Devourer Of Destiny - Chapter 134

Ebon Dirge soon discovered that there was one particular hurdle he hadn’t thought through well enough when considering his plan to use other teachers to farm merit points.

Getting started.

It was obvious in retrospect, given how none of the others in the Remedial Institute had so much as greeted him as they passed in the hallway, but it definitely put a damper on the strategy. There were no designated breaks or broadcast plans to meet up among the remedial tutoring faculty; they all went their own ways in solitude and silence.

It made some sense, given how promotions worked inside the Celestial Ascendance Academy. The remedial tutors were all angling for that initial promotion into the ranks of the acknowledged teachers, and each student who came to the Remedial Institute was a possible lifeline to grasp so they could pull themselves up and out of that place.

Dirge shelved the idea for the moment. So far he was finding himself supremely unimpressed with how the school was managed. The concept of the law of the jungle reigning supreme wasn’t where he had his issues with it; what he found grating was that such a hard ceiling was put in place at such an early stage. Problems like Theo’s should have never been as desperate as they were.

Dirge closed off another day without any visitors. His irritation was mitigated only by anticipation of the entertainment he had planned for the evening. Returning to his apartment, he wasted no time hopping into the shuttle and heading down to Martin’s shop.

The tailor’s shop was again devoid of other customers when Dirge entered. This was tickling his sense for the odd, given how busy the rest of the bazaar was, but how the shopkeeper’s business was handled didn’t really concern him too much so long as the man provided the clothing on time and to his specifications.

“Good evening, Miss Sable!” Martin greeted the arrival cheerily. Today’s suit was the same cut as before but was now in a bright pink shade. Dirge again deferred commenting, but he did have to wonder if the man’s eye-assailing taste in personal wear had something to do with the lack of clients, much like going to see the barber and finding that his hair was an uneven rat’s nest would drive one away there.

“Martin,” Dirge replied, making a small smile and an incline of the head. “I trust I’m not too early?”

“Oh no, absolutely not, miss,” Martin remarked with an almost scandalized affect to his tone. “The work is completed on time and budget, as promised. I’ve taken the liberty of arranging it all in the back room if you’ll come with me.”

Dirge quirked an eyebrow but reserved his commentary again as he followed the tailor to the back room. Things were getting weirder and weirder; a shop where nobody visited, manned by an owner unconcerned with leaving the storefront unattended while it was wide open? He guessed the wares weren’t of such a high value that a thief capable of evading Martin’s pursuit would bother with them, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling that something peculiar was going on with this shop.

Following the tailor, Dirge noted back room of the shop looked to be about what he would expect of the workroom of a tailor, although he wasn’t an expert on the subject. He had half expected to find a torture chamber or some other bizarre arrangement going on at this point, but it was almost distressingly mundane. Bales of various colors of cloth, spools of thread, and bundles of needles were the instruments here.

On a large table in the center of the room were several outfits, folded and set side by side. “My lady, your order,” Martin announced with a dramatic bow and flourish.

Dirge stepped forward to examine the products of the tailor’s labors. There were two different kinds of clothing he had specified, and both were present here.

The first kind of clothing Dirge had ordered were dresses much in the same style as what he had already, but with a bit more cloth involved. Autumn was already in full swing and winter would arrive soon enough, and while he could blessedly ignore the worst of the elements both as a cultivator and as someone in a homunculus body, he thought it would be prudent to lift the neckline just a bit for some variety. Possessing a Sky Realm physique did make one capable of defying gravity, but certain things were still inclined to obey regardless, and he’d rather not have any accidents with those.

The second kind of clothing was far more critical to Dirge. These were his work clothes, a set of black tunics and breeches that left everything covered. There was even a hood-and-mask apparatus on the tunics so that he could conceal all but his eyes.

As a teacher at the Celestial Ascendance Academy, there was a standard of public decorum expected of him. The school did not openly discourage their faculty and students from doing things like taking part in the arena matches, but there was an expectation that they wouldn’t do so brazenly. When Dirge had visited the arena the other night, he had seen a fair number of the most successful competitors in various gimmicky costumes and disguises that distracted from or concealed their appearances.

Dirge understood that he was far from the first person from the school to want to enter the arena circuit. Cultivation required challenges; the raw accumulated of information and resources only went so far, and while the Academy had some ways of providing an environment of challenge, there was little that could compare with life-and-death battles like the arenas offered.

The work clothes didn’t only conceal his features, though. Through the artful application of panels of padding and leather — tighter here, thicker there — it also hid that the person donning the clothing was female. With a modicum of effort in blocking the sweeps of spiritual sense directed at him, Dirge could be virtually traceless.

Or so he had planned. With a sweep of his own spiritual sense on the garments, he discovered that actively shielding was wholly unnecessary.

Dirge turned to the tailor. “Who are you?”

Martin coughed nervously. “I’m but a small and modest–”

“I’m sure others will buy that story, but I’m not going to,” Dirge interrupted, dropping all pretense of smiling cordiality as he went on high alert. “This kind of work isn’t something a small and modest tailor can do. The whole thing must be enmeshed with soulsilk, and that’s not something you can just find in a random shop anywhere.”

Martin’s eyes shifted. “Let’s just say we have a mutual friend and that she supplied the materials and the method for working them. She also had me do the work on your other dresses, too.”

So it was Amelia’s meddling. Again. Dirge would have probably been more comfortable had the man been an admitted serial killer eyeing him as a victim or something of the sort, but it at least brought some clarity to the situation. There was also an implication to her generous contribution: covered in soulsilk-threaded cloth, he wouldn’t be able to nab the souls of the slaughtered. He had little intention of violating his restrictions, but it appeared she wasn’t so confident of that.

“So I take it this isn’t really your shop?” Dirge asked. He might as well satisfy all of his curiosity since they were having this discussion now.

“Well, it is and it isn’t,” Martin answered. “The whole thing is quite complicated, really. It’s here for you for however long you’ll be needing to drop by, but as soon as my mistress decides I have work somewhere or somewhen else, I’ll be there instead.”

“Did your mistress have anything more to convey alongside those materials, then?”

Martin shook his head. “Not really.”

“How very like her,” Dirge commented dryly. “Do you have the same problem with her apparently forgetting some pertinent bits of information here and there?”

Martin laughed. “My mistress has always been parsimonious with what she tells people. I don’t even know if it’s a conscious habit.”

Dirge snorted but bit back the retort that came to mind. Insulting Amelia in front of this man might end up being counterproductive. “So, does this mean I don’t actually have to pay you the rest now?”

“Oh, heavens no, of course you still have to pay the bill, Miss Sable,” Martin replied in that mock scandalized tone. “I’d starve if I started just giving things away, and you wouldn’t want that, would you?”

——–

After settling accounts, Dirge donned a set of the black garb and made for the arena, shaking off the feeling of surreality that nagged him. He already had a notion that Amelia liked to play games, but this was stretching it a little. If she was well aware that he was going to require this kind of garb, why not supply it from the outset? Was there some other purpose to be had in meeting Martin, perhaps? Or did she just do it this way to stave off the crushing weight of her boredom?

That all was wholly irrelevant at the moment, Dirge admitted. He had gotten his gear and now was the time to use it for the first time. A good kill or two would do wonders for his mood.

Applying to be a combatant was straightforward enough. The woman at the front desk didn’t even bat an eyelash at his outfit as she pointed him to the entrance for fighters; compared to some of the flamboyant things they wore, Dirge’s outfit was positively dull, after all.

Other than the verification of his cultivation base, there wasn’t much else other than a series of disclaimers and details on payouts to read through before he was finalizing his registration. The shielding effect of the soulsilk obscured his identifying features, but didn’t block the detection of the verification platform, thankfully enough; Dirge would have been slightly annoyed at having to strip down had that step failed.

“All right,” the registrar, a ruddy-skinned fat man with a great gray walrus mustache announced, “you’re all good once we have a name.”

“Jet,” Dirge replied in a gruff voice, doing his best to sound masculine. “The name’s Jet.”

“Okay, Jet,” the registrar noted. “We have a slot for you in the seventh bout. If you make it through that, we can discuss more then. Head on through that door and you’ll be called up when it’s time. You have until the fifth bout to decide to pull out, lad.”

“Thanks,” Dirge responded with a nod before he headed to the indicated door. The registrar clearly had experience with youths who reconsidered at the last minute, but that was the last thing that would happen with this bout.

Dirge entered the fighters’ lobby and silently took a free seat. Many experts were congregated there, several chatting away merrily with people they would just as merrily try to kill if that’s what the rosters announced, but a couple of them were the withdrawn type who also sat in silence like he did.

Looking around at the lot of them, Dirge couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment. As this wasn’t a night for a marquee fight, the contestants obviously weren’t the best the arena could offer, but he could already tell there’d be little challenge for him tonight even if the organizers started pitting groups against him.

Oh well. The first priority was collecting some lifeforce, and that at least was present in abundance.