Chương 9: Chapter Eight: The Helicon Mist Sect

Staring incredulously out into the abyss, Cyrus waited for something to happen. Yet, nothing did. There was only the vast emptiness before them, the curling depths of the mist choking and covering everything. Nicomedes chuckled, his tone seeped with mocking amusement.

"Well? What do you think, boy?" Cyrus's stomach recoiled from the height, and he stepped back.

"Are you mad?" Nikomedes sighed.

"Now that's a common accusation. But they always seem to be so premature." He walked over to the edge of the cliff, seemingly uncaring about the long drop.

"What do you expect me to believe?" Cyrus protested.

"There's nothing here!" Nicomedes rolled his eyes.

"Will you ever learn the virtue of patience, boy?" Reaching into the folds of his clothes, he withdrew a pouch, from which he produced a single silver drachma. Then, winding his arm back, he flicked it over the edge in the void below. Cyrus yelped.

"What are you doing?! Why would you throw away money?!" Nicomedes waggled his eyebrows.

"Did I?"

"D-did you?!" Cyrus felt utterly scandalized.

"That could have fed a family for a week! What are you—" His voice died, as a deep rumbling began to echo from within the mist. And slowly, a shape came out from the rolling clouds of mist. Cyrus's eyes widened. Completely inexplicably, a narrow skiff revealed itself. On the boat—its dark hull worn from age—there were no men or ores. Yet, it was as if the mist was water. Without pause, the structure glided forward smoothly, before coming to rest right in front of them with a soft thump.

Cyrus had no words for such a phenomenon. His tongue had turned leaden and heavy, and a chill crawled up his spine. He felt breathless as he forced words out of his lips.

"Wh-what is this?" he demanded.

"Is this meant to be Charon's ferry? How is any of this possible?" Nicomedes huffed.

"Charon ferries the dead across the Styx, boy, only for a single obol." The old man shook his head with disappointment etched across his features.

"Unfortunately, this one is considerably more expensive." Cyrus turned on the old man, exasperation cutting past his shock.

"You know that is not what I meant." Nicomedes scoffed.

"Cease your fretting and board the skiff, boy, before it grows tired of waiting for us." Cyrus hesitated, then carefully led the mule down onto the boat. He winced as the skiff rocked violently from the beast's weight, nearly throwing them off into the valley below. Once both he and the terrified animal were settled, the boat lurched forward on its own, gliding smoothly into the wall of mist. Cold, damp air whistled past Cyrus's ears, the open sky vanishing behind the wall of white.

"You still haven't answered me," Cyrus said, gripping the skiff's worn edge.

"How is any of this even happening?"

"A stupid question, boy," Nicomedes chided, shaking his head in disapproval.

"But a fair one, nonetheless. You see, the mist answers to pneuma, not to men. I could not tell you how this works even if I tried, boy. Older cultivators than either of us built these long before I was born, and their secrets died with them." Cyrus said nothing, though the answer only served to increase his uneasiness. How was it that in the hidden world he was now entering, not even its own inhabitants fully understood how it all worked?

He watched the endless white blanketing them from both sides, the distortion causing his stomach to clench and tremble with slight nausea. Then, slowly, faint sounds began to creep through the fog, reaching his ears. He could hear what sounded like the cracks of wood against wood. There was a delicate buzz of voices, though it came too distant for him to be able to make out words. He straightened up, heart hammering.

"Do you hear that?"

"I would indeed be a poor cultivator if I didn't." Nicomedes smirked.

"We are close." Ahead, the mist began to thin at last. Shapes finally began to solidify out of the fog. Vague at first, but they soon began sharpening intensely with each passing second until Cyrus found himself staring at an unexplainable sight. Rising directly from the cliff, a single grand structure towered over them. Its front was composed of a fancy colonnade, with Doric columns.

The entire wall seemed to be crowned around terraced steps that had been constructed into the mountainside, climbing so high up that the upper regions completely vanished into the everpresent cloud of mist. Cyrus was awestruck. So this was a… Temple.

"Don't gawk, boy," Nicomedes snapped. Yet Cyrus was unable to look away until the skiff finally came to a stop gently against a wide landing of polished marble. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it"We must hurry," Nicomedes said, rising from the boat.

"We do not have much time." True to his word, the old hurried forward, no time given to marvel at the sights. Yet Cyrus's eyes remained glued to the majestic image of the towering columns above as he carefully guided the mule off the vessel. Strowling forward, they passed the colonnade. Stepping properly into the temple, Cyrus was promptly assaulted in all fronts of his senses.

There was the dizzying aroma of pine needles and strange herbs—medicinal, they seemed to be, while the sight before him looked something akin to a scene from one of the tales of old. His eyes quickly found a palaestra to his left. The wide open training field had been filled with golden sand, and atop it, dozens of young men and women were engaged in combat. Mainly, Cyrus found his sight attracted to two wrestlers who were clashing in the center of the sand.

He was at first just amazed by their combat prowess, but as he continued observing, a stronger sense of pure astonishment seeped into him. Whenever their skin rammed into each other, their skin flashed, turning it something akin metal, deflecting off of each other. All Cyrus could do was gape. So this is pneuma… he thought. Unfortunately, he had no chance to see more. Nicomedes pulled him along, and they ascended another flight of marble steps, leaving the palaestra behind and entering a majestic hall.

There, they found a man. He was sat upon a stone dais, his form towering and inhumanely imposing. A thick wool chlamys had been draped over his shoulders, fancifully embroidered with delicate gold designs. His beard was lined with silver strands, his expression horribly stern. On either side of the intimidating man stood attendants.

All wearing formal chitons, one was holding a silver pitcher—an oinochoe —and bowl, another was fanning the air with palm fronds, and two armored doryphoroi stood stiffly, bronze spears held at attention. Nicomedes advanced forward confidently, bowing his head towards the man seated on the throne.

"Archon Philotas. I humbly greet you." Cyrus remained behind, frozen as a quiver of strange unease infected him, tightening his chest. Surprisingly, the feeling had nothing to do with the heavy weapons of the guards, or their imposing presence. No, it was because this was nothing like what he had expected. He had presumed that this sanctuary would be like a temple.

And since he'd heard stories, even in Boeotia, of how the great temples conducted themselves, he had naturally thought this sect would share the same values. Yet… here was a man, currently lounging atop a throne while servants fanned him like some Persian satrap out of someone's exaggerated tale. Where is the reverence in any of this? Cyrus thought, feeling scandalized and bewildered. Where is the fear of offending whatever god watches over this place? Nicomedes straightened from his bow.

"Archon Philotas," he said again.

"Still perched on that ridiculous chair, I see." The Archon's stern expression stayed the same.

"Nicomedes," he murmured, his voice powerful and rumbling.

"So you are still alive. How disappointing." He waved a hand, and the attendant with the palm fronds paused mid-fan.

"I had a wager with the Archon of the Serpent Order that you'd finally gotten yourself killed somewhere in the Peloponnese." Nicomedes chuckled.

"What was the wager?"

"A fine amphora of retsina wine."

"Well then, my deepest condolences." Nicomedes scoffed.

"Perhaps if you found yourself a woman you wouldn't have to need the comfort of drink so badly." Philotas boomed with a chuckle.

"And yet, look at you! A wandering vagrant who abandoned this mountain a decade ago and only returns when it suits them." Raising a thick brow, the robust man leaned forward.

"Tell me, old friend. Why have you come back? Finally ready to pay some of the ever increasing money of your debt?" Nicomedes clicked his tongue.

"Money, money, money. See, this is why you have nobody!" The Archon sighed.

"I prefer the comfort of silence anyway." Shaking his head, he gestured for the servant holding a pitcher.

"Sit. Let us have a drink. You look like a corpse, just a good push before the sight of the underworld befalls you."

"Charming as ever." Nicomedes didn't sit, even as the servant rushed over.

"But I don't have much time, I must admit. Let us move past the theatrics." At that, Philotas's eyes finally slid over to Cyrus.

"Ah. Who is this?" Nicomedes reached back and clapped a hand on Cyrus's shoulder, hauling him forward.

"This is Cyrus." The Archon looked unimpressed.

"... and? Why have you brought him before me? Don't tell me you expect me to take him in?" Nicomedes nodded.

"He has potential. He has decent control over pneuma, even when he didn't know what it was. And—" Philotas groaned, leaning his head back.

"Every third rate disciple here has potential, Nicomedes." Nicomedes shrugged.

"Even still." He ruffled Cyrus's hair, who bristled at being discussed like an object for trade.

"Come on, just do it as a favor for me. It won't hurt you anyway." Philon grunted. Then he was silent, deep in thought, before sighing and waving his hand.

"Send for Pericles. He can spare an hour showing the boy around." The attendant bowed and hurried off, disappearing down a corridor. It wasn't long before footsteps echoed down the same corridor, and a young man appeared. He was perhaps seventeen or so, with dark hair and a lean form, his exomis straight and neat.

"Archon." Pericles bowed at the throne.

"Pericles," Philotas said.

"This is Cyrus. Show him the grounds of our sect."

"Understood, Archon." Pericles's expression was cold as he turned to Cyrus.

"Follow me. Do not dare lag behind." Cyrus hesitated, glancing back toward Nicomedes, feeling a bit reluctant to let the only familiar face out of his sight.

"Go on, boy," Nicomedes said, not even sparing him a look.

"I'm not finished here." Reluctantly, Cyrus took to walking right behind Pericles, who set forward briskly. An attendant quietly took the mule's lead as they passed. But as Cyrus left the room, a sudden morph in Nicomedes's voice caught his attention. The old man's tone turned cold, all traces of mockery leaving him.

"Alright," the old man said, tone suddenly clipped and businesslike.

"Let us cut the amusement, my old friend. You know why I'm here." Philotas's expression turned equally stern.

"Yes, I do," the Archon muttered quietly.

"Then let us not waste each other's breath." Nicomedes's voice was hard.

"I came to collect that." Cyrus's steps slowed, straining to catch more of the interesting conversation, but Pericles didn't slow at all, forcing Cyrus to hurry to close the gap between them.

"Do not linger," Pericles scolded without turning around.

"Whatever business the old man has with the Archon is not yours to hear." He didn't so much as glance back to see if Cyrus was following.

"Now," Pericles said flatly, "let me show you around."