Chapter 15: The World Beyond
The sharp, medicinal tang of alcohol lingered in the air, stinging Asher's nose as he sat on the edge of his bed. His hand rested lightly against the gauze wrapped snugly around his neck, the faint dampness betraying its recent dousing. With his other hand, he traced the coarse stitching of the blanket beneath him, his fingers moving in a restless rhythm as he tried to make sense of everything.
Kaspar was sprawled out on their bed across the room, tinkering with a small, intricate device in their hands. The soft clink of tools was soothing in its familiarity, a steady backdrop to the storm raging outside.
Snow battered the window panes, the howling wind a constant reminder of the harsh world beyond their fragile shelter.
Kaspar paused, goggles shifting downward to eye Asher.
"Why? You don't sleep? Neck hurt? You think of basement now?"
"I don't know," Asher muttered, shaking his head. "Something about it... it's stuck in my mind. I can't stop thinking about what happened."
Kaspar tilted their head, clearly trying to read him. "You still scared, yes? Or curious? Maybe both? Otto explain tomorrow. He explain... better than me."
Asher frowned, frustration bubbling up despite his exhaustion.
"You've been here long enough. You know something. Can't you just tell me what this supernatural stuff even is?"
Kaspar gave a half-hearted shrug, reaching for the small device they'd been working on.
"Not my thing. Too much magic, too much trouble. I stick to machines. No ghost, no curse. Easy life, yes?"
"Easy," Asher echoed sarcastically, brushing a hand against his neck. "You mean just ignore it and hope it goes away?"
Kaspar smirked faintly, their fingers deftly twisting a piece of wire. "If it work, then yes. But for you... no sleep, no calm. Head full of noise. Maybe I help, yes?"
Asher sighed, lowering his hands to his lap. "Help how?"
Kaspar held up the half-finished mixer, its gears faintly glinting in the low light. "I explain! Good distraction. You listen, not think about bear or blood."
And so Kaspar launched into their explanation, voice animated as they described the mixer in disjointed but enthusiastic phrases. The clinking of tools and the occasional dramatic hand gesture punctuated their words, drawing Asher's focus away from the storm in his mind.
The blizzard outside wailed, but Kaspar's voice softened its edge, the warmth of their enthusiasm pulling Asher closer to sleep. The mixer's mechanics blended into the snow's rhythm, and Asher's head dipped, finally succumbing to the pull of rest.
The blood-red moon hung low in the sky, its surface veined with dark cracks like an injured heart.
It loomed over a barren wasteland, casting everything in hues of scarlet and shadow.
Blood and pus oozed up with each step, seeping through cracks in the ground.
A distant howl echoed—a deep, guttural sound that resonated in his chest.
He turned to look for its source, but the horizon was empty except for the moon, growing larger and larger as it bore down on him.
The howl morphed into a whisper. It spoke no words, only feelings: hunger, pain, rage.
The shadows stretched toward him,
Seeing his right arm disappear.
Asher moved sluggishly through his morning routine, his body still heavy with fatigue. The dorm room felt emptier with Kaspar still asleep, sprawled across their bed with an arm dangling off the side.
In the small shared kitchen, he rummaged through the sparse pantry. The options were dismal: a few potatoes, a heel of bread, and a small slab of butter that looked like it had seen better days.
With a resigned sigh, he boiled the potatoes and fried up thin slices of bread in the butter.
The aroma of frying bread filled the dorm, but Asher's mood didn't lift. He stared out the window as he ate, watching the snow-coated streets begin to stir with life. Despite the weather, a handful of people were braving the cold to make their way to Otto's sermon.
The sight of the small crowd gave him pause. Yesterday, the church had been nearly empty, the storm keeping most people away. Today, however, a modest group had gathered, their movements slow and deliberate, as if the cold had seeped into their very bones.
Otto's voice carried through the church, his sermon subdued compared to his usual fiery energy. The priest's face was pale, and the bags under his eyes gave him a haunted look.
His words were no less eloquent, but the exhaustion was evident in the slight tremor of his hands as he gestured.
Asher sat in one of the back pews, letting the droning sermon wash over him. His gaze drifted across the congregation, settling on Samantha Grubs near the back. She was bundled in thick, practical layers, her sharp eyes scanning the room.
When her gaze met Otto's, she gave him a small nod, her expression tinged with pity.
Why is she here?
Samantha rarely attended church, and seeing her in the congregation felt as out of place as the uncharacteristic sympathy in her eyes.
By midday, the snow had tapered off into a light dusting, and the church was quiet once more. Kaspar, for once, had little to do—no broken machines, no minor repairs to keep them busy. Instead, they hauled out the worn Feysac textbooks and set them on the table.
"Today," Kaspar declared, "we study much. You learn lots. No escaping, yes?"
As the last echoes of Otto's sermon faded, the heavy wooden doors of the church creaked open, signaling the end of another mass.
Kaspar was already gathering the Feysac textbooks, muttering under their breath about something they'd been meaning to fix, but Otto's presence suddenly loomed beside them.
"Kaspar, out," Otto said abruptly, his tone colder than usual. The sharp command made Kaspar pause, then sigh in a long, exaggerated fashion before scooping up their things and slinking out of the room.
The door clicked shut behind them, leaving the two alone.
Otto, his eyes carrying a distant, worn look, didn't take a seat across from Asher right away. Instead, he reached into his robe and pulled out the stick Asher had seen him with earlier.
He held it in his hands for a moment, inspecting it before offering it to Asher.
It looks almost exactly like the one I gave him before—same size, just a little smoother, newer?
He hesitated for a moment, as if weighing his words. Then, his voice broke the silence, low and deliberate.
"Let's start with the basics. We're Beyonders—individuals who've consumed potions. It changes us, fundamentally, in ways most people can't even begin to comprehend."
Asher shifted uncomfortably, still uncertain about the full scope of what he was hearing. He rubbed the gauze on his neck absently, recalling the strange way he came into this world, infused with an unfamiliar power.
Otto noticed the movement but didn't comment, instead continuing. "There are 9 sequences, from 1 to 9. I'm an Artisan, Sequence 6. We're craftsmen—creators of both ordinary and mystical objects. We can forge items that transcend the limits of the world's material nature. That very stick you're holding? Sealed by this power."
Fiddling with a wrench Kaspar had accidentally left on the table, Otto added, "Kaspar is a Sequence 9 Savant, a lower sequence of my pathway. Their knowledge of mysticism and mechanics is vast—almost unnervingly so. They have near-perfect recall of every piece of information they've ever encountered. If you needed to understand how a machine works, they could explain it to you with unnerving clarity."
Asher nodded slowly, his brow furrowing. He could see Kaspar's personality fitting that description well enough.
"So how do you get from Sequence 9 to 6?"
Kaspar, almost laughing at himself, responded, "You wait. As you live as a Beyonder, you become more in-tune and adept at using the power until you realize there's no more progress to be made."
He leaned back in his chair, his tone shifting with a certain bitterness.
"Then you fork over every ounce of money you've ever saved—or sell your soul to the devil—just to make it to the next Sequence."
Confused, Asher asked, "What do you mean by that?"
Kaspar grinned in a way that sent an odd chill through the room. He gauged Asher's reaction before adding, "A Sequence 9 potion alone costs the Church 1000 gold hoorns."
Asher blinked, stunned by the staggering sum. "A thousand gold hoorns?" he echoed, his voice catching in disbelief. He shifted the stick Otto had handed him, as if the weight of it had suddenly become more apparent. "That's... insane. For a sequence that's—what? Just the lowest?"
Otto's eyes narrowed, his gaze sharp and cold. "It's not just 'the lowest.' A Sequence 9 is a cost in both resources and reality itself. You're not just paying in gold, you're paying with the core of your being. The moment you reach the bottom of the ladder, you are already far beyond what any normal human can comprehend. You become... something else entirely." He paused for a moment, then added, "Something that can't even die in the conventional way."
Asher blinked in confusion, trying to wrap his mind around the meaning behind Otto's words. "What do you mean by that? You can't just die?"
Otto's gaze turned distant, like he was reliving something unpleasant. "When a Beyonder dies they don't just fade away. No. They often become objects... infused with fragments of their powers. It's like their essence—what made them them—gets transferred into something else, something that can still serve a purpose. But it's not the same."
Asher shuddered, the thought of becoming some kind of... object was deeply unsettling. "So, they just turn into things? What kind of things?"
"Anything," Otto replied, his voice dark. "Usually something related to their Pathway, but not always. It's not a clean process. Take this stick, for instance." He motioned toward the object in Asher's hand, which now felt heavier with the weight of Otto's words. "This was once a Sequence 9 Planter. A person who specialized in physical strength, weather prediction, and farming. The stick you're holding is infused with some of their powers. Its original owner was someone who could enhance their physical abilities, someone who had mastery over the earth—growing crops, predicting storms, and understanding the land. But now?" Otto paused, as if the next part was hard to speak. "Now, it's just a remnant. A fragment of what was once a person. It's not the same. Not even close."
Asher's grip on the stick tightened. It still felt alive in his hands, but now it seemed as though the very fibers of the wood were pulsating with a strange, forgotten power. "So... this stick is just a piece of someone who... died?"
Otto's eyes darkened, and he leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping the surface of the table rhythmically as he spoke. "No, Asher. There's nothing left of the person who was once a Beyonder. It's not just the body that dies—it's the soul, too. When a Beyonder dies, their essence dissolves into the world, but they are no longer the individual they once were. What you hold now in your hands is just a piece of that power, a fragment that still serves a function, but it's devoid of the spirit that once gave it life."
He motioned toward the stick again, his voice growing more detached. "This thing—it simply enhances your physical strength. It doesn't come close to what a real Planter could do. It might make you a little stronger, but it doesn't touch their depths. Even then it carries a cost."
Asher felt a shiver run down his spine, the weight of the stick seeming to grow even heavier in his hands. "A cost?"
Otto nodded, his gaze unwavering. "Yes. You won't feel things like lust while you're wielding it. It's not just a side effect—drawbacks are a part of what happens when someone dies and their power lingers like this."
"I emphasize this not just to let you know about the Beyonder characteristics, but because the bear down there is different."