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Chapter Text

The opening of Amphoreus to the wider universe begins not with a bang, but with an IPC-hosted week-long cruise-party aboard a luxurious spaceship. Mydeimos sits in an isolated booth, watching the other Heirs mingle with the crowd of mixed representatives—every faction from the Genius Society to the Mourning Actors is represented. Castorice whispers to a group of Memokeepers, while Anaxagoras is in a clearly very heated argument with a group of scholars. Probably something about dromases. 

“Excuse me. Prince Mydeimos of Castrum Kremnos?” A gray-haired woman in elegant yet martial robes sweeps up to his booth, flanked by two Cloud Knights. “I am Grand Marshal Hua of the Xianzhou Alliance.”

At Mydeimos’ affirmative nod, she smiles and continues. “Come to the Xianzhou. We have need for you, heir of Hunt and Destruction, for our Godslayer Protocol.”

“?” Mydei blinks. “Pardon?”

Grand Marshal Hua snaps her fan shut, looking down at him. “Simply put, you agree to assist the Xianzhou Alliance until the Abundance falls, and the Xianzhou will in turn promise our protection to ensure Amphoreus comes to no harm during your stay with us.”

“I fear I have much to attend to in Castrum Kremnos and Amphoreus,” he says stiffly. “I must decline your…generous offer.”

The Xianzhou native clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “That wasn’t an offer, Prince Mydeimos.” She tilts her head, and one of the Cloud Knights standing at guard snatches Mydei’s teleslate away, handing it to the Grand Marshal. 

Mydei hisses. “What’s the meaning of this?!”

“I’ll be frank with you. As it currently stands, we of the Xianzhou Alliance have nothing else of value to gain from Amphoreus and all the reason in the world to let slip that Irontomb hides here.” Grand Marshal Hua’s eyes flash as she lifts her chin. “There are many in this world who would seek vengeance against Irontomb for their losses.”

Mydeimos’ blood chills in his veins, molten gold turning to ice as her words drop from her lips. “You would threaten such a thing? There are countless innocent lives on Amphoreus.”

“No price is too great in the path of the Hunt,” the Marshal declares. “What is a few hundred thousand lives in comparison to the trillions already lost to the Abundance?”

She leans forwards, hands still tucked behind her back, and glares into his eyes. “You of all people should understand this, simulated heir of the Hunt. Abominations must be eradicated.”

“Despicable,” Mydei spits. “A true warrior would never sink to such low tactics.”

“We are hunters, not warriors. To fell prey by trap rather than weapon bears no difference to scions of the Hunt.” Marshal Hua tosses his teleslate back onto the table dismissively. “The Xianzhou looks forward to our cooperation.” He stares at her retreating back as she stalks away with the rest of her contingent, back into the throng of people milling about in the ballroom. 

Unknown number: Your response? 

An innocent message from an anonymous contact blinks up at him from the screen of his teleslate. The live music twists in his ears, violin suddenly shrill and harsh while the tremulous bass notes rouse discomfort in the pit of his stomach. Every person whirling around the dance floor or chatting at the dessert table now seems to be staring at him, a golden calf put up for auction. 

“Mydei!” He blinks, and Phainon is there, cheerfully laughing with a bright grin on his face. The Deliverer slides a cup of juice across the table, sipping from his own glass of fizzy orange liquid. “Were you talking to those long-lifers from the Xianzhou?”

Unknown number: Don’t tell anyone else of our arrangement, or the news will just so happen to get out. Thankfully, his teleslate is at an angle where Phainon can’t see the screen. 

“...Yes. We talked about…food.” 

Phainon blinks, cheeks flushed, and smiles again, swaying on his feet. Whatever’s in his cup is probably alcoholic. “Food! I love food. Especially when it’s your food. Say, when will you cook for us again?”

“HKS. Are you drunk? Sit down.” Phainon lets himself be guided into the plush seat of the booth, leaning his head against Mydei’s shoulder with a hiccup. “I’ll cook for you again once I return to Okhema.”

The white-haired man nuzzles Mydei’s cheek. “I can’t wait—your cooking is so tasty. Can’t you come back a little sooner? It’s so boring without you…I’m lonely.” He sighs, slinging an arm over Mydei’s shoulder. “I miss you.”

“I’m right here, Deliverer.” Mydeimos eyes the darkened screen of his teleslate, stomach turning with unease. 

“Y’know, this whole…introduction thing is easier than I thought!” Phainon says loudly with the bravado of a drunkard. “Everyone’s been so nice so far, and nobody’s asked about our little iron problem…I think everything might be alright!”

“I’m glad,” Mydei says gently. Phainon’s blue eyes glimmer like sapphires under the lights of the ballroom. “Don’t worry about me, okay? Take care of yourself, Deliverer.”

Phainon hiccups again, face flushing even deeper, and throws himself into Mydei’s lap with a weak groan. “Mydei, save me,” he whines. “The world is spinning…there’re Mems dancing above your head!”

“Let’s get you back to your suite,” Mydei says to the drunk man. “Up, Deliverer. Lean on me.”

Miraculously, they manage to get all the way to the hallway that contains the Heirs’ rooms before Phainon fully collapses onto Mydei, drunkenly giggling and mouthing at the prince’s neck. “Mydeiiiiiiii,” he whispers, “bed?”

“Sleep, for you,” Mydei grunts. “I don’t have time for that nonsense tonight. You kept me up until sunrise last time we laid together.”

“Awww…” Phainon whines, then perks up again. “Okay! It’s settled! I’m going to take you to bed and sleep with you!” He stands up, throwing Mydei over his shoulder with surprising stability, and easily unlocks the door to his suite.

“HKS!” Mydei grunts as Phainon tosses him onto the bed, only to tuck him into the blankets. 

“Goodnight, Mydei!” Phainon wriggles into bed beside him, plants a sloppy kiss on Mydei’s face, and passes out snoring as soon as his head hits the pillow.

Mydei stares at the elegantly carved ceiling. He sighs, and reaches for his teleslate. 

To: Unknown number: Very well. Where and when?

Chapter Text

Officially, the Xianzhou Alliance requested the presence of Mydeimos the Undying to “further diplomatic ties” between itself and Amphoreus. Unofficially, a group of masked men shove him into an unmarked Starskiff with what little luggage he’d managed to pack in the few days between the cruise-party and the beginning of their “agreement”. 

He’s given a few minutes to toss his things into a small, dimly lit, and sparsely decorated room and change into a dull gray robe before a contingent of Cloud Knights escorts him to a temple-like room thick with incense. 

“Good evening, blood of the Destruction.” A woman in pale green robes sits elegantly before a low wooden table laden with ceramic jars. “Your arm.”

Mydei offers his forearm, and she cuts into his skin with a small dagger, draining his golden blood into a shallow dish and humming appreciatively.

“It seems the rumors are true—you bear the touch of four divinities.”

Mydeimos nods, chin held high. “And what might that mean for our agreement?”

“Nothing, yet. We must first ascertain your compatibility with those that the Xianzhou needs.” The woman reaches into one of the jars with a ladle, retrieving a spoonful of glowing, gelatinous green substance. “This is the Ambergris of Abundance, in its rawest form. We will start with this.” She pours the goo into a small bowl, sliding it across the table.

“Drink,” she motions, and Mydeimos does, the thick sludge struggling down his throat. It leaves a sickly sweet aftertaste that clings to the inside of his mouth like oil, sticky and somewhat irritating. 

He coughs. “Was something supposed to happen?”

She shakes her head. “Either it will violently react upon being absorbed by an unsuitable vessel, or it will adapt to the vessel perfectly. The latter is desirable, the former is…regrettable, should the vessel be lost.”

The woman pushes the second jar at him; a single wilted yellow lotus rests inside. “Am I…supposed to eat this?” At her nod, Mydei grimaces and begins to chew through a slimy petal. 

“The Abundance Lotus was collected after a conflict involving the Destruction and the Abundance,” she provides as he chokes down the lotus, root and all. “It will provide proof that your body is capable of hosting the Abundance, though it has been touched by the Destruction and the Hunt.”

An uncomfortable heat begins to build in his body, flames licking along the insides of his veins as Mydei shudders. His flesh feels swollen, inflamed meat crushing his insides while his blood burns where it flows. Serene teal eyes watch him as the woman sits calmly, typing into a jade abacus. 

“Should you pass this trial, we will know that you are a suitable vessel for the Godslayer Protocol,” she says idly. “To be chosen for such a monumental task is an honor. Do not disappoint the Reignbow Arbiter.”

He coughs again, a harsh, hacking motion, and clutches at his throat, staring at the floor in shock as lotus petals force their way up and out of his stomach. A smattering of small petals quickly grows into clumps of large, connected lotus petals, and from there a full flower begins to climb from his throat, tearing its way through as it goes. His left arm loses feeling as flowerbuds begin to force their way out of his skin, blossoming into full, golden blooms while his muscles spasm around newly-formed lotus roots expanding inside his arms. 

“That will be enough of the lotuses for now,” The woman declares. She lifts the smallest container on the table, a petite jade bottle. “This is a deadly neurotoxin that kills within seconds, concocted specifically for your use. We will reset the state of the mortal vessel with its aid.”

Mydeimos wheezes an affirmative through the roots wrapping around his lungs and burrowing through his stomach. There’s a distinct pressure behind his eyes, perhaps lotus buds waiting to burst their ways out. 

“Once your body is healed, we will continue,” the woman murmurs as she pours a bit of the toxin through Mydei’s barely-opened lips. “My congratulations—your body takes remarkably well to the Abundance, though it seems we can’t yet test divine remains…” The rest of her words fade into a slurry of unrecognizable sounds as his consciousness fades. 

By the time he claws his way back to the world of the living from the Netherrealm, he’s back in the dark “guest room”, and there’s a line of stitches running down the center of his chest from collarbones to navel. It’s odd—even if they’d waited until he died to cut him open, his body should have healed on its own by now. 

A simple note in pen is pinned to the wall above the uncomfortable cot.

We shall reconvene at 0530 tomorrow. It seems even your divine “immortal body” has its limits, though I must say its adaptability is truly remarkable. I admire it, really; it’s more useful than I imagined. The Marshal will visit in three days.

Do not touch the stitches. 

—Wenyan

Mydeimos presses his palm against his chest with a wince as the stitches ache, something in his chest pulling painfully as he shifts upright on the cot. The sight of the dark line of stitches down his front makes him feel uneasy, like something unfamiliar has settled under his skin and bone, burrowing its way into his heart. His teleslate rests on the bedside cabinet, though he remembers it falling from his pockets at some point during the lotus debacle, perhaps when the growing roots had locked his arms and legs in contorted positions—someone must have picked it up and returned it to him. 

—6 hours ago—

Phainon: Some of the Trailblazer’s comrades came by to visit today

Phainon: [13 photo attachments]

Phainon: Arbiter-General Feixiao and her aides, Moze and Jiaoqiu. Jiaoqiu’s a Foxian—his ears and tail are so fluffy! If you were a foxian, I bet yours would be fluffier…

Phainon: He makes a mean spicy hot pot. You’d love it!

Phainon: [photo attachment]

Phainon: Tell me all about your Xianzhou trip when you get back, okay? I can’t wait to see you again.

Phainon: [Sticker: Chimera_excited.jpg]

—Just Now—

Mydeimos: Sounds like you’re having fun without me, Deliverer. I'm glad

Mydeimos: [Sticker: Chimera_thumbUP.jpg]

Mydeimos: When I’m back, I’ll make you the best hot pot you’ve ever tasted. There’s no word for “second place” in the Kremnoan language.

Chapter Text

The next morning Mydei’s tired, sore, and so incredibly hungry that he feels he might keel over dead from hunger. The aurumaton that comes to fetch him is entirely unresponsive to his attempts to get its attention, preferring instead to clamp a metal hand around his wrist and pull Mydei along when he refuses to move. The room is the exact same, though there’s the addition of a large metal box on which two plates of “food” lie, next to which a nondescript cloche sits innocently. 

“Your breakfast,” the woman motions. “Please, eat.”

Mydeimos eyes the plates suspiciously. The things they contain can hardly be considered edible; one holds a slimy mound of Ambergris of Abundance, while on the other lies a chunk of still-twitching pink meat with dark patches of chitin stuck to its surface. “Is there…no normal option?” He eyes the metal dome of the cloche.

Wenyan motions with a wave of her hand, and the aurumaton lifts the cloche. The aroma of golden honeycakes wafts from the plate of fluffy pastries before the aurumaton slams the lid back down. “If you desire, you may take the plate of ’honey cake’, though I must advise against it.”

Mydei walks forwards, hand pausing above the handle of the metal dome. “And may I ask why?”

“The vessel’s optimized physiology prefers the essence of Abundance and Propagation as sustenance.” Wenyan notes something down on her jade abacus. “We must train your body to reject unsuitable foodstuffs before the Marshal visits.”

He frowns, and wraps his hand around the metal handle. As soon as Mydei’s skin touches the metal, white hot pain bursts from the contact as electricity burns its way through his body. His muscles spasm against his will, hand locked in place around the damned thing and prolonging the electrocution. It feels like an eternity later when the aurumaton pulls his twitching body away from the source of electricity. 

“Do you still desire the honey cake?” Wenyan watches impassively. 

“Yes,” Mydeimos snarls, shaking out the last of the muscle spasms. She wants him to give in and eat the things on the uncovered plates, and he doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction of an easy victory. He reaches again, tensing in preparation for the electricity, and pulls as soon as his grip closes on the handle. 

The burning pain comes again, Mydei’s jaw clenching as his muscles lock up, and he struggles to force his muscles to move before the Aurumaton is pulling him off the food again. He growls, pulls himself free of the robot, and moves to try again before it can stop him. 

“If pain is what you desire, we have far more efficient methods of inducing it,” the woman offers. “Nevertheless, if it is your wish to eat the honey cake, I will instruct the aurumaton to not interfere with your futile endeavor.”

It takes seven seconds for Mydeimos to break the connection between the cloche and the metal box, at the end of which his vision is spotty at the edges and the smell of singed hair fills the air. He lifts his chin triumphantly, ignoring the stinging pain buzzing in his muscles, and lifts the plate of golden honeycakes. 

“Futile endeavor indeed,” he says dryly. 

Wenyan blinks. “I must once again advise you against this course of action.”

The first bite of warm, fluffy honeycake is deliciously fragrant, though Mydei’s stomach churns uncomfortably as he swallows. A second mouthful bears the scent of honey but the taste of acrid, rotting plant matter, and his hands shake as he forces it down. It must be a trick by the Xianzhou, he thinks, some manner of drug that fools the senses. The honeycakes smell and look normal, and yet he feels a sense of disgust and squeamish unease as Mydeimos prepares for a third bite. 

The third bite goes down with all the ease of swallowing carrion-flesh, and Mydeimos finds himself puking up what little he’d eaten shortly after. 

“If you would, a suitable meal has been prepared,” Wenyan suggests. At her command, the aurumaton busies itself cleaning the puddle of sick off the floor. 

The honeycakes lie in a sad pile of mush on the tiled floor, crushed under the plate where Mydei dropped it—-certainly not an option anymore, even if he managed to get through the nausea-inducing taste. He hates to acquiesce to his captors’ demands, but Mydei does need energy to function. With a grimace, he scoops up a handful of the green Abundance gunk, lifting it to his lips. His eyes widen. The vivid taste of fig stew, Kremnoan style, bursts across his tongue as the stuff slides easily down his throat. 

“What..?” Despite all odds, the stuff tastes good. Amazing, even. Mydei’s empty stomach growls at the thought of appealing food, though the appearance of the Ambergris is anything but. 

The Xianzhou native frowns at him from across the room, noticing Mydeimos’ hesitance. “Will I have to order the aurumaton to force the food down your throat?”

The blond man scowls fiercely, begrudgingly shoveling the sludge into his mouth with all the enthusiasm of an inmate on death row approaching the electric chair. Much to Mydeimos’ dismay, the unrecognizable meat is also easily palatable, boasting the tender texture of a dromas steak and an inoffensive, mild aftertaste.

The plates of dubious-looking food are empty in the blink of an eye, but his stomach rumbles despite the meal he just ate. Mydeimos’ cheeks flush, his brows furrowed. 

“Is there…any more?” Mydei hates to give in to the Xianzhou’s demands of him, but his stomach is painfully empty, an unnatural hunger gnawing at the inside of his chest. 

“The feeding schedule must be strictly adhered to,” the other admonishes him. “Discipline refines the form. Your nutritional requirements have already been met for the day.” Mydei certainly doesn’t feel very well-fed, what with the way his stomach seems to be trying to cannibalize itself, but he’s also in no position to argue. 

The aurumaton clears the plates away and lifts the lid off the metal box, revealing its contents—dark, muddy water from the Sea of Souls. It smells the same as he remembers: old flesh and bone stained through with blood and salt. 

Mydeimos tenses as the aurumaton circles behind him. “...you know about my childhood?”

“The Xianzhou has ways of divining an individual’s past. We will now be beginning the conditioning of the vessel,” Wenyan speaks into her jade abacus, likely in a recording mode. “Stimulus one.”

A hologram of a person, face contorted in agony as wood bursts from beneath their skin, flickers to life before him. 

“This is a mara-struck in the early stages of transformation,” she provides. “What do you feel towards it?”

“Nothing,” Mydei growls. “What’s the point of this?” He shouts in alarm as the aurumaton pins his wrists behind his back, forcing his face into the water. The seawater burns his eyes and nose as Mydei thrashes under the weight of the metal construct, salty water flooding his airways when he instinctively tries to breathe. 

“No automatic response to stimulus one,” Mydei hears when he’s lifted out of the water, coughing violently with his head dripping wet. “Marked for further conditioning.”

“Stimulus two.” The hologram shifts, displaying a set of armor half-merged with tree bark and golden leaves, wielding a large polearm. “A mara-struck having completed its transformation. What do you feel towards it?”

“Nothing,” Mydeimos spits, chest heaving for air. The aurumaton forces his head back into the water, though he manages to take in a breath of air in preparation for it. A sharp strike to his upper back forces the air from his lungs, leaving him spitting up seawater when he’s hauled up and out.

The dark-haired woman eyes him disapprovingly. “It seems the host body is more stubborn than expected. Changing to accelerated development plan.” She waves a hand, and the aurumaton lifts Mydeimos in its arms, suspending him over the metal box—made large enough for a person to fit into, but not to move freely in, and filled with enough water that he’d struggle to keep his face above the waterline. 

“Three,” Wenyan announces, and a hologram of a person with three pairs of arms and wooden horns appears. “Do you feel hostility towards the Plagues Author?”

Mydeimos stubbornly shuts his mouth, refusing to answer, and the aurumaton drops him into the water, pressing down on his stomach to keep him under. It’s a terrible feeling, but nothing in comparison to the years he spent in the Sea of Souls. 

The long-life species looks at him expectantly once the aurumaton hauls him up by his shoulders. “And now?”

“I’m hungry, not angry,” Mydeimos snarls. “Do you think it’d be that easy to make me bend the knee?”

“Foolish,” Wenyan tuts. “Perhaps a different method of conditioning will be more successful. Switching to extended-duration conditioning methods.” The aurumaton lowers him into the water, retreating out of view before returning with a slab of metal—the lid of the box. Mydeimos’ eyes widen as it begins to shut the lid to the box. 

“Think about this while you wait,” his captor says coldly. “The Plagues Author has claimed the lives of trillions. Who are you to refuse the call of the Reignbow Arbiter for such a selfish reason?” 

The metal lid slides shut, and Mydeimos is left in absolute darkness. The box is too narrow for him to maneuver his hands under and prop himself up, and too short for him to sit up more than a few centimeters. It’s a struggle just to keep the water from covering his nose and mouth; each slight movement sends wide ripples across the surface, splashing across his face. 

Mydei wiggles a hand into the pocket of his robe, hissing when he realizes his teleslate is gone. His chest aches. 

An abandoned teleslate sits quietly on the lid of the sealed box. 

—Just now—

Phainon: I can’t wait! Kremnoan-style hot pot is surely the spiciest kind, right?

Phainon: For some reason, nobody wants to eat my (extremely delicious) salads…we’ve been going out to eat a lot lately.

Phainon: [photo attachment]

Phainon: Cyrene wrote a story about us, but she said we have to read it together or not at all. I’m waiting for you.

Phainon: Also, Castorice told me that Lord Cipher told her to tell me to tell you this: “Little lion, come back soon! That old fart Krateros’s been moping around the training grounds more than usual, and his separation-induced stress knitting is getting concerning!”

Phainon: Sounds like Krateros picked up a new hobby. I might ask him for lessons—you in a cute chimera hat sounds wonderful. Come back soon