The *tick-tick-tick* of the wooden box resonated through the sterile VIP room, a relentless pulse against the sudden, disorienting quiet. Dr. Sterling stared at it, then at the empty mattress, her mind struggling to reconcile the wooden explosive with the fading echoes of a volcanic, ash-choked realm. Her hands trembled, pressing against her temples. “A-a bomb?” she whispered, her voice reedy and thin. “He left a bomb?” “A declaration of war, Sterling. And a crude one at that.” Vaskar’s tone was a low thrum of disdain. He approached the box, a slight tilt of his head as he inspected the sickly green glow. “He seeks to destroy what he cannot defend.” Royston, still breathing heavily, scrambled to the box and snatched it up, his face pale beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. “No, no, no! This isn’t a declaration, it’s a suicide pact! This entire facility is sitting on that telluric conduit. If this detonates, the Oakhaven Nexus will collapse, draining half the city's vital reservoirs. Not to mention the mundane collateral damage.” He fumbled for his phone, his fingers flying across the screen. “I have to call them. I have to call everyone.” “Call whom, vassal?” Vaskar’s gaze was sharp, dissecting. “Your meager collection of glorified street brawlers?” “They’re not street brawlers, they’re some of the most potent practitioners on the Eastern Seaboard!” Royston retorted, already shouting into his phone. “Yes, it’s Galt! Get me Master Jian. Tell him it’s an Oakhaven conduit emergency. Yes, *the* primary branch! Now!” He paced in frantic circles, while Vaskar watched, cool and unmoving. Over the next hour, Royston’s frantic calls brought a strange procession to the Institute. A dozen figures, cloaked in varying degrees of mundane professionalism—some in tailored suits, others in martial arts gi, one even in a delivery driver’s uniform—began to filter into the courtyard. The air prickled with ozone and heat. They moved with an unnerving grace, their eyes constantly scanning, their expressions a mixture of grave seriousness and thinly veiled skepticism. Dr. Sterling, having somehow managed to compose herself, watched from the courtyard doors, clutching a medical tablet. “They’re… a rather eclectic support group, Royston,” she murmured, still attempting to frame the supernatural within her professional lexicon. “Their 'chi deviations' certainly seem exacerbated by stress.” “They walk the path, doctor,” Royston stressed, his voice tight. “They sense the telluric breach. It makes them… agitated.” The leader of the group, a man with a severe topknot and a flowing black gi, stepped forward. This was Master Jian, his face etched with a permanent scowl. He carried a gnarled staff that hummed against his palm. He stopped before Vaskar, his eyes narrowing in disdain. “This is the emergency? A deranged man in a hospital gown and a self-proclaimed exorcist?” His voice was a rasp, thick with arrogance. “Royston, you said the subterranean rift was in peril. Not that some inmate had gone mad.” Vaskar simply observed, a stillness that belied the potent force within him. His gaze swept over the gathered martialists, each one carrying an unrefined inner heat. He categorized their postures, their vulnerabilities, the subtle imbalances in their stances that even their elder had missed. “Mad, am I?” Vaskar’s voice was low, resonating with a power that vibrated the very air. “You mistake a sovereign for a common thrall. Your posture is a disgrace, Jian. Your weight distribution favors defensive retreat, not decisive engagement. Your meridians, particularly the Fading River, are constricted, choked by a lifetime of self-imposed limitations.” Jian bristled, his hand tightening on his staff. “Insolent fool! Do you lecture *me* on the ancient arts?” He drew breath, a thin gold haze flaring around his knuckles, an explicit challenge. “You know nothing of the Sacred Nine Forms of the Crimson Gale!” “I know only that your ‘Crimson Gale’ resembles a poorly executed gust from a fledgling wyrmling,” Vaskar countered, his voice dripping with ancient contempt. He made no move, but an invisible pressure descended, heavy and absolute, pressing down on Jian. It was not a fist or a blade, but the crushing, unyielding will of a warlord forged in mountain fire. Jian's golden aura flickered, then shattered. His knees buckled. He gasped, a guttural sound, struggling against the unseen weight that forced him slowly, inexorably, to the coarse concrete. The other adepts pulled back, their smugness hollowed out. They stared as their revered leader, a man capable of cracking granite blocks with his heel, fell to his knees under the mere gaze of a patient in faded cotton. “Your discipline is flawed, your spirit fragmented. You cling to form, yet neglect true power,” Vaskar stated, his voice calm, yet devastating. “Rise, if you can, elder, and perhaps I shall consider teaching you the mechanics of true dominion.” Jian, panting, struggled to push himself up, but the pressure held him firm. His face was a mask of humiliation and dawning fear. Dr. Sterling, observing the man's posture, stepped forward, her medical tablet clutched to her chest. “Sir, your muscle spasms are causing severe myofascial restrictions in your lumbar region. It’s a classic stress response, exacerbated by your emotional state. Here.” She produced a small, vibrating massage gun from her medical bag, approaching the bewildered Jian. “This will help realign your… spiritual vectors.” Before anyone could react, she pressed the massage gun firmly against Jian’s lower back. A jolt, not just of vibration but of something else, something pure and clear, shot through the grandmaster. The man's pupils shrank to pinpricks. The crushing weight upon his neck abruptly vanished, not because Vaskar lifted it, but because vertebrae and tendon aligned with a sharp pop. He gasped again, this time with a mixture of shock and profound relief, and instinctively rose to his feet. A lifetime of chronic, subtle energetic blockage had just been—accidentally—cleared. “My… my Fading River…” Jian whispered, awe in his voice, touching his lower back. The dull throb he had carried since youth vanished into clear blood flow. He glanced between Vaskar and Dr. Sterling, his prior condescension burned away. He dropped to one knee, not from force, but from genuine, terrified reverence. “Forgive my blindness, Your Majesty! I am but a speck before your boundless wisdom! My spirit is yours to command!” The other martialists, witnessing this realignment and their elder's sudden submission, sank to the flagstones in an uneven arc before Vaskar. Their fear was now absolute, their devotion unquestioning. These were not mere street brawlers, but a vanguard, honed and terrified, ready for orders. Vaskar surveyed his new, kneeling army, a grim satisfaction settling over him. “Good. Now, explain this ticking device more clearly, Royston, before I am forced to apply direct persuasion.” Before Royston could begin, a dark, feathered shape plummeted from the sky. It hit the courtyard’s manicured grass with a soft thump, a faint plume of ash rising. It was General Coo, Vaskar’s lead pigeon, one wing scorched black, a thin trickle of blood staining its grey feathers. The bird wobbled, then collapsed, coughing up a small, blood-soaked piece of parchment onto the grass. The map, crudely drawn but unmistakably detailed, pinpointed a single location: the city’s botanical gardens, marked with a sinister, swirling symbol.

Mustering the Vanguard