Chương 17: Chapter Sixteen: A Shade! A Daemon!

Cyrus was afloat. The stinging sensation that had seeped into his muscles were no more, replaced with a body that felt weightless. He had no senses other than that. He no longer heard the sounds of the wilds, the scentful stenches of plant life, or the bitter metallic bile that had clung to the back of his throat. Instead, Cyrus was suspended upon an inky void. There was no direction. There was no up or down, left or right. It was purely… A void.

Gradually, it was as if endless layers of silk were swaddling him, hefty and stifling in their weight. With a soft and velvety texture, it wrapped his skin comfortably with warm waves, sending a shiver of pleasantries down his spine. But the cloth also began to constrict. It tightened around his limbs, around his feet, around his hands. It went taut against his neck, cutting him off from breath, choking Cyrus, until his sight became bleary, and staying conscious became an agonizing ordeal.

He clawed at the silk, trying to gasp for breath. But no air flooded his lungs. Instead, a terrible, bitter, metallic taste bloomed across his tongue. He blanched. Somehow frigid, it felt terribly heavy. He knew how strange the sensation was—since when did taste have weight? Yet, it was truly as if a heavy stone was within his mouth, dragging him deeper and deeper into the endless, suffocating mounds of cloth. The taste grew stronger. And stronger.

It grew and grew, souring and rotting, until— Cyrus's senses exploded. He gasped. His nose was flooded, overwhelmed, with pure scent. The scent of pine needles, the scent of resin, the fragrant scent of blooming flowers. The blinding sunlight was like golden juices, bursting and wettening his eyes, permeating deep into his sight. His skin tingled, a slight breeze running over the flesh. He was… He was alive!

But before Cyrus could celebrate the sudden return to life, a voice sounded from nearby, a soft chant that tore past the dizzying rush of energy.

"... Lord Hermes Psychopomp, guide of souls, look kindly upon this fallen stranger. Grant him smooth passage across the dark waters, and let his shade find rest in the meadows of…" What? Psychopomp? The… The guider of souls?! Cyrus ripped his eyes open. Panic made him bolt upright. With instinct taking over his mind momentarily, he failed to recognize the miracle of his returned limbs. By the gods, how were his eyes and limbs suddenly intact?

Opening and widening his bloodied lips, Cyrus let air pour deep into his lungs.

"AHHHH!" Cyrus jumped at the shriek, bleary and dizzying eyes latching onto the source of the sounds. It was a deeply tanned farmer just a few steps away. The poor man's mouth was gaping in horror, utter fear paralyzing his limbs momentarily, before he began to scramble backwards, all the while kicking wildly.

"No!" He squealed." Daemon! Eis korakas! Stay back, defiled creature! Stay away!" Cyrus tried to cry in confusion, reaching out a hand in an attempt to pacify the man. But to his shock, his lips failed to produce a single word. His tongue collided with a firm and flat disk wedged into the roof of his mouth. He gagged, working to dislodge the foreign object before it slipped and he choked on it. The farmer didn't stick around to listen. After letting out a final, terror-striken yell, the man scrambled to his feet.

His cloaks whipping behind him, he bolted down the dirt path as fast as his weathered sandals could carry him. Cyrus coughed, spittle flying. Tensing his throat, he spat. A small piece of metal flew out, coming to rest with a loud clink into his blood-stained palm. Cyrus stared at it incredulously. Wiping away a stain of dirt and saliva from his cheeks, he looked down at the dull coin resting in his hand. It was an obol. The standard fee for the Ferryman. The farmer had been trying to give him a burial.

Cyrus flinched away at the realization, tossing the coin away in shock. His spine shook with shivers, the lingering metallic taste in his mouth sending waves of unease through him. He glanced down at his body. His clothes were familiar, albeit dark and stiff with dried blood. But when he shook off the torn fabric, he found the flesh beneath strange. The horrific wounds Ateas had left behind were gone. Yet, his skin felt unnaturally pale and ice-cold to the touch, like a daemon had bestowed their touch upon him.

When he shook and twitched his fingers, it felt oddly disjointed, as if even though his mind continued sending commands, it was to a body that was no longer his own. He slapped his palm against the center of his chest, searching for proof of life. Thump. Though relief flooded him at first, the more he continued to listen, the more the unease grew. The beats were much too slow and weak. The rhythm was horribly irregular, leaving him to wonder how he was still breathing and sitting upright.

Cyrus closed his eyes, his bleary mind frantically shaking off the cobwebs and retracing what had happened. He could remember most of it. Especially the voice. What had it been? He had never heard of anything of the sort, even in the legends. And why had it screamed in defiance to the heavens at the end? But in the end, that wasn't very important. What was was the vow that he had made. On the River Styx.

His stomach tightened and curled, but the more his disorientation cleared, the more the fear was shaken off of him. His heart hardened. There was no turning back now. He was alive. And he had things that he had to do. Gritting his teeth, he tensed his legs and straightened. He stood tall, finding that there was no lingering ache or pain in his limbs. I am going home, he thought, taking a step forward.

"Oh, going somewhere so soon, my child?" Cyrus leaped out of his skin. He yelped, scrambling backward and tripping over his own feet. He landed on his bum in the dirt. This time, the ancient, gravelly voice hadn't come from inside his head. No, it had come from directly beneath him. A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. Cyrus glanced down, only to find a small, unassuming creature perched calmly atop his own knee. A… cicada.

Sitting with its translucent and veined wings folded against its back, its metallic luster caught the sunlight, twinkling with an animalistic beauty. Its membrane looked strangely burned, like they'd been held too close to flame once, seared at the edges. In addition, a thin line of deep red ran along its thorax, like a scarred old wound. Cyrus blinked incredulously down at it. What's going on—"My, my," the insect rumbled.

"Why must you jump like a startled beast? Is that any way to treat your new benefactor?" Cyrus frantically scrambled backward.

"Get off!" he screamed. The cicada buzzed. With a dry rustle of its charred wings, it lifted off. Gliding in the air, it hovered precisely at Cyrus's eye level just a few steps away.

"You've got to be joking," Cyrus stammered, staring at the hovering insect.

"You're a bug?" The cicada rasped, something that sounded as if it was meant to be a laugh.

"You look disappointed, my child. What were you expecting me to be?"

"Well, I—I expected—""Does it truly matter?" the cicada rumbled, interrupting him.

"I am the one who pulled you back from Thanatos's grasp." Cyrus swallowed, looking down at his pale, woundless hands. The creature was right about that.

"I... I get that," Cyrus muttered.

"And I'm... grateful. But what are you? How could you possibly do all of this? And what do you want?" The cicada only glared at him gravely.

"Curiosity is a luxury," the insect intoned softly.

"And one not available for you, my child. And for what I want… I will ask that of you once I help you achieve what you wish." The cicada darted forward. Paht! It slammed itself directly onto the center of Cyrus's forehead. Cyrus gasped in surprise. A searing heat blossomed between his eyes, burning into his skull like liquid fire. He felt at his brow, half-expecting to find the suicidal insect's half-crushed legs, but found nothing.

"Do not waste your breath on trivial questions," the solemn voice echoed, back inside his head now.

"Focus on the task at hand, my child." Cyrus stiffened. The burn on his forehead faded, and he took a deep breath. The mysterious being's voice was right. What did it matter that the presence could take on the form of an insect? What did it matter that it had somehow brought him back from the dead? The miracle was already done. He was standing. He was alive. Fully capable of taking revenge against Leandros and his father.

"Fine," Cyrus grumbled, rubbing his forehead tentatively.

"But if we're bound by an oath on the Styx, I at least need to know what to call you. What is your name?"

"You may call me Aithon," the voice echoed anciently. Aithon… Cyrus repeated in his head. The name of one of the four immortal steeds that pulled Lord Ares's chariot. What a peculiar name.

"Now," Aithon continued, before Cyrus could dwell on it further.

"I will hear your grievances. What made you so furious that you insulted and belied the very gods who gave you life? Tell me properly." Cyrus bit his tongue. He didn't know if he should speak, caught momentarily with hesitation. Could he trust this strange voice? For a moment, the words wouldn't come. But it didn't matter. Slowly, the whole ugly story spilled out of him.

He spoke of the fire inside the hearth, of Leandros, of Nicomedes, and the news he received of his father being struck down, his mother and sister dragged away in chains. By the time he finished, Aithon was staring at him intently.

"A common enough tale," the cicada finally murmured.

"Cruelty answered with cruelty." Cyrus scowled.

"Then you understand why I could not simply lie here and let Lord Hades take me."

"Yes. I understand that you want them to pay," Aithon said. He gave a dry rasp.

"Very nice, my child. Hatred is a good fuel."

"So you'll help me?"

"I already swore as much, upon the Styx," Aithon said.

"Now, how about we test your newly awakened body?" Nodding, Cyrus turned back his focus onto his lower limbs. Bracing himself, he strode forward. He took one step, then two, then three— The world suddenly tilted. Without warning, his body simply refused to make sense. He willed his left foot to plant itself firmly, but it felt as though the ground was no longer below him. He blinked, his just-awoken mind bleary as it struggled to make sense of what was happening.

His legs were moving regularly, but it was as if his sense of distance had been shredded and ripped apart, his mind hopelessly divorced from his own limbs. It felt like he was attempting to walk while submerged in heavy oil. He tottered wildly. But in his panic to correct himself, he overshot his right foot, and fell crashing into the dirt, striking the ground flat on his face.

"By Zeus..." Cyrus wheezed, spitting a mouthful of dirt from his lips. He tried to push himself back up, but when he braced his palms against the ground, his hands struck the earth steps away from where his sight claimed they should be.

"Patience, my child," Aithon murmured stoically in his mind.

"I found it wise to test it first, but it seems you truly cannot walk yet." Cyrus snarled with frustration, awkwardly pushing himself onto his knees.

"What did you do to me, Aithon? What is happening to my body?"

"I restored your spirit," Aithon explained gravely.

"But you were already within the grasps of the Underworld. I healed your wounds, your missing sight, and everything else. However, I could not heal everything. You yourself may be alive, but your body is a walking corpse."

"A… a corpse?" Cyrus froze, his mouth tasting dry, still stained with clumps of the damp dirt. A cold dread plunged into his chest, seizing his throat and useless limbs.

"No... no! Then how am I supposed to protect my family? How am I to confront Leandros if I've been reduced to a stumbling carcass?!"

"Calm yourself, my child," Aithon's voice solemnly swept aside the rising hysteria.

"Did I not swear to grant you the fortitude to stand, to mend, and to visit ruin upon those who betrayed you? An oath bound upon the Styx is not to be taken so lightly." Before Cyrus could utter more words, once more, a sharp heat flared up between his brows. Paht. Something slipped down the bridge of his nose, rolling off and landing directly onto his outstretched hand. Cyrus blinked, gazing downward. Resting in his palm was a strange sphere.

It was a pristine, milky pearl, shimmering with an ethereal, opalescent shine beneath Lord Helios's sun.

"Swallow it," Aithon told him. Cyrus frowned, holding up the strange ball to the sunlight.

"What is it? He eyed it suspiciously.

"What sorcery is this?"

"It is a small, condensed form of my own pneuma," Aithon answered.

"In my current state, I am blind to the subtle machinations of your mortal form. Consume the pearl to let me see your physicality. Only then may I start pondering on how to restore you to life." Cyrus couldn't help but feel hesitation. Sure, he didn't know much about cultivation, but even he could figure out that what was happening was far from regular occurrence. What really was this being? They must have goals, aspirations, a plan for Cyrus, right? But what? Then he scoffed. His hesitation was worthless.

He had already pledged his soul against the black waters of the underworld's river. Questioning his benefactor after all that was simply madness. Bracing himself, Cyrus placed the orb upon his tongue. Then he swallowed, shoving the thick sphere down his gullet to not choke. Cyrus expected for a metallic taste to overcome him. But there was none of that. Instead, the taste that exploded throughout his palate was strangely pleasant. It was the unmistakable taste of fresh, green olives.

As the pearl disappeared into his stomach, it was as if a gentle breeze fluttered through his nervous system, fanning outward, warming the very tips of his icy fingers.

"Fascinating..." Aithon murmured. Though his voice remained inside his head, it sounded much more distant.

"Your vessel is simply so raw and utterly unrefined. It is a marvel that you survived until I found you." Cyrus sat down, flexing his pale fingers to let the electric tingling settle faster into his muscles.

"What do you mean?"

"Your physical form is abysmal, my child," Aithon brutally declared.

"Your pneuma supply is laughably meager. And your phlebes..." Aithon sighed.

"Your spiritual veins are fragile, thin, and so terribly raw they resemble those of an infant. Worse still, they are riddled with horrid tears. What have you done to them?" Cyrus stiffened, feeling a prickle of defensive shame rise.

"I... I simply followed the cultivation arts taught by the Helicon Mist Sect."

"Helicon Mist Sect… I have never heard of such an academy. Nonetheless, those elders of that sect must be blind fools," Aithon retorted with disdain.

"Whatever brute technique you practiced was akin to forcing dragging knives through delicate silk. Such self-mutilation." Cyrus frowned. Was the presence really telling the truth? Was the Misty Iron Body Stance truly so horrible?"

"Do not despair, my child," Aithon smoothed over Cyrus's rising doubt.

"We can still forge you anew. You are lucky, as it appears that you only practiced the method for a few days."

"How?"

"The first step is simple," Aithon declared solemnly.

"Before we can mend anything else, we must address the root of your plight. We must rebuild your physical form back from the cold grip of death."

"I see..." Cyrus muttered, bracing himself, "what do I have to do?

"You must anoint yourself, chest to brow, with mud."