Chapter 327: The Hunted

Dasha opened his eyes to see a book in his hand. Sitting at a table in the House of Wisdom, he began reading at once. He had taken a thirty-minute nap and the abrupt awakening returned his heartbeat and temperature to normal. Previously, Dasha followed an everyday man’s sleeping schedule. A monophasic cycle, as it were scientifically called, describing the seven to nine hours of sleep working people had. It was the type of sleep best suited for body-intensive training.

Not anymore. Not for Dasha. Being “best suited” had to be sacrificed in wake of efficiency. He switched to a dymaxion cycle of sleep. A segmented sleep schedule where he slept four times a day in intervals of half an hour. Adapting to the schedule was near impossible for, say, a fighter that participated in the Heavenly Games. Sleep was necessary for the body to heal.

The dymaxion schedule itself was suited for those with the DEC2 gene; a mutation that made them “efficient sleepers”. It was not a matter of training; rather, these individuals were simply born with it. They could sleep at eleven and wake up at four without a hint of distress. DEC2 was responsible for controlling levels of orexin and functioned as a timekeeper. It rose during the day and fell during the night, following a rhythm.

On Earth, Dasha had injected himself with the DEC2 genome that bloomed the mutation into himself. He was about seven when he compounded the formula and twelve when he had the resources to inject it into himself. Even with the genome inside him here, he previously elected for long hours of sleep in order to properly rest up his cultivating body. Due to the very nature of cultivation, rest was not a suggestion—it was a requirement.

Internal Healing Middle Stage circumvented the previous issues. As well, since Operation Storm needed him to come up with an invention for the spy at the Thunderstrike Brotherhood, Dasha pushed his mind and body. Circumventing and adapting a type of technology he was not accustomed to was easier said than done. He had to study decades and centuries worth of technological progress. To pace the geniuses of this world was not that easy, after all. Humanity has and always would have intelligent men and women.

’From what Dr. Thornton told me, the Thunderstrike Brotherhood lamp line of products are known to use Dalecarlian runes. The doctor was more interested in Futhark but her general expertise in runes was still needed.’

Dasha finished flipping through the book, memorizing and comprehending, and then put it aside on the table. Between the stacks of books was a dark blue buffer lamp and a swing-arm lamp. He checked the base of the swing-arm lamp, fingers finding subtle creases.

’These lamps have the magic circles placed underneath and have a clause that hides them from the average person.’

From his index finger, fire appeared and he carved out ᛟᛈᛖᚾ. A non-phonetic Elder Futhrak rune, it pulsed with magic and did…nothing. The magic circle did not appear. Dasha tried again, this time going for a phonetic reading that had Dasha utter, “Opən.”

An incantation and a rune. Nothing.

’So even with knowledge, it won’t be easy to break. As expected.’

These lamps were everywhere. Like how one did not instinctively note and describe a brick on a wall, so too were the products of the Thunderstrike Brotherhood. They were a monopoly through and through.

“Tea.”

The sudden offer was accompanied by a sliding of a cup across wood. Dasha didn’t glance at the giver and replied, “Thank you.”

’As always, I can’t seem to sense him.’ Dasha sipped on his tea and picked up another book. Xavier proceeded to sit across from him, his face hidden by the hat.

“Are you busy?” Xavier asked.

“Yes. This is my dedicated study time.” Dasha flipped through several pages. “I would prefer not to have it impeded.”

“Daughter wishes to call you over,” Xavier said.

Officially four days had passed since the Monster Hunter massacre. What could she want now?

“She said to join her in the carriage.”

Carriage. Code word for the Monster Hunters HQ. “Fine. Let me finish two more books and we can go.”

***

The Whispers did a phenomenal job with the clean-up of his murders. On the road, he saw splotches of dark red with the people of the Dark Sector hushing and pointing at the marks. Self-proclaimed witnesses claimed to have seen five people killed. Many said a great battle took place between demons. A man was chased from the Underground due to some long vendetta. Typical people nonesense and conspiracies.

Dasha walked without any of them knowing it was him. His good looks, dark attire, red tie, and Venetian mask was ignored as the people whispered and talked. As ideas manifested in the form of false truths and ignorance.

In the Dark Sector, the rumours were a quiet bubble that had not yet exploded, courtesy of the Whispers. They traded in information. No one could suppress and heighten news better than they could. So for the rest of the White Abyss to remain ignorant was natural. No phones, no technology, only doves and newspapers, it took time for information to travel. What Dasha told the bartender was a seed that would soon blossom. The fight over Raoul’s journal, the date of the attack, the ignorance of the betters—these were all for the rumour mill to spread and for Roland Blackwood to discover.

But the time for the massacre to be unveiled was not yet so. Dasha arrived at the front entrance, glancing at the pediment with the guild emblem and then the large twin doors with the guild emblem. From the outside, nothing had changed. He knocked.

“Who is it?”

“Daughter asked for me.”

The door creaked open and Dasha did not plunge his gauntlets into the heart of the guard. This was a Whisper, a nonchalant swordsman that frequented bars. His age was shown in his hair and wrinkles and especially his smile. “She awaits in the Grand Hall.”

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