Maria left Duke Town, and the townsfolk's lives settled back into their old calm; if anything was different, it was that Amon had become a competent miner. Yet every day, looking at the town he knew so well, he found that the streets, the houses, the air thick with the smell of furnace fires no longer drew him as they once had. It always felt as though something were missing. There seemed to be an indescribable emptiness in his heart, as though something had been carried away.
Amon kept recalling that scene. He did not understand, and yet somehow he could understand, why she had done it. In her room, their eyes had burned into each other; he had put his hand on her breast and was just leaning in to kiss her feverish lips, and then a strange force had abruptly pushed him away.
There was something familiar about that force; it was a little like the surge given off at the instant a sledgehammer cracks open an ore core. Early the next morning Maria had hurried away—with Lord Dick, of course—but to Amon it looked as though she had been deliberately fleeing some temptation he posed. Amon preferred to think so, even though it was impossible.
Late at night, alone in bed when everything was quiet, Amon would lie staring at the low ceiling, at the blurred shadows and the ambiguous light, in the midst of which a ring of brightness always seemed to flicker. He could not help thinking of her; he even wondered what might have happened if she had not pushed him away and Lord Gabriel had not come in.
A fourteen-year-old boy had no experience of what came next, but as he thought and thought, a certain part of him hardened shamefully and sprang up beyond his control, exciting him and filling him with shame at once. In truth Amon was plainly sturdier than other boys his age, and further along in his development. He did not believe he only wanted that from her, but he truly longed for that feeling, and he was puzzled by it and at a loss.
In the end Amon convinced himself he had it all figured out: what happened back then had never been up to him at all. So he sighed, got out of bed, slipped out of the house and went to wash in the cold spring.
For some reason, for the first time in his life Amon felt a craving—for the biting cold spring to be colder still, to soak through every pore of his body and grant him inner peace.
But he had not lost his senses and forgotten the Old Madman's warning: the moment a warm current rose in his body, he was to get out.
He moved about on the bank for a while, then sat down and quietly regulated his breathing, closed his eyes and listened to the blood moving through his limbs and frame, carefully sensing each pore slowly opening, as though he could see and control his own body.
From experience, a warm current would now fill his whole body, leaving him comfortable and at peace—so comfortable he wanted to groan, so peaceful he wanted to think of nothing at all. But today felt different from before. There was a strange stirring in both body and soul; the warm current turned scorching, like an urge, and even the cold spring before him seemed to give off a strange fragrance—her scent.
Washing in the cold spring no longer brought him the peace it once had. When day broke, Amon went as usual to chat with the Old Madman. He was not one to give away secrets, but keeping a thing like this bottled up inside was truly unbearable; he was still only a fourteen-year-old boy, after all, and he trusted the Old Madman absolutely.
At first Amon did not mention what had happened in the room that night; he spoke only of the trouble that came over him while washing in the cold spring. As he talked he lowered his head and stared at his toes, as though he had committed some crime.
The Old Madman, unexpectedly, was not taken aback at all. He chuckled and, still smiling, handed Amon a cup of wine.
Amon instinctively shrank back. "I don't drink," he answered. His father was a drunkard; Amon had seen more than enough of him drunk, and had felt an inexplicable aversion to liquor since childhood.
The Old Madman smiled. "Not everyone turns into a drunkard, child. You've grown up now, and it's time you tasted a good many things in this world—wine among them."
The Old Madman's words seemed to carry a temptation. As if possessed, Amon took the cup and sipped lightly: pungent, with an unfamiliar mellow fragrance. It did not taste pleasant, yet it seemed to be exactly what he wanted. He could not resist taking a big gulp, letting the pungent hot current run down his throat straight into his body.
The Old Madman raised the jug and filled his cup again, then asked with an unfathomable smile, "So you're troubled. If you want my advice, you'd better explain it clearly. Does it have something to do with that Maria? Don't think I don't know, child—that's why I said you've grown up."
Amon was startled, and his face turned red—from the wine or not, he could not tell. "What do you know? How could you know?" he shot back, then, as if trying to cover something up, lowered his head and took another big gulp.
The Old Madman filled his cup once more and shrugged. "What I know is my business; whether you tell me is yours. Don't forget, you're the one who came to me looking like you had something to say."
It was Amon's first time drinking, and the Old Madman's wine was so strong that a few big swallows left him tipsy. In the end he told the whole story, then stared at his cup and muttered to himself, "Isn't this shameful of me?"
The Old Madman burst out laughing, his scraggly beard quivering along with it. "What's shameful about that? Seems you like her—that's just human nature! ... Though in the state you're in now, you do look a lot like a man under a demon's temptation."
"No! Maria isn't a demon!" Amon raised his head and blurted out indignantly.
The Old Madman's smile vanished, and he shook his head gravely. "You misunderstand. Maria isn't a demon—there's a demon in your heart."
"A demon? What demon?" Amon was dumbstruck. In his understanding, demons were the very embodiment of sin in myth and legend, hated and slain by the gods.
The Old Madman explained without haste, "You're wrong. This demon is not that demon; it is simply the restless stirring in your soul. The demon lurks in the heart, lurks in desire. Lose yourself in that restlessness and the demon takes possession of your heart—that is selling your soul, and it is called falling from grace. In fact, one of the trials a divine artist faces while cultivating divine arts is the Temptation of the Demon."
Amon said doubtfully, "But I'm not a divine artist. Would I really face the Temptation of the Demon too?"
The Old Madman shook his head so hard his wild hair flew up. "No, no, no. Anyone may go through the demon's temptation; it's just that for a divine artist, reaching the peak of the mid-rank divine arts requires passing that trial. As for you—you're not there yet. The trial you face right now is the Awakening of Desire. That little story between you and Maria has a good deal to do with it."
More puzzled than ever, Amon suddenly remembered something and pressed on curiously, "A few days ago Lord Gabriel asked me whether I had studied combat arts, and today you bring up divine arts. Can you tell me what they actually are? Why did Lord Gabriel ask me that? And why do you say I'm facing a trial? I've never studied anything!"
The Old Madman gave a cold huff and poured himself a cup. "Never studied anything? It's right there in Duke Town's miners' craft—nobody just realizes it! And the way I've been teaching you isn't the way others learn, either. If you want me to explain it properly, shut your mouth and stop asking, and let me finish in one go."
Amon fell silent, and the Old Madman drank as he explained what divine arts and combat arts were. On the Celestial Pivot Continent, slaves were not permitted to learn combat arts, and only nobles were entitled to learn divine arts. This was the first Amon had ever heard of any of it, and he did not yet realize how much of what the Old Madman was about to say was rank heresy—
Divine arts and combat arts could both win a person superhuman power, but they walked two entirely different roads.
What combat arts awakened was humanity's own power, drawing out the greatest potential in the bloodline. In the myths, humans were created by the gods, and the blood of the gods lingers in their bodies; awakening it strengthens sinew and bone, adds strength and courage, and makes a person more resolute with keener reflexes. When that power is fully roused and has grown very strong, it can even be projected from within to without.
Combat arts were said to have begun as no more than a way for people to train themselves stronger, but later they were used more and more for war and killing, and many techniques of application were developed; so they were also called martial arts, and those who trained in them were called warriors. Combat arts were divided into nine ranks: warriors of ranks one through three were usually called low-rank warriors; ranks four through six, mid-rank warriors; ranks seven through nine, high-rank warriors, or grand warriors.
Becoming a high-rank warrior was especially hard; it meant taking one's place among the continent's very finest fighters.
What divine arts awakened was the mysterious power between heaven and earth; divine artists communicate with the various energies of the outside world, controlling, transforming and employing them. This was an ability ordinary people did not possess—properly the possession of gods alone—and so it was regarded as bestowed by the gods. Divine arts, like combat arts, were divided into nine ranks.
High-rank divine artists of ranks seven through nine were also called grand divine artists; they were transcendent beings on this continent, in the eyes of ordinary people almost as wondrous as gods.
Learning divine arts or combat arts alike required awakening power; only the power awakened differed. Awakening the power bestowed by the gods was far more difficult than awakening the power hidden in the body's bloodline, and only very few could manage it. It was generally held that anyone healthy and strong, firm of will and sincere in faith, could awaken the power in his bloodline and so learn combat arts.
Which power was awakened first, or chiefly, decided the direction of a person's cultivation. That was why there were far fewer divine artists than warriors on the Celestial Pivot Continent; and on the other hand, far fewer people were qualified to learn divine arts in the first place.
A small number of people might have both powers awakened at once, and there was another strange phenomenon: when one power was cultivated to a very high degree, the other would gradually awaken as well. Some practiced both combat arts and divine arts, mostly warriors. Cultivating divine arts was far harder than cultivating combat arts, so divine artists generally did not also practice combat arts; the profound and intricate divine arts already demanded a lifetime of effort.
Both the ancient divine decrees and what actually came to pass told people that divine arts and combat arts could not be practiced in equal measure; one had to be primary and the other secondary. A warrior like Gabriel, for instance, could not cultivate divine arts to the same rank as her combat arts—she merely used simple divine arts to supplement her fighting.
Both divine arts and combat arts were divided into nine ranks and three tiers. Within a tier the difference lay only in the techniques one had mastered and how practiced one was in applying them, but between tiers the use of power differed in kind. They were named the Awakening of Power, the Control of Power, and the Transformation of Power.
Cultivating divine arts was harder than cultivating combat arts: for one thing, those who could awaken the power the gods bestowed were few; for another, every tier of divine arts required passing a trial set by the gods.
To be granted the power the gods bestow, the trial one must pass at the threshold is the Awakening of Desire.
To cultivate the low-rank divine arts to their peak, the trial one must pass is the Test of Conviction.
To cultivate the mid-rank divine arts to their peak, the trial one must pass is the Temptation of the Demon.
Before becoming a grand divine artist there is one more arduous trial, the Fusion of Faith—one must fuse the world one believes in with the world one inhabits before one can transform the power one holds and reach an inconceivable level.
Advancing in combat arts, by contrast, seemed to require none of this; the cultivator need only keep up a resolute and painstaking training, though some indefinable luck appeared to be involved as well. Not that advancing in combat arts was easy—it was hard too, only easier than divine arts.
All of this applied to the low and mid ranks. Once one reached the high ranks above the seventh, whether divine artist or warrior, advancing further became extraordinarily difficult, and the secret of it was likely known only to the upper echelons of the great temples of the various kingdoms. The highest, the ninth rank, was exceedingly rare across the whole continent; a ninth-rank divine artist or warrior was said to possess, in the mortal world, the power to do battle with gods—such people were even called demigods.
At this, Amon could not help breaking in. "Demigods? How could mortals have the power to fight gods?"
As the Old Madman talked, he held his cup in one hand and waved the other, gesticulating as the words poured out. Cut off by Amon, he retorted with some annoyance, "Why couldn't they? Some of the gods who claim that title in the mortal world are very likely nothing but demigods. ... It's said these people are all descendants of gods and mortals—that's how they come by such power. But I say that's a pack of lies!"
Amon asked, not understanding, "Lies? How do you know?"
The Old Madman drained his cup in one gulp. His gaze went deep and distant, fixed on no place anyone could name, and he answered with perfect clarity, "Because I know one. He was my student—a ninth-rank grand mage."