Elias Thorne felt the familiar mental thrum as he initiated the deep-dive. Not into dusty tomes, but into the Aether-Thread, the ephemeral network connecting the most potent seers and manipulators across Aethelgard. His avatar, a shimmering, obsidian-edged silhouette, manifested within the consensual hallucination they called the 'Nexus of Whispers.' Another presence, a flitting, iridescent sprite named ‘Gossamer Weave,’ pulsed nearby. “Oh, look who decided to grace us,” Gossamer’s projected voice, a playful chime, echoed in the non-space. “The very definition of stagnant water.” Elias allowed a faint, dry chuckle to ripple through his mental projection. “Aren’t we all, Gossamer? Dregs in the prophetic pool, forever swirling in cycles we pretend to control. Why do we even bother, after… well, after centuries of this?” His internal chronometer ticked past the perceived age of Aethelgard’s latest grand narrative. “A new Age has dawned, yet here we are, still picking apart the threads of the last.” (Translator’s Note [T/N]: ‘Stagnant water’ (沉水者) among the Archivists refers to those deeply entrenched in the most ancient, convoluted prophecies and historical cycles, mastering them to an almost obsessive degree. ‘Rotten water’ (腐水者) denotes those who have reached an apex of such mastery, their understanding so profound it borders on prescience, or perhaps, outright causality manipulation.) Another avatar, a hulking, earthen construct named ‘Stone Breaker,’ rumbled. “Look in the proverbial mirror, Thorne. Then ask yourself.” Elias smiled, a private, knowing twist of his lips. Stone Breaker was hardly original, but reliable. It was true, Elias was one of the continent’s oldest ‘rotten waters,’ a master of the Archives of Aethelgard, his recall of every minute detail, every obscure prophecy, every historical footnote, utterly unparalleled. He wasn’t merely a historian; he was a living compendium, capable of charting the future by dissecting the past. Yet, he wasn't alone in this rarefied stratum. In this very Nexus, another 'rotten water' churned just beneath his surface. A surge of agitated energy entered the Nexus. A jagged, crimson shard of light, ‘Crimson Tempest,’ pulsed into existence, radiating impatience. “Thorne,” its projected voice snapped, a sharp crackle of static. “Are you ready to relinquish your hold on the Primary Convergence?” “Ah, Tempest. Still clinging to that delusion?” Elias’s voice was smooth, deceptively placid. “Do try to avoid grasping at stars beyond your reach.” “Foolishness. This cycle, it ends with me at the forefront.” Crimson Tempest’s shard sharpened, bristling with frustration. “Indeed. Everyone is afforded the liberty of fantasy. Dream on, my friend.” Gossamer Weave interjected, its chimes slightly strained. “Both of you, please. The monthly Nexus Consensus is due. The scrolls are about to unfurl.” Each lunar cycle, the Aether-Thread compiled a ‘Nexus Consensus Score’ for all active Archivists. This score reflected their influence on major historical divergences, their successful predictions, the subtle manipulations of key figures, and the accurate identification of emergent prophecy lines. It was a silent, relentless war among the ‘rotten waters.’ Then, the central node of the Nexus flared, unfurling a series of ethereal golden scripts. The Consensus had arrived. [1st Place: ELIAS THORNE – 315,234,999 Chronal Influence Units] [23 Consecutive Cycles at Primary Convergence!] [2nd Place: CRIMSON TEMPEST – 315,234,125 Chronal Influence Units] [22 Consecutive Cycles at Secondary Convergence!] Crimson Tempest’s avatar flickered violently, scattering momentary crimson sparks across the Nexus. “No! This… this is an aberration! A corruption of the threads!” Its projected voice distorted, jagged and raw. ‘Veridian Oracle,’ a tranquil, leaf-green presence, offered a quiet observation. “Note the fractured syntax. A clear indicator of a shattered composure.” Gossamer Weave’s chime turned conspiratorial. “One can almost feel the trembling.” Indeed, Elias could practically taste the raw frustration emanating from Crimson Tempest. A profound sense of relief, followed by a surge of smug satisfaction, washed over him. He allowed himself a silent, hearty laugh that reverberated solely within his own consciousness. “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” Elias projected, the sound a purely mental construct, yet carrying the full weight of his triumph. “Did you perceive that, Tempest? Eternally in the secondary convergence! A perpetual understudy! Always second-rate!” Crimson Tempest’s avatar dissolved into a chaotic scrawl of corrupted data, a series of meaningless symbols and broken code that choked the mental space. “sdlkghiosdghsodighsdighiofsdoighiosd.” Veridian Oracle sighed. “Ah, the predictable descent. Mental disintegration, as expected.” Stone Breaker’s rumble softened into something akin to amusement. “He does react so reliably. Makes the annual spectacle worthwhile.” “Ah, that was invigorating,” Elias’s voice purred, radiating contentment. “I anticipate a restful cycle. Good night, my dear Crimson, forever in your secondary role. Strive for more next lunar phase.” Crimson Tempest’s avatar, barely coherent, struggled back into a fractured shape. “Wait! Why is the differential a mere 800 units?!” “Quite,” Elias agreed, his tone utterly guileless. “One truly wonders how such a paltry sum eluded your grasp. Is that, perhaps, the fundamental chasm between primary and secondary influence?” Crimson Tempest’s fragmented voice became a desperate, repetitive drone. “The violation of established protocol is subject to sanction. The violation of established protocol is subject to sanction. The violation of established protocol is subject to sanction. The violation of established protocol is subject to sanction. ‘Foolishness’ is an observation, not an infraction!” “Regardless,” Elias said, a final, definitive note in his voice. “I am withdrawing. Pleasant dreams. Perhaps dream of my primary position?” “The violation of established protocol is subject to sanction!” Crimson Tempest shrieked, its form flickering erratically. No further response came from Elias. The other Archivists, who had been silently observing the usual exchange, stirred. Gossamer Weave chirped. “What? Has he truly departed? Thorne?” Stone Breaker paused. “Did Tempest truly go silent? Is that the best he has?” (T/N: The Archival sobriquet ‘Crimson Tempest’ for this particular rival is often colloquially shortened to ‘Crimson Scourge’ by the lesser Archivists, referencing an ancient tale of a powerful, but ultimately outmaneuvered, elemental spirit who constantly challenged the dominant deity of prophecy, much to its perpetual detriment. It signifies a persistent, yet doomed, second-place status.) Veridian Oracle hummed softly. “They are, in their way, permanently intertwined. First and second, forever orbiting each other. Like ancient, feuding constellations.” Stone Breaker shuddered. “Perhaps a new forbidden chronicle will be etched. ‘The Rivalry of Thorne and Tempest: An Unlikely Bond.’” Veridian Oracle emitted a pulse of digital amusement. “Oh, gods, no. I almost visualized it.” Gossamer Weave’s chime was thoughtful. “What happened? I understand Thorne’s predictable exit, but Tempest usually descends into utter chaos. Did they both truly disengage so abruptly?” Elias Thorne felt his avatar dissolving from the Nexus, a subtle, almost imperceptible shift. Crimson Tempest’s chaotic presence finally, grudgingly, fractured and vanished. --- Elias Thorne, back in the stark reality of his study within the Obsidian Tower, exhaled slowly. A faint smile touched his lips, a rare, genuine expression. The constant friction with Crimson Tempest was, he admitted, surprisingly stimulating. It prevented the centuries from truly dulling his edge. Across the continent, in a cavern of crackling arcane energy, Hong Yoo Hee (Crimson Tempest) slammed her fist against a crystal divination orb, cracks spiderwebbing across its surface. “That… insufferable… smug… ARCHIVIST!” Her fury echoed in the deep recesses of her sanctum. The 874 Chronal Influence Units. A single, insignificant ripple, yet it had been enough. Just enough, again. Elias leaned back in his ancient, leather-bound chair. The next cycle. Always the next cycle. And with it, another opportunity to manipulate, to predict, to prove that even in a world dictated by fate, some destinies could be subtly… redirected. He had a few threads already in mind for the coming month’s Convergence. Tiny, almost imperceptible tugs at the grand tapestry, which would undoubtedly exasperate Tempest once more. He savored the thought. It was almost a comfort, this endless rivalry. He reached for a forgotten scroll, its parchment brittle with age. A new, minor prophecy was emerging, one that spoke of a 'Whispering Tyrant' in the northern reaches, a self-proclaimed 'hero' whose destiny was about to collide with a very inconvenient truth. Elias made a mental note. This would be a subtle, enjoyable unraveling. And perhaps, just perhaps, another 874 units of Chronal Influence. Enough, at least, to maintain his lead and ensure another delicious outburst from his rival. It was, after all, his particular brand of entertainment. And in a world choked by predetermined destinies, a little personal amusement was a necessity. He closed his eyes, already sifting through the archives for the precise, obscure historical parallel that would allow him to predict the tyrant’s downfall with surgical precision. The game continued, and Elias Thorne, the ultimate 'rotten water,' was always ready for the next move.

The Dregs of Prophecy