Child, by the time you see this, you are already an accomplished second-rank mage. I do not know what hardships you have faced in these deep mountains, but you should have discovered that you are stronger than you imagined. I can slowly tell you all my experience in cultivating divine arts. But I have only explored the secrets of the gods this far; what comes next is only conjecture.
Awakening the power of one body with two faces and following a specific sequence to cultivate combat arts and divine arts at the same time is in fact harder than cultivating either one alone. But according to Bel's information, I want you to take this difficult road. If the advancement trial, firmness of faith, is slow in coming, I suggest that while you learn every low-tier magic you can master, you also keep training second-rank combat arts.
If you train second-rank combat arts to their peak and the trial for divine-art advancement comes right after, that will prove my conjecture correct.
In the city-states across the continent, you must not reveal that you are a mage, but being a warrior is excellent cover. If you accidentally reveal it, you might pass yourself off as a divine artist from far away, but in lands that worship different gods, that too can be dangerous.
In the jungle you need not observe that taboo, and you needn't fear the cave-dwelling wild folk; just be careful: their arrows may be poisoned. Using divine arts before them is an excellent way to overawe them, especially fire elemental divine arts; most cave-dwelling wild folk worship fire. You may encounter a tribe of cave-dwelling wild folk. If you are clever, you might even be treated as a god—that depends on luck.
Though you cannot lightly reveal your own secrets, there is no harm in teaching this method of cultivation to others—people who deserve your trust, or who are worth using—and gaining confirmation from them. You may think that isn't quite right. I'm sorry; I did the same to you. It is still better than spending a lifetime muddling along, kept in the dark in the mortal world. Even if you never become a god, at least you will see the light beyond the firmament.
Keep going higher. When you pass through three layers of cloud, find a place where you can settle. I do not know when you will pass the trial of firmness of faith. But from now on, pay attention to the weather around you and the sky to the east. After the disaster comes, you will see the next message I left you.
The Old Madman's first message ended there. He had not taught Amon any specific cultivation; he had only spoken, as if chatting, about the things to watch for. What left Amon uneasy was that he had mentioned the disaster again—and the next message could only be seen after the disaster arrived. Just what kind of disaster is it?
Since Amon could not figure it out, he stopped wasting thought on it and steadied himself to do what lay at hand. The next day he carried Schrödinger on his back and continued climbing. The towering peak looked close enough to touch, yet on foot it was terribly far. He walked another day, and if he remembered rightly, he had already passed through two layers of cloud wrapped around the mountainside.
What does the Old Madman want me to climb so high for? This route was Schrödinger's guidance, but for the past few days the cat had done nothing but snore in the leather satchel, as if it did not care in the least where Amon went or how fast he walked. If it really means to guide me, isn't it afraid I'll take a wrong turn? In mountains this complicated, one small misstep and I could end up somewhere completely different.
Just as Amon thought this, Schrödinger, who had been sleeping soundly, suddenly leaped out of the satchel and shot into the bushes beside the path, faster than a rabbit, vanishing almost in a flash. There was no time for Amon to draw his knife and hack a path; in his haste he leaped more than ten chi over a clump of bushes, summoned a gust of wind as he landed to steady himself, and raced off in the direction the cat had vanished.
To leap so high and so far in an instant while carrying the heavy iron branch, and to land so steadily—Amon did not realize how far his combat-arts training had already progressed.
He could see no sign of the cat ahead, but once again Amon spotted footprints left by leather boots—the same old pair whose tread was nearly worn smooth—and then heard movement in the distance. He ran toward the sound, rounded a ridge, and saw Schrödinger crouched beneath a large tree, poking its head out and peering ahead, while from the valley came the roars of wild beasts and a man's shouts.
This cat isn't just willing to walk on its own now—it's learned to enjoy the show!
Amon walked over to Schrödinger and looked ahead, and could not help starting. Before him was a horseshoe-shaped valley: steep cliffs on three sides half-encircled a pool, and halfway up one cliff a man stood swinging a long sword as several huge iron-armored beasts surrounded him.
Amon had seen iron-armored beasts before: their bodies were wrapped in a horny layer like scaly plate armor, so hard it was practically iron. They were omnivores. They ate termites in the jungle, fish and shrimp in the mud, and often swallowed iron-rich silt to aid digestion; sometimes they caught small animals too. The finest refined-iron ore sand could be panned from their dung.
An ordinary adult iron-armored beast was only a little over three chi long. Though strong, it was not especially terrifying. But the beasts attacking the man were a full ten chi long—some mutated breed, for all he could tell. One look was enough to make Amon draw a sharp breath. It was the first time he had ever seen a wild beast use an instinct akin to a divine art.
The iron-armored beasts had hard shells, but they were not nimble, and ordinarily could not climb steep cliff faces. The young man under attack seemed to know this too. He had probably startled several mutated giant iron-armored beasts by the pool, then climbed halfway up the cliff to escape them—only for the beasts to climb up after him.
Amon sensed a fluctuation of elemental power. The huge iron-armored beasts could actually use a natural skill akin to an earth elemental divine art, clinging to the rock, growing heavier and more powerful. They were also far more agile than ordinary iron-armored beasts. Their sharp teeth and claws were lethal weapons, and the sweep of their long tails carried a strange force.
The force pressed down on anyone nearby, making them feel heavy and slow; one careless, slow dodge and the iron-whip tail could snap tendons and bones. Amon had not yet begun to practice earth elemental divine arts, but he had long since memorized the relevant incantations and the various effects they produced when cast. One look and he understood the trick.
The man fighting the beasts was no amateur either. He swung his long sword in an impenetrable blur, and the blade carried a faint mistlike halo. To channel the power in his blood through a weapon meant he was already a mid-rank warrior. The mutated iron-armored beasts' shells were incredibly hard and did not fear ordinary blades, but they were wary of that faint luminous mist on the man's blade. They especially dared not meet its edge with their eyes or the pale, soft skin under their bellies.
Yet when the beasts attacked, they had to rear up, bare their fangs, and raise their claws, exposing the softer hide below the neck. That was exactly where the man struck, which was why he could fight three of them to a standstill. When Amon arrived, the fight was at its fiercest, but one glance told him the man was in danger.
These mutated iron-armored beasts seemed very clever—perhaps even possessing a simple intelligence. They knew how to coordinate their attack: three drew attention from the front while one quietly circled around to ambush from behind.
Three beasts were attacking the man from both sides and below, keeping him fully occupied, while another had quietly climbed to the top of the cliff. On a jutting rock it soundlessly raised its long iron tail. Even if the man looked up, the overhanging rock would block his sight and he would see nothing. When that long tail fell with its crushing weight, it would sweep straight into his head—and surrounded on three sides, there was no way he could dodge.
It was too late for anyone to shout a warning. Then something unexpected happened. The beast above raised its tail and took a step forward; gripping the rock, it was just gathering itself to strike when its feet suddenly slipped and half its body sprawled flat. For no apparent reason, a layer of ice had formed on the edge of the rock—fiendishly slippery and piercingly cold, the sensation a reptilian beast could least endure.
The mutated beast had its earth-element-like instinct; it braced, and the ice shattered. But the broken ice immediately became a spray of sharp crystals that stabbed into the soft hide under its chest and belly. They did not pierce through, but for an instant the pain was unbearable. The beast tried to pull back and regain its footing, but another gust of wind swirled up from the rock, coiled around its raised long tail, and wrenched it hard to one side.
The long tail was an important organ for keeping the beast balanced. Against a huge beast standing on a narrow rock, that string of exquisite divine arts finally cost it its balance, and it fell. As luck would have it, it landed right on another iron-armored beast below and to the left. The two went tumbling and clattering down the mountain into the pool, their hard shells slamming against the rocks with a tremendous racket and throwing up huge splashes.
The man in the fight was startled by the sudden turn. In that distracted instant, he nearly took a swipe from the huge beast on his right. A gust of wind condensed in midair into a sharp wind blade and struck the beast's claw. A layer of yellow-black light actually spread over the claw's surface, and not even a mark was left on it—that thing is hard as hell!
In the moment that block bought him, the man gave a great shout and leaped left to dodge. He planted his feet and brought his sword down on the beast in the middle. The luminous mist on the blade was thicker than ever, almost congealing into a shining sheath. That slash was far more powerful than the wind blade Amon had formed. The beast lunging upward could not dodge; it thrust out a foreclaw to block, and the blade sheared clean through one claw. It let out a deafening roar of pain.
Seeing how matters stood, the two remaining iron-armored beasts curled up and rolled straight down the cliff, splashing into the pool; for a long while neither surfaced.
Even a fool would have known that a divine artist had just saved him. The man turned his head and saw Amon stepping out of the trees. He quickly held his sword, dropped to one knee, and saluted. "I never expected to meet a distinguished divine artist here," he said. "My name is Metatron. I am a fourth-rank warrior. Thank you for saving my life."