Mythshaper-Chapter 54: A Stubborn Will

"Are you sure you don't want to buy anything?" Father asked as we left the shop.

After learning how artifacts were made and my mother's sacrifices to craft them for me, I was in no mood to look at any more fabricators. I guessed now I knew the secret process required for artifact creation. It required sacrifice.

It required one to strip away their hard-earned essence threads, and perhaps even the aether roots—the very source of their power. Forming those threads was already a painful process; I could only imagine how agonising sacrificing them would be.

"Son?" he asked, his palm touching my shoulder lightly. "Arilyn?"

"Ah, yes. We'll look into them later."

After examining the Band of Protection, Master Marn confirmed that the work was outrageously excessive—that only someone truly determined would strip away so many essence threads at once. It practically fractured one's essence capabilities in the short term, and the recovery process was even longer. I wanted to confront Mum immediately, to question how she could do that to herself.

With her knowing exactly what she was doing, I doubted I could change her mind. But I could at least stop her from working on the phoenix pendant, which she had indicated could become an even greater artifact. I reckoned it would take an even greater sacrifice, too. I clenched my teeth at the thought when Father’s voice interrupted me.

"I haven't given you anything, and I know anything I buy you will be nothing compared to what your mother has crafted for you. But I hope you'll accept something from me."

Is that what worries him? I thought, looking up at him.

"I will," I said, lessening the weight on his shoulders. "But don’t you think it's a waste to buy fabricators when we could build one ourselves?"

To examine the artifact, the old man Marn—who turned out to be the branch chief—had readily agreed to give me a huge discount on anything I bought. Thankfully, he included any raw materials they had in their forge as well. I was determined to return after dealing with the dreamweaver to buy everything I needed. If anything, the revelation of artifact creation only strengthened my resolve to create something valuable for Mother.

Unable to confront her or do anything about it right now, I wandered aimlessly along the cobblestone path, Father keeping pace beside me. A soft breeze blew from the east as we strolled. Various shops lined the streets—some large, some small—but I didn't bother to look.

"Don't feel burdened," Father said, touching my shoulder lightly.

I looked at him. "How could I not? She literally..." My voice faltered. I couldn't finish the sentence... that she was crippling herself for me.

"I know how you feel," Father said, looking up at the smouldering sun. "But you need to consider that she knew what she was doing. It's the pride of artisans to create something lasting, something that stands the test of time. At least, that's what she told me when she made me an armour.

"But she also did it out of love. She rarely—almost never—creates artifacts just to sell them."

We continued along the path, moving from the inner city outwards. The streets were more spacious and less occupied than those in the outer circles. I finally faltered when a rhythmic strumming of a lute echoed into my ears.

Father stopped, a frown creeping onto his brow, and gestured for me to follow as we pushed towards the music. Soon, a melodic voice reached our ears.

At the crossroads that divided the inner and outer circuits of Klearon, a street songster stood, surrounded by a crowd of boys, girls, and even older men and women. He played his lute and sang a song I had never heard before. His voice was high, and though he was no nightingale, it was still melodic.

"She called his name in a fading breath,

But Efran was treading the dreaded Ar’neath.

Through cruel peaks, through wicking wind, ƒreewebɳovel.com

The mountain caged his way in..."

Each stroke of the lute, each note, seemed to strike at my heart, pulling me into the song.

"She called his name in fading air,

When Efran was treading the storm, it reared.

The path blind, the world unkind,

The mountain withered her fate behind."

The voice grew higher.

"So he gave up his spear and took up a hammer,

He broke the stone, he crushed the mountain to bone.

Efran gave up his spear and took up a hammer, to bring a mountain down

With blood and sweat, he bore and tore,

Stolen novel; please report.

He shaped a path through storm and cold, his lover’s embrace was harder than stone

He rode the path with a hammer in hand, to crush up a mountain down

Seasons passed, and the world forgot,

His crusade remained one man’s war.

So he gave up his spear and took up a hammer,

He broke the stone, he crushed the mountain to bone.

Efran gave up his spear and took up a hammer, to bring a mountain down

His hammer broke, his arm in ruin,

Efran carved on for the love he had lost."

The tempo of his voice grew louder and sharper, each word carving into the hearts of the listeners, yarning the legend of Efran. His lute strokes became callous, far stiffer, as the song reached its finality.

"With bloodied hands, he bore and tore,

He carved a line at the heart of the stone.

Through endless nights, through tempests wild,

He shaped a path until the valley unwind.

At long last, the road laid bare,

A path stretched through empty air.

His name was sung from town to town,

The man who crushed a mountain down.

So he gave up his spear and took up a hammer,

He broke the stone, he crushed the mountain to bone.

Efran gave up his spear and took up a hammer, to bring a mountain down

To bring a mountain down... To carve a way down,

To crush a mountain down... To found a path on the mound,

To tear a mountain down... To shape journeys sound...

Efran gave up his spear... and took up a hammer... to bring a mountain down... to bring a mountain down..."

Transfixed, my eyes were completely drawn into the song, my ears thoroughly invested in the tale of Efran. I was too moved to note the intricate movements of his fingers, as thin wisps of essence swirled from his instrument. At last, the song ended, the lute’s strings fading into slow, deliberate strums.

The crowd erupted into applause. Even I clapped. Some of the adult listeners dropped a few bronze and silver leafs into the straw hat the man had placed on the ground. I turned to my father, whose lips had curled into a rare smile.

Encouraged, I reached into my pouch, pulled out a silver leaf, and dropped it into the man's hat. The grey-haired elder looked down at me.

"Thank you! Thank you, everyone!" the elderly man’s voice boomed. "So that was Efran the Stonecutter, Efran the Waymaker, he who brought down a mountain thousands of metres tall because he couldn’t rejoin his dying wife at her last breath, and because he wanted no one else to encounter the same fate.

"His fable may have turned into a passing memory over the millennia, and mayhaps be forgotten in the millennia to come, but the truth may never yield to the shadows of time. Sometimes, a stubborn will is all you need to make a difference."

"Was it all true?" I couldn't help but ask. "The story in your song. Did Efran carve a mountain?"

The man sighed wistfully and watched the crowd before answering. "Efran lived and died on that mountain a millennium ago. I was not there with him; it was a time before the age of our new gods, when the wind could recall their names. Now only the spirits know the truth from embellishment." He looked at me as though wondering if he should be giving me a serious answer. "But even to this day, there is an Efran’s Pass on the borders of Thera, carving its way into Jiaren, if that's not evidence enough to the man who was foolish enough—stubborn enough—to carve a path through a mountain with his bare hands, I don't know what to sell you, son."

I wanted to ask what Class Efran had been when he brought the mountain down and how long it took him, because such a feat was beyond a common man, but the minstrel’s gaze turned towards my father, a look of familiarity creeping in.

"Ah, Jinn," he said, loud and clear. "You look to be in far better shape than the last time I saw you."

"I could say the same about you, Master Kaius," Father chuckled. "I’m glad to see the world is still treating you well."

It was rare to see him so lighthearted, almost as carefree as I had ever seen him.

"Haha, you know me," Master Kaius said with a wink. "I’m merely a stubborn old man too afraid to die." His gaze turned to me. "So this is your lad?"

Father nodded, asking me to introduce myself.

I obeyed while examining the man. So this was Master Kaius. I had heard about him a couple of times from my parents. Supposedly, he used to be a Magister at the Oracle Academy until he got on the bad side of the management and ended up getting fired.

Master Kaius was a tall, lanky man with a head full of messy grey hair and a few wrinkles marking his face. His skin was tan, slightly shiny, almost oily, and it was evident he didn't bother much with grooming. He wore only a loose kaftan over his frame, baggy trousers, and a long sling bag over his shoulder.

I could barely sense any spirituality from him—less than even a common-class Awakened. Yet the way he played his music... I could hardly believe a mortal man could wield such mastery over their art. The lute he carried felt ancient, and it was clearly an enchanted object, but even all its magical properties couldn’t stop its colour from fading.

"It is good to see you again, Master Kaius," Father said.

"And you as well," Kaius replied. "It's good to see you not throwing yourself at monsters every waking moment of your life, and actually living a normal life for once." He smirked. "Your chiefs wouldn't be happy, I reckon, Ta'shin."

"They probably aren't," Father admitted. "Though I haven't seen them in a few years. You know how hard it is to return."

"That, I do," Kaius nodded. "It has been a couple of decades since I last set foot in Ryon. Though I did come across a few familiar faces from there in the last couple of years."

With a casual movement, he collected the coins he had earned and tucked them into his inner pocket.

"So, Ashlyn?" he asked, glancing at me. His gaze lingered on my hair and eyes. Getting a nod, Kaius laughed. "I knew only a woman as stubborn as her could change your mind."

Father was slightly embarrassed hearing that. I regretted not taking the Illumination Imprinter with me to record this expression of his.

"So, where is she?" the minstrel asked. "I should at least meet her before some other adventure calls upon me."

Before Father could answer, Mum’s voice joined us.

"So, there you are, I have been..." Her words trailed off as she strode towards us, an elderly woman trailing beside her. She easily found the visage of Master Kaius, though before any greeting could be passed between them, the elderly woman opened her lips.

"You old codger, you're still alive?" the woman, who I assumed was Dreamweaver Prisca, cackled.

"Ah, Little Prisca, you’re here too," Master Kaius said outrageously to the woman who looked even older than him—who presumably was over one hundred years old. "How could I die so early? I am yet to see your great-grandson's marriage. How’s that lad doing these days, still as hot-tempered?"

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