had set upon him.

He would be worthy after this one single ritual that would change everything and grant him the promised might of the gods.