Strongest Among the Heavens
Chapter 518: Mythic Joy

Chapter 518: Mythic Joy

"Ah, the Red Sorcerer. Just the man I wanted to talk to."

"Hm? Myth?"

Following their conversation, Xander had much to think about. As expected, Alastair was right outside, waiting. He was thinking about these people he served. That expression on his face said it all.

"I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. ...I do care."

There were those that looked down upon the morals of humanity. Sometimes, Dasha himself did. But to not see value in morals, to not understand the benefits, was equally as foolish. To be a merciless serial killer with no qualm or morals meant to stand in the spotlight. A light that would soon burn flesh. It was unwise to walk with no sense of care unless one had the power to back it up.

Even Dasha on Earth could not randomly pick up a gun and start slaughtering. No, in his world, there were cameras and phones. People were numerous and paranoid. Humans were counted and recorded in documents and lists. Every action had to be calculated.

The Great Sin’s atrocities had to be hidden, for they were too great to be discovered.

It was not a matter of kindness. Dasha was Class Five. In other words, he could not kill the Red Sorcerer nor would he be able to survive an assassination attempt if he was demonically cruel. The bomb owner and the family of Jongyeol had to be shown mercy and kindness and the good side of him. The Professor, the Solution, whichever identity he needed was not on the level that he could be choosers of all acts.

"I have a favour to ask, you see–"

"Favour? A favour for a song?"

"A favour for a song," Myth agreed with a nod and a whisper of amusement. "You strike quite a bargain.

Alastair laughed. "Ay, is a song too difficult?"

"A new song to suit your tastes, yes. You are a difficult man to please."

"Do not suit my tastes, suit your own. It is why I swore an oath to ya, my singing masked friend."

"Thank you. My favour is...that of protection. Not of me, but of something I possess."

A nod and crossed arms. Alastair was more than willing.

"It is in the Sukhothai. A small room at the Right Angle Complex."

"Ah, there? You own a lot there? The prices are steep."

The Right Angle Complex, a multi-complex structure tilted awfully with strings and webs and warriors of all walkings. Closer to the center of the Sukhothai, it was a block of dark red that secretly shined with magic circles, it was near impossible to destroy. A reliable place for higher-level warriors and reliable for storage.

Through Old Rocco, he arranged a meeting with the owners, and sent Savario, the Italian restaurant owner, to rent out a room for a while. That room would be the rendezvous point for all the favours he was calling.

"The room is not mine, it belongs to a friend, Savario. He works at Sea Scribe, a humble sea shop."

"Hrn, okay, and?"

"Savario uses that shop as a storage room to receive rare fish from the Heavenly Tower. I myself managed to buy an instrument of immense value from the heavens and have arranged it to come to that room."

"Oh? How did ya arrange it?"

"...I believe telling a man working under Xander is not wise."

"Oh? Oh? Ahhh." Alistair snickered. The implication was obvious to him. There was only one man Xander was jealous of: Alcibiades. The sex-addicted bastard had the influence to make the arrangement possible too. "I gotcha, I gotcha. You want me to be with you during the exchange?"

"No. I wish for you to follow the man."

"Haha, curious! Very curious! Why?"

"For I do not believe they will hand over the authentic instrument. Not to people like me."

Alastair’s eyes dimmed until he smiled. "Don’t worry, friend! I will make the impossible possible! Even if it means killing the bastard!"

’I know you will.’

"In the meantime..."

From the Red Sorcerer’s hand appeared a potion.

"Have a potion!"

"What for?"

"The scars on your face must be painful. I am a Transmutator. The best in the Underground I would like to say, but I never been much of a potions Transmutator. Liquids just don’t be easy. But...if it means to hear your voice, I am more than glad to. I worked with an old lassie who I knew was good at stuff like this. It’s a rare potion, this one."

What were those marks on the brown cloth? That ring string wrapped around the tip? And what was this uneasy feeling Dasha was getting from it...

"It’s not exactly healin’," Alastair said. "It’s more like...a Rewind. Maybe you’ve heard it?"

’Is it possible? This is not a potion of healing but the legendary Rewind Potion!?’

The number of Rewind Potions in history were not in the three-digit zone. Li Xuanming most famously brewed several in order to heal Marshal Roland Blackwood, his knights, and the future Marshal Margaret in the great battle of Gate 94.

Myth gave a bow and received the clothed potion. "I cannot express my gratitude enough."

"For those of us in the Underground, only being together can we soothe our pains. I battle and create without emotion. You sing with emotion. This way, there is symbiosis."

Dasha spun up with an idea on the spot. "Then let us spread this symbiosis to those who live without emotions. You said you can build. You can protect. Battle. Then battle for me as I sing for the misfortuned."

"Myth." Alastair’s grin and look of wonder was that of a child’s. The grown Sorcerer put a hand on his shoulder. "I have never concurred with something more. Onward!"

***

To sing and play for the misfortuned. To gather up kids and earn smiles from them.

They were two streets away from Ares’ Symposium. Gangs ran amok here. Violence ran rampant right across the street. Where they were now, one could say they were in a bubble where children could breathe without their looming gazes.

A small platform was established for Myth to sing on and play. In the back, the Red Sorcerer would spark the world up with the lights.

The children applauded. "Pretty! So pretty!"

Alastair laughed. "More lights, ya little shits?"

"More lights! More!"

They applauded and applauded. The lights and the music and the dancing. In the coming hours, over fifty children came together. Myth asked for a break and Myth allowed it with a quick lightshow over their heads. He conjured the shape of Ares’ Symposium, of the Dark Tower, of a sword and shield, and the lyre Myth played on.

"Now this is an oath worth coming behind," Alastair remarked, laughing. "For music to make the children here dance is a miracle."

"Every child has a desire to be happy. I see this as merely one manifestation. Your magic, for example, is equally as awe-inspiring if you allow it to be."

"I sincerely doubt that."

"I sincerely believe it." Myth played a loud strum and began anew. The kids were listening again. Alastair glanced over. He could not find it in him to respond.

His low tone of voice and his cautious words. His mask and the pain behind. The wise charisma that followed him everywhere and granted him passage to the higher floors of Ares’ Symposium in record time.

Myth was not easily understood but what was understood was nothing short of magnetizing. Addicting. Hearing his praise and words and his music was pleasurable. He played and played until the children were hungry.

Myth was ready for it. It was a trick of the hand, really. In his inventory, he stored a manner of items, food and weaponry alike. He prepared for the worst outcome, for the best situations, and for important opportunities. With a slight turn, a bowl in hand, and a fake reach, he made it seem like he created the food from nothing.

Like...like he was a divine gift.

Like the son of God, distributing bread, water, and candy that seemed to make the mind and the taste buds flutter. Even Alastair could not understand. While the children ate, he played. He played music equally as delightful as the divine food. The children were much quieter with the food in their hands.

Eyes wide, eyes needy and obedient.

Alastair’s eyes were almost the same.

"Sometimes, Myth, it feels like you are not of this world."

Indeed. He was not. Myth played on his lyre louder. Children preferred the loud over the quiet; over being overstimulated than understimulated.

"Do you know why only the rich sing among themselves?" Myth asked. "It is because only their lips may sing."

"Any man may sing."

"No. Can any man drink water?"

"I...no."

"Then not any man can sing."

His voice. Curated and tempted. Beautiful and low. Masculine and deep and gentle. It was the voice of a father, a sage, and a humble weakling. It was the voice that was near divine.

Playing in front of these children, bringing smiles, Alastair MacGowan’s eyes and ears surrendered to Myth. He smiled. With him, his heart steadied.

With him, everyone felt a mythic kind of joy.

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