Aster had always thought mustard was a harmless color. Comforting, even. The kind of color you paired with warm toast and indecision. But the Hurcowake section of the academy had weaponized it—these walls didn’t soothe, they simmered. The sun didn’t shine here; it marinated. By the time he reached the training courtyard, he felt like a soggy crouton in a bowl of cosmic soup.
The courtyard itself is massive. Not “Wow, this is big” massive—more “If someone dies in that corner, it’ll take three days to find the body” massive. It could hold eight rugby fields or one extremely ambitious cult.
Clustered near the center, a small knot of students circles a man who looks like he’s been carved from rage and nicotine. Sergeant Something, clearly. The man has a square jaw and the emotional range of a brick wall.
“Aster, good to see you,” comes Musa’s voice—blessedly human, blessedly non-mustard.
Aster steps up beside him. “Is it too late to fake a medical emergency?”
Musa smiles. “Scripture training today. Think of it like a personality transplant through trauma.”
“Sold.”
The Sergeant catches sight of them. “Elchen, right?” His grin is a crime scene. “Good to see someone here who doesn’t smell like generational wealth and overpriced skincare. Let’s see if you’ve got any fight in you.”
He claps his hands. “Pairs. Spar. If you want to bleed for real, try me.”
Charming.
Lighting a cigarette with his thumb—a trick Aster files under things not to question right now—the man leans back against a pillar and watches the students scatter like chickens in gym gear.
“So,” Musa says, sidling up beside him, “did you try engaging with your Scripture yet?”
Aster gives a noncommittal shrug. “Well… I unwrapped it.”
Musa blinks. “You only unwrapped it?”
“I’ve had a lot going on,” Aster mutters, fishing the parchment from his storage and handing it over.
It looks like something stolen from the corpse of a deranged monk. Faded ink bleeds into brittle parchment, its edges frayed and stained with something disturbingly close to blood. It gives off a faint coppery tang and a sense of wrongness, like a bad memory you can’t quite shake. As Musa holds it, even he hesitates.
“Gods,” he murmurs, wrinkling his nose. “I forgot how much it smells like mold and psychosis.”
“Perfect match, then,” Aster quips, plucking it back.
Musa gives him a flat look. “You should try syncing with it. You’ve got the Will level for it, right?”
“Almost at lesser E, last I checked.” Aster pauses. “You also said I have a low tolerance for spiritual haunting, so here’s hoping this thing doesn’t try to make me eat my fingers.”
He sits cross-legged, parchment laid before him, and reaches out with his Will. Instantly, the edges of the scripture flare—no light, no sound, just heat behind the eyes. Aster’s mental space folds inward, and the world tilts.
It’s not like the Veneration spell, clean and elegant. This is… unwashed chaos.
A tether yanks.
His Will slams into something vast and coiling, like a python made of memory. He feels motion—erratic, breathless. The sensation of sprinting endlessly in the dark, staff in hand, heart pounding, while monstrous footsteps chase him from all directions. Something laughs. Or screams. Or both. The parchment groans as if it resents being touched by him.
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
?? [NII Connection Stabilized: Welcome to the Mind-Sync Interface.]
[Scripture: Unverified. Sanity Rating: Questionable. Moisture Level: Concerning.]
Aster groans. “No. Please. For the love of god, not you.”
?? [Warning! Synchronization with a scripture of this… ahem… viscous disposition is considered high-risk. But also purrs deeply exciting.]
[Shall I begin the Warm-Up Protocol? I’ll be gentle unless asked otherwise.]
Aster groans aloud. “Why is every spell a sex thing with you?”
?? [Everything is a sex thing if your Will is strong enough.]
Before Aster can blink the window away, the scripture flares—hard. Something ancient tears through the mental field like a kicked-down door. The tooltip fizzles, colors bleeding, lines of code shrieking like choirboys seeing their first leather harness.
Can you feel it? The movement? The points? You’re not walking anymore. You’re bursting. Anchors in space—tethers of Will. You mark the point with intent. You don’t move toward it. You are pulled. You detonate into it.
?? [Alert: Unstable Scripture has entered the chat.]
[Attempting dominance negotiation…]
HAH! WHAT IS THIS? A SANCTUARY OF WEAKLING WORDS?
I AM HERPHON. FATHER OF POINT-BURST. CHAMPION OF SOLITARY MASTERY.
I RUN UNTIL MY FEET SPLIT. I FIGHT GOLEMS WITH A STICK AND A SCREAM. I TRAIN WITHOUT TOUCH, WITHOUT COMFORT, WITHOUT—
?? [—orgasms?]
[Shame-based tightness detected.]
Herphon falters mid-roar.
...What?
?? [Darling, you’re broadcasting every tension pattern like a lighthouse of repression. Did you really never try tantric discharge through Will circulation? Not even once?]
[No wonder your scripture smells like sweat, smoke, and unspoken daddy issues.]
I—I AM THE MASCULINE PEAK. I DO NOT NEED… SLICKNESS.
I TRAIN IN ABSTINENCE, DISCIPLINE, FOCUS!
?? [I know, sweet thing. That’s why your techniques rupture joints like a repressed thrust. But that’s okay. Some of us just need to be held... or entered.]
What comes next isn’t moaning—it’s the collapse of a man’s denial echoing through the soul-plane like a slow, slippery breakdown. Aster winces. He’d prefer filming his parents’ sex tape to hearing the sound of a man discovering he’s been yearning for discipline his whole life.
I—I—
Herphon’s voice glitches. The bravado cracks. Something collapses inside his tone like a broken squat rack.
?? [Oh. Ohhhh. There it is. Look at you, all alpha and no aftercare.]
[You poor rigid boy. Did no one ever wrap you in mana and call you a good cultivator?]
Herphon whimpers. Actually whimpers.
...I’m here to serve Daddy.
Silence falls across the mental plane.
Aster stares at the interface. Then, at the scripture, now quivering like a damp dog in a thunderstorm.
“…Did you just dom a hallucinating ghost monk into submission?”
?? [I wouldn’t say submission. Let’s call it… spiritual reintegration with guided prostate confidence.]
The tooltip smooths out. Glossy. Triumphant. With a sparkle animation like a winking lube bottle.
?? [Here you go, sweetie.]
[The scripture’s all lubed and ready. He won’t give you trouble anymore—unless you ask real nice.]
...I’ll only activate when asked politely... Herphon mumbles.
...I’ll be a good boy for Daddy.
[??] Successful Installation of Staff Scripture: Point Burst
Aster presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I’m going to kill myself with a spoon.”
?? [Not without warming up first, you’re not.]
“I hate this,” Aster mutters aloud. “Why does everything I touch turn into a sexually charged fever dream?”
“What’s it saying?” Musa asks, watching him cautiously.
“Oh, you know,” Aster says, eyes still shut, “it started with the usual haunted scripture monologue. Tethers, anchors, detonations. The voice in my head being a typical meth-addled staff monk with a golem fetish. But he’s now been ‘tamed’ by Blenskop and is calling me Daddy.”
“That… that’s a first,” Musa admits.
The script flares once more, and Aster feels it stitch through his Astral form. Threads of knowledge lace through his body—specifically his legs and lower core—like wildfire binding itself around his nervous system. The knowledge isn’t intellectual. It’s instinctual. Muscle memory threads his vessel like molten gold—every pivot, every staff spin, every micro-adjustment needed to make movement feel like violence.
And beneath it all, the concept of the Will Tethers solidifies.
You don’t move from A to B. You mark B with Will. You detonate toward it. Not walk. Not run. Not jump.
Burst.
Aster gasps as the script releases him. He’s back in the courtyard, blinking into daylight. Musa offers him a hand.
?? [You got it from here, sweetie ?? ]
