For those herbalists who tend to others and themselves from the carefully-accrued bounties of the earth, such medicines are just as scrupulously crafted. And as such, there is a long-held conviction among them.
One tenet is always upheld - any tincture, no matter how diluted, will always work. Even should it be stretched to its breaking point, the potency is no less dulled, to the point of unbelievably impossible circumstances.
He supposed it was a thought particularly well-suited to him. Spitting out a bit of blood from his busted lip, the thief strolled through the inscrutable maze that was his Soul Room. None of the doors were unlocked, naturally, and he hand to hand it to his jailer - it was a perfect prison for something that so valued their freedom.
Stranded as he was, the sounds of the final Dark Game still resonated off the dank walls. It was progressing well, at least for Zorc, and at least for the moment. He gave a bitter, sharp grin.
Atem was too strong to win - even fractured as he was into his current counterparts.
Oh yes, he knew the Pharaoh's name. It was too valuable to let slip past his fingers when the wretched man brought the force of the Shadows onto their homeland so many, many years ago. Being King of Thieves meant knowing what to keep for yourself, and he had tucked the phantom of the king's Ren deep into his soul, bound tightly with the instinctive magic all humans carried.
He had almost stayed loyal to the demon-god that his soul was sold to. Almost, but not quite.
Despite what others thought (and damn them, anyway, it wasn't like he cared), loyalty and usefulness were well-received by him. And when he claimed another as his own, there were few things that would make him go back on his word.
The end of the world certainly wasn't it.
Breathing a sigh, he leaned up against one of the many thousands of walls in his soul, slipping into a meditative trance. The god's fire had left burns on his soul - such was the nature of Shadow magic.
His host was (thankfully) in a coma from that duel. Of course the boy wouldn't be able to withstand the trauma their body was put through for the past week; it was one of the things he had made sure of, to push the body to its limits specifically for dueling the king, make a gambit of it.
He gave a jaundiced smile, watching as a burn on his arm ever-so-slowly healed itself. It had worked.
The price was high. As long as his host lay in the priest's hospital bed recovering from the strain of Battle City, bereft of the Ring - his only decisive contact with Zorc, the grand plan was stalled for an indeterminate amount of time. Things could happen in the time it took Ryou to recover enough for him to take over again.
… But it was hard-earned knowledge to know that this boredom was a respite not to be taken lightly. Time to plan, and, he thought, listening to the sleepy murmur of his host, time to rest.