Grok is a man of pragmatic necessity.

  A thought without purpose is useless, an action with no final destination is just the flailing of foolish flesh. Everything has to have meaning, every step down the path has to be intentional and measured, every word spoken has to reflect philosophy. So, everything he does is infused with meaning, as it must be, for to be immortal is more than simply living forever. It is to stand amongst mortals as their god, and gods must be meticulous in their judgement, so when he chose to come to Ralth it was with a purpose.

  That purpose was not to bring peace.

  A slender hand of smoldering feathers picks up a child by the throat, she’s about the right age, perhaps eight, perhaps nine. Her parents lay dead beneath her, two lifeless bodies to witness their daughter struggle with plentiful tears and futile kicks. Grok holds her there, and stares deep into her eyes as she chokes. Slowly, as the life leaves her, he unravels who she is. An ambitionless child with no accomplishments to her name, but she is content with that so long as she and her family see tomorrow.

  Not what he’s looking for.

  He snaps her neck.

  Her body goes limp, and he lets go, leaving her to join her parents on the cobble. He stares at the fresh corpse with clinical resignation, how many has it been now? Hmmmm…too many, the youth these days don’t seem to match his criteria, which is a shame, he was hoping this setting would create a few gems.

  The cosmos could also just be playing a prank on him, which isn’t entirely out of the question.

  No matter, he knows where to go next.

  He turns his gaze to the right and follows the trail, stepping at the cadence of a mortal, there’s no need to rush afterall, he has plenty of time. There’s plenty of violence here, the sects of Goroka unleashing their wrath upon one another, Grok doesn’t much care for it. It’s just the infantile tantrum of his fellows and their students. They’ll be done eventually, whether he participates or not, so he may as well seek to accomplish his purpose instead. His steps are light on the cobble streets, like a feather, his arms concealed by the sleeves of his robes.

  There’s a melodic tune to the sounds of fighting in the distance, like a small symphony of violence, he isn’t one for music, but he can appreciate artistry when it graces his ears. He’s taken the opportunity to make this place like a…test. His core disciples are fighting ferociously to meet his expectations and prove their worth, he’ll find out which ones passed when it’s time to head back to Goroka.

  He takes a turn and continues with his walking.

  There are a few peasants watching him, but he really does have to emphasise that it’s only just a few, most having fled or become corpses. Which is just wasteful, but mortals come aplenty so he doesn’t really care, if they wished for his attention they’d have to do something beyond what a mortal should be capable of.

  There’ve been a few of those, not many, but a few.

  They never disappoint once he’s got his eyes on them, and isn’t that a wonder? Mortals meeting the expectations of an immortal, if it weren’t so rare he might find that funny. He turns another corner, and his eyes land on his prize.

  There, on his knees at the side of the street is a boy shaking the corpse of a woman with tears in his eyes. He’s saying something, some kind of pleading, but it’s not really important so Grok doesn’t really pay attention, walking towards the boy with unfathomable purpose. The boy doesn’t notice him until his shadow obscures his form.

  He turns to look at Grok, and chokes out a surprised sob as he shuffles away.

  “No need to be afraid,” Grok says, sounding like a bird made of stars, “I’m just here to see, nothing more.”

  The boy does not calm down.

  Hmmm, annoying.

  No matter, he gently picks the boy up by his throat and stares into his eyes. The first thing he sees is pain, followed by a hollow vessel, like any hope was turned to dust, like every future is pointless.

  Grok smiles,

  Yes, he will do.

  -

  Fire isn’t something sacred, as much as his students might insist otherwise.

  It’s a tool, a volatile one too, prone to destruction if handled carelessly, and there are so many out there with a fetish for arson. Hex is ashamed to see that his disciples are among their number, he’s staring at the blaze that has overtaken more than half of the city, a blaze started by his own sect.

  He lets out a long sigh.

  He’s going to need to give some thorough beatings when they get back to Goroka, the lack of control is simply unacceptable, where did all the time he dedicated training these fools go?!?

  Well, might as well deal with the immediate problem first.

  Hex extends an arm of charcoal and sweet mint up to the flame, connecting his fingers with the blaze, and for a moment nothing happens.

  Then the flame is absorbed.

  It is not instant, the amount of fire here is ridiculous, and it isn’t natural, so even he struggles. But slowly, all the fire in Ralth is subsumed with his fingers, turning the coal of his skin a bright orange as the flame is converted into Qi.

  It isn’t much compared to what he has stored, perhaps half a years worth, but he isn’t taking it for the Qi.

  He’s taking it to make a statement.

  Hex doesn’t have to wait long at all before someone crashes behind him, sounding cratering the cobble with the impact, Hex doesn’t have the decency to lose his balance. He simply turns to face a burning giant of granite who does not look pleased with the man.

  “Hex,” meat placed on a hot stone to sizzle says, “this whole time you could have simply been rid of the fire? Do you know how many died while you took you’re sweet fucking time?”

  “That is none of my concern,” the light concerto of crackling fire says, “I have three hundred disciples running rampant throughout this city, cleaning after them would be a foolish endeavour.”

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  “You just did so with ease,”

  “Because it was unsightly,” Hex says wisely, “fire should not be used for such base purposes, it is a shame to witness.”

  “What?”

  “Are you hard of hearing Banzan?”

  A fist of concentrated granite rushes for his face, but he simply…shapes his body into fire and lets it pass. In his hand a ball of concentrated plasma is formed, and as Banzan pulls back his arm, Hex places it on the man's chest, and lets it absorb into his body.

  Banzan’s eyes widen and-

  His veins are overtaken with flame, he glows brighter than his dao could ever allow as he screams in agony, all the while Hex just watches.

  Banzan falls to his knees, coughing steam and spitting blood.

  “The emperor has made you forget Banzan,” Hex says casually, “I am the oldest among us, you do not casually strike at me.”

  Banzan grits his teeth and slams his fist into the floor, summoning five spikes of granite, if Hex had the time he would sigh. He morphs his body and clothing into fire, avoiding the spikes and circling around Banzan where he superheats his hand and digs into the granite mans back, grabbing at his spine.

  “Honestly, I don’t understand why you even care, it’s not like they’ll live all that long anyway.” He melts Banzans spine and the man screams, “and there will always be more to replace them, they fuck like rabbits after-”

  A set of claws pierce through his back and drag themselves down his body, opening weeping wounds of magma as the man lets out a grunt and lets a beam of fire expel from his back.

  It hits, and he hears the scream of a woman.

  Immortals screaming, such an odd sight, only fire could accomplish that.

  He rips out a long segment of Banzans spine, superheats it, then turns and strikes at the woman behind him, she just barely dodges and goes to claw at him again, but he can see her now.

  He just morphs the parts of his body she strikes into flame and strikes out with his spine-whip again. She dodges again, but she can’t keep it up forever, no one possibly could, so he continues the charade with a relaxed kind of boredom.

  “What are you all doing, allying yourselves together?” Hex says, “is there no shame amongst immortals anymore? Where is your pride?”

  “Up your ass,” says bones grinding against steel as two blades of obsidian puncture through his heart and lung respectively.

  Hmmm…even Laketh?

  Now this is just strange.

  Hex turns the parts of his body that were punctured to plasma and melts off the two bone blades. The man surprisingly doesn’t even grunt just retreating to recoup and reform. He focuses back on Rotse, grabbing her arm as it comes down to slash at him, beginning to melt it off as-

  Someone cuts off his arm.

  Hex huffs, another one? Honestly, this is pathetic.

  He turns to find…not an immortal, but a regular cultivator, one who hasn’t even begun infusion. Hex scrunches his brow as she starts a frenzy of precise strikes that he just…morphs around as he’s been doing the whole fight.

  “Strange,” vibrant plasma says, “why fight me child? You’re going to die, you know that?”

  She pays him no mind, continuing her barrage as the others join in and Hex just scrunches his brow in confusion, wouldn’t it be funny if there were another one?

  A spike of granite impales his body and Hex turns to find Banzan hale and whole.

  Next to him is Uai Ta.

  Fantastic.

  -

  The melody of rampant destruction, clashing steel, and obnoxious techniques is a surprisingly calming backdrop to their little game.

  There’s also the screaming, but that’s easy to ignore.

  Einar scrunches his brow in complex concentration as he contemplates his next move. Playing with Gillian is a test in patience, the man seemingly reading all his moves before he makes them.

  Einar is convinced there’s some dao he’s using but his senses don’t pick up any foul play, perhaps he’s just stupid.

  No, he’d rather not consider that.

  He moves his bishop a few spaces.

  He gets instantly checkmated.

  Einar stares at the board with sheer bafflement, how?

  He runs his hands down his face and groans.

  “Come now, don’t be like that,” says the blade of a spiralling vortex, “It’s only been four millenia, you’ll beat me someday.”

  “Haha,” the smoothness of a pearl says dryly, “hilarious, you should consider a career as a jester, you’re sure to make a killing.”

  “Oh, why do something so benign when I could beat you instead!”

  “Ow,” Einar says, “my poor feelings, how could you have struck me like this dear friend? I am positively reeling.”

  “Sarcasm? We truly are circling around all the coping mechanisms of grief now aren’t we? Does losing so often truly mark your ego so?”

  Einar grumbles out a few curses as he resets the board, much to Gillian’s amusement.

  “Another?” Gillian says.

  “Yeah,” Einar says as he sets down the last piece, “nothing else to do but listen to all the fighting and screaming.”

  “We could always join them,”

  “Ha!” Einar barks out, “and miss an opportunity to finally beat you? Please, I’d rather spend a decade in purgatory!”

  Gillian chuckles as he makes the first move, moving his pawn a couple of spaces forward. Einar’s eyes are like that of a hawk as he matches the man's motion with one of his own, and waits for Gillian’s next move. Birds are usually singing as they play, but the city of Ralth is seemingly in too much chaos to entertain the presence of avians.

  Einar almost misses the flying bastards, almost.

  There’s a shriek beneath their pagoda that he pays no mind to as the other man makes another move. He isn’t really the type to entertain the other immortals indulgence for violence, and neither is Gillian, so they just set loose their disciples to do as they please while they took the opportunity as a kind of vacation where they don’t have to manage sect politics.

  “All this screaming is grating on the ears,” Gillian sighs, “can’t they tone down the volume?”

  “Cold,” Einar says as he moves his knight, “what would your cultists think if they found out you were so blasé about suffering?”

  “I do not care,” he grunts, “they are just fools who try to make sense of the world by putting something transcendent on a pedestal. I care little for such displays of frivolity, and even if I were a god, I wouldn’t answer they’re prayers.”

  “So like every god of the pantheon?” Einar says, “don’t seem interested in some originality? Could make the world a better place, wouldn’t that be a sight?”

  “I’d rather play chess.”

  “Oh, what a tragedy,” Einar waxes poetic, “the great Gillian resigns himself to be the deity of chess and grumpy expressions, and the world continues to suffer as it always will.”

  Gillian huffs and places down his knight in a position to eat Einar’s bishop.

  Einar grumbles as he’s forced between sacrificing his bishop or his queen, since if he left the knight he’d be leaving her vulnerable. He sighs and chooses to sacrifice the bishop, which Gillian quickly capitalises on.

  “So how long do you think it’ll be before the sultan brings down his army? Einar says, “he’s gonna have to at this rate, we’re too juicy a target.”

  “They probably already have.” Gillian shrugs, “we likely just haven’t gotten word of it, it does take at least a month to travel from Barakan to here

  “Really? Why hasn’t the emperor been organizing anything then?”

  “You think I know what goes on in that fool's mind?” Gilian snorts, “just look at the ‘peace’ we’re bringing to this city, honestly, the fact he didn’t see this coming just cements that he’s an idiot”

  “Fair,” Einar says, “Though I’d like to think our ruler isn’t that stupid.”

  “Think again, the only reason he wears the robes is because he’s the strongest, and one of the only immortals willing to take on the role of managing mortals.”

  Then, suddenly, something crashes into the pagoda they’re having their little game in, and the both of them look over in curiosity at the Qi signature of whoever landed, what arises is a woman of cracked flesh, weeping blood from her eyes as she stares at the both of them

  “You two,” shredded meat says, “call off your disciples, this war is over.”