So, Satoru noted, there were ten Farseers in total. They are all powerful in their own right, judging entire on the volume of Cursed Energy they possessed inside them, but Caoimhe and Aillil dwarfed them by magnitudes. Caoimhe had more Cursed Energy, but Aillil wasn't far behind; they were like a pair of strongmen, accompanied by literal toddlers. The difference was insane and even the other Farseers were aware of that, because the fear that they exuded – the confusion, the distrust, and the irrational anger were all palpable things that even he, Gojo Satoru, felt without the need to expand his senses.

They were arguing about something that involved him, but Satoru didn't give a shit; so, he didn't listen. He didn't need to, because they started shouting at each other the moment he walked in, but none of their words were directed towards him; so, until they actually asked him a question, then Satoru was cool with being quiet. Besides, Aillil and Caoimhe were both doing a stellar job of debating their side, while the other Farseers just seemed outright afraid of them, even as they hurled really loud words at them – words that sounded like accusations, but, once again, Satoru wasn't listening.

Truthfully, his mind was elsewhere.

Specifically, Satoru's attention was fully drawn towards the murals and paintings on the walls around them. Before this weird debate began, Caoimhe led and accompanied him here, a place called the Hall of Seers, a place that was apparently as ancient as the Craftworld itself, which meant it was quite old. Supposedly, the murals depicted thousands of prophecies from thousands of Farseers, the ones who came before her, the ones whose spirits were sucked into the Infinity Circuit to essentially act as batteries or some shit. Satoru wasn't sure how that worked, but it was pretty cool. But, the moment he entered, Six-Eyes pretty much blazed him with an inhuman amount of information – so much of it, in fact, that he was pretty sure it would've counted as something of a miniaturized Unlimited Void.

Six-Eyes allowed him to see, process, and understand just about every prophecy they've etched onto the walls, starting from the fall of their own species, the rise of humanity, the degradation of the Drukhari, the awakening of the Yngir, and the coming of the Britheim – the last bit was shrouded by the presence of other prophecies, unfortunately, which was probably why a lot of the Aeldari forgot about it. But seeing himself up there – white hair and all – was kind of unnerving, really.

The more disturbing part was that the Aeldari prophecy about the Britheim was bonkers.

Apparently, the prophecy stated that the Britheim would unite all the Aeldari, including even the Drukhari, to wage some kind of holy war against the entire galaxy to reclaim what used to be theirs. The prophesy, however, was rather vague – as most prophecies were, but this one suffered from vague prophecy syndrome even more than the usual shit. But, then again, that part hardly mattered. Satoru's one problem was that he vehemently disliked the idea of his fate being set in stone – that this was supposedly what he was meant to do, as predicted by those who came before him, those who foretold his coming.

That was a load of bullshit. Gojo Satoru was free to do whatever the fuck he wanted. And no one, not even Kairos Fatebringer or his master, Tzeentch, was going to stand in the way of his freedom. After all, what was the point of mastering Limitless only find that there were, in fact, limits and obstacles. Hell nah. Satoru would help the Aeldari out as much as he could – he was even willing to spend a long time here, mostly to learn their cool version of Jujutsu – but he wasn't willing to compromise his freedom of choice to save them from the fate they kind of brought on themselves.

Ultimately, Gojo Satoru didn't have a lot of stakes in all of this. For instance, if this Craftworld was attacked by an alien force, then he'd probably stick around and help, but no way in hell was he sticking his neck out for them and risking his life; if things went south, then he'd find a way to escape, probably by nabbing that Shard of Khaine thing and making full use of whatever means Kairos had prepared for him, but – hey – it was an option that he'd quickly take if he had to. But that was the gist of it; he'd help, but only up to a certain point.

He wasn't about to sacrifice anything for people he didn't know, no matter how much he sympathized with them.

Shaking his head, Satoru turned away from his own prophecy and focused on the other, more interesting things. And then, his eyes widened.

One of the depictions on the wall, shrouded and hidden, much like the Britheim prophecy, was something about the corruption of Bonesinging. Well, Satoru didn't care much about the corruption part, since it mentioned the Thirsty Bitch and whatnot. No, what drew his attention was the very detailed mention of how Bonesinging would be corrupted, which also just so happened to detail the process by which Wraithbone was created.

A soul-corrupted by the sickeningly sweet tones of She-Who-Thirsts, can only ever sing forth corrupted Wraithbone, lacking in essence and hideous in form...

And, right then and there, Satoru realized just what he'd been missing – the key to all of it.

The shaping and manipulating of pre-existing Wraithbone was simple. All one had to do was grab a bunch of it and sing, apparently. At least, that's how it was for the Aeldari themselves. It worked for them, because their method was designed only for them.

But, as it turned out, the creation of such a substance required the sliver of a soul – a very tiny sliver, but a sliver nonetheless. It was this piece, combined with a whole lot of Positive Cursed Energy, willpower and imagination, that gave birth to raw Wraithbone. After all, the soul was malleable and its shape dictated the shape of the physical shell it inhabited. By separating an incredibly tiny fragment of their soul, infusing it with Cursed Energy, and then giving it shape and function, Wraithbone was created.

It was so simple and, yet, Satoru completely missed it. Oh well, it hardly mattered now.

The Aeldari performed the shaping part of it through the act of singing, because that's how they were taught to do so, since... well... forever; it aided them with implanting their thoughts and emotions into the raw Wraithbone, shaping it as they wanted.

Satoru didn't have to do that.

First of all, he couldn't sing to save his own ass and he'd probably break every single piece of glass in the Craftworld if he grabbed a microphone and sang. And the Aeldari had been through enough, already; no need to subject them to even more torture. Well, no, that wasn't quite right; Satoru was good at anything and everything he set his mind to, including singing. On a mechanical level, he'd be amazing, but his singing lacked emotion or passion – and both of those things mattered way more than simple skill.

What he needed was a way to reconnect with his own soul. For the Aeldari, singing was how they prayed; it was a deeply spiritual act for them that allowed them to, essentially, reconnect with their own souls, which allowed them to alter the shape of the fragment they'd pulled out.

So, what one thing did Satoru possess that he was most passionate and most spiritual about?

Shit, that was the problem, wasn't it? Being too good at everything he set his mind towards, especially with Six-Eyes, made it so that it was hard to be passionate about anything. Being creative was, ironically, very difficult when his Six-Eyes removed the struggle part of it and jumped immediately to the output. No passion. Nothing.

Huh, that was a little sad, wasn't it? Satoru huffed and mused. He was so skilled at so many things, but he didn't have a single thing he was passionate about.

Well... no... that wasn't quite right, wasn't it?

Looking back, there was something he loved to do, before life kind of got in the way – a form of art that required almost no mechanical skill or technique. At least, the only one he knew.

When he was a child, Satoru was fond of listening to his mother's poetry. She taught him to write his first haiku, something he both failed and excelled at. Because poetry was about raw emotion and nothing else; at most, the only skill needed for it was the ability to write and, even then, spoken word poems existed. It was all about emotion, his mother always told him; technique didn't matter.

Caoimhe and Aillil told him to sit on the high throne, reserved only for the most important of guests, which was situated on an elevated position that overlooked much of the Hall of the Seers. It also meant, however, that the Farseers could pretty much see whatever he was doing, which – at the moment – was a whole lot of nothing. But, Satoru grinned, that was about to change.

Their little debate continued even as he closed his eyes and breathed in. They've been at it for almost an hour now and Satoru wasn't even sure why he was called if they still hadn't settled their little squabble. Eh, whatever, the palace was getting boring anyway.

Satoru reached into himself and touched his soul, familiarized himself with the shape of it, before plucking out a tiny fragment of it – about the size of a single grain of sand, perhaps even smaller. But that was all he needed. And, that sort of soul damage would heal within the next few hours anyway. And then, he covered that fragment in a small handful of Cursed Energy, not a lot, but not a small amount, either – just enough. Almost immediately, a dense, colorless, iridescent blob appeared in his grasp.

The debate ceased immediately and he felt all eyes on himself, but Satoru paid them no mind. He needed to finish this.

Honestly, a part of him wanted to laugh out loud and celebrate his first, real, success into the creation of Wraithbone. Or, at least, his version of it. So, first step was a success and now came the hard part, which was reconnecting with himself, with his passion, with the very essence of his soul; otherwise, he'd just have a pointless blob. Satoru breathed in. And, for the first time in almost three decades, he composed a poem.

No technique, only emotion.

Only emotion.

"Howling winds and cold woods, blood spilled and life taken – shimmer, metal, star... glinting with moonlight, fading into the soil..." His eyes snapped open to tears. Satoru wasn't sure why that particular poem came to mind, but it seemed right. Emotion mattered more than design, after all, and that, in this particular moment, that was precisely what he felt – or, at the very least, those were the words that came to him. Satoru frowned. He'd not shed tears in a very long time. But, as his gaze fell to the object in his hands, he could not help but grin.

Oh yeah, baby.

He did it.

Satoru cracked the secret to making Wraithbone. Or, at least, his own version of it. And it wasn't even really hard. One simply needed the highly-refined skill of being able to touch and manipulate one's soul.

Not difficult at all.

Shimmering like pale glass, upon his hands was a knife-shaped mass of Wraithbone with a mono-molecular edge. Satoru smiled as he brought the object up closer, its surface reflecting an image of his face. It was psycho-reactive, too, Satoru found as he channeled a bit of Positive Energy into the knife, causing it to erupt with white fire. Oh, he was gonna have so much fun messing around with this little trick.

He stood up and lowered the knife and found that every single one of the Farseers was now looking at him with wide eyes, including Aillil and Caoimhe. Satoru raised a brow as he gazed back at the Farseers, shrugging. "What?"

One of the older Farseers fell to his knees, tears streaming from his eyes, whispering, "And he shall know your ways as though he was born to them. As was written!"


AN: Chapter 30 is on (Pat)reon!