CHAPTER 171: ONE WEEK INTO THE RESILIENT MOTHER BASTION

Noirette had learned so many things in the span of one week within the Resilient Mother bastion as a member of the Mage Court.

The days blurred into an amalgamation of discovery, each hour spent in the Grand Archive unveiled layers of Fathomi’s arcane underbelly.

She delved into the intricacies of spellcasting, tracing the delicate weave of Mana Psyche and Hemo Psyche through formations that channeled raw intent into tangible effects—circles of binding, runes of amplification, and lattices that bent reality like folded parchment and many more rudimentary spells,

These would prove invaluable should she ever reclaim her Well of the Soul, a bridge between her current void and the structured power she once wielded.

Beyond that, she also uncovered the machinations of Curio Items, those enigmatic artifacts scattered across the realm—how they could be disassembled, their essences teased apart like threads from a loom, and reassembled with modifications that amplified traits or birthed new ones.

The very same thing that the Foilschwert Association was known for.

To think that their very business trait had been uncovered and dissected like a test rat in a lab by the Mage Court.

And considering the members of the Mage Court and the security of the Grand Archive, this fact might not have been known by the members of the Foilschwert Association themselves.

"So this is how proper battle puppets are made," Noirette muttered, trying to experiment with some stuff in the Mage Court’s workshop that she rented. "As expected, Malleable Essence is awesome."

She even mastered the creation of battle puppets without invoking a divine miracle—a feat that, in her previous existence as Kivas, the Living Deity of Harvest, had required the boundless wellspring of her portfolio, and help from her allies in Vaingall.

Now, drawing from ambient essences and rudimentary enchantments, she could animate constructs of wood and wire, imbuing them with rudimentary autonomy, like guardians that patrolled with unerring vigilance or scouts that navigated distortions unscathed.

Each revelation deepened her grasp, not merely of Fathomi’s mechanics, but of her own transformed state.

The knowledge empowered her command of the Malleable Essence, that intangible void-born force unique to Shallow Ones.

What began as clumsy moldings—bending perception or conjuring fleeting manifestations—evolved into precise manipulations, her will shaping the essence like a sculptor with clay, turning absence into arsenal.

It was to the point why she knew how Blanchette could be so strong.

Amid this immersion, Noirette also fulfilled her project quota in the Grand Archive’s floating alcoves, her Athena Marker gliding across the pages of her leather-bound tome.

Her chosen topic: the digitalization of Fathomi itself, a creeping phenomenon where reality glitched into pixelated anomalies, unseen by most but glaring to her void-attuned sight.

She chronicled the subtle encroachments—the rippling church crests, the block-warped soil and trees, the rhythmic pulses that hinted at an external protocol overwriting the world’s organic fabric.

Interwoven were descriptions of herself as hollow, a vessel devoid of the anchors that bound others to Fathomi’s rhythms—empty of progress designations, untethered from the gravitational pull of souls.

She hinted at this state without naming it, portraying it as a lens through which the digital veil parted, revealing threads from another existence weaving into the realm’s fate.

This was no mere speculation; it posited a brand new aspect of Fathomi, a doorway to enlightenment that challenged the foundations of essence and entropy.

And as an eccentric newbie renowned for her undetectable spellcasting, Noirette drew the gaze of regulars and elders alike.

"The void practitioner," they called her, clustering near her alcove to observe her quill’s dance or debate the implications of her drafts.

Her material, raw and unfolding, ignited forums of discourse, members poring over copies that rewrite itself with each update.

While absorbed in a treatise on physics and magic—a voluminous work exploring how gravitational constants intertwined with spell lattices, penned by a member described only as "Tall Tentacled Figure with Glowing Orb Hat"—Noirette was approached by one of the librarians.

This one differed from the previous, her demeanor sly and cunning, eyes narrowed like a merchant appraising rare goods. Her witch hat featured a brim that curled upward at the edges, embroidered with interlocking keys that jingled faintly with each step, as if they were the catalyst to all truths.

"Your ongoing material has garnered quite the following," the librarian remarked, leaning against a floating pedestal with casual grace.

Noirette looked up from her page, setting her magic pen aside. "I am surprised that people are interested in reading amateur works like that."

The librarian’s lips curved into a knowing smile, her key-embroidered brim tinkling softly. "I have already read it up to the latest update. The concept of cosmic beings attempting to slowly corrupt Fathomi, unseen by those tied to the world itself, is not only bold but quite alarming. It could potentially become an infohazard, spreading unease where none existed before."

Noirette flipped another page in her reading material, her expression thoughtful. "Why not remove the research project then?"

The librarian chuckled, a low sound that carried an edge of intrigue. "While some view it as nothing but an entertaining novel, others are drawn by intrigue and vast curiosity. In fact, I have heard from fellow librarians and members that several have begun to investigate the subject themselves, probing the fringes of distortions for signs of this digital encroachment."

Noirette’s surprise was genuine, her brows lifting as she set the book down. "Considering the absurd topic, I expected people to simply not care."

The librarian’s cunning gaze sharpened, her hands folding neatly. "The Mage Court is mostly filled with eccentric and special individuals who care for nothing but immersing themselves in research and knowledge.

"You have introduced a brand new topic to discuss and explore, and not only that, it possesses a sense of urgency. It motivates others to seek the truth about it, regardless of whether it turns out to be unfounded or not."

Noirette nodded slowly, absorbing the implications as the archive’s hum seemed to underscore the librarian’s words.

The conversation lingered briefly before the librarian departed with a nod, leaving Noirette to her studies.

Hours passed in a blur of illuminated pages and whispered consultations with floating indices.

As the evening approached, Noirette and Blanchette reunited near the Grand Archive’s luminous exit.

They roamed the Resilient Mother’s bustling thoroughfares, their witch hats perched prominently—Noirette’s sleek black with gold filigree, Blanchette’s white dripping cool honey-like droplets that evaporated harmlessly.

The streets that teemed with demi-humans and wanderers, markets alive with the sizzle of forges and the haggling of traders, but the hats drew immediate deference. Gazes followed them, whispers rippling like waves: "Mage Court’s members," and many more names were uttered. Vendors paused mid-transaction, and passersby offered nods of respect.

They settled into a cozy steak restaurant tucked along a garden-lined avenue, its interior warmed by hearth fires and adorned with hanging herbs that perfumed the air.

The owner, a burly figure with furred ears and a tail that swished in excitement, hurried over upon spotting their hats. "Honored guests of the court! Your meal is in the house—finest cuts, seared to perfection, you name it, and we will bring it to you immediately!"

Noirette accepted graciously, and soon plates arrived laden with juicy steaks, glazed in herb-infused reductions, accompanied by roasted roots and fresh loaves.

She sliced into hers, the meat yielding tender and savory, and stuffed a generous bite into her mouth. "Being in the Mage Court is nothing but benefits," she said between chews, savoring the rich flavors. "Not only that, there is nothing preventing us from exiting the Resilient Mother bastion as well."

Blanchette chuckled softly, cutting her own portion with elegant precision. "You look happier than when you were in Vaingall."

Noirette paused, fork midway to her mouth. "My wives would be hurt if they heard that." She swallowed the bite and continued, her tone reflective. "While I am less powerful and not in the presence of those I love, I feel quite liberated from all the chains and impending doom that come with being a Fateling—or to be exact, Kivas Chariot."

Blanchette nodded, her crimson eyes thoughtful as she speared a morsel. "Are you fine with being Noirette forever?"

Noirette responded by forking a piece of her steak and stuffing it into Blanchette’s mouth, a playful glint in her eye.

"I must return one day or another, since I still have something to protect in the end."

Blanchette chewed deliberately, her wide smile undimmed. "Samael is strong enough to protect Vaingall for the meantime, and they will know that their current fragments of Kivas are still alive since they still continue this timeline, and the Well of the Soul alongside the divine portfolio on the divine vessel of Kivas Chariot, are still there~"

Just as they contemplated requesting seconds—the steaks’ juiciness leaving them craving more—an announcement blared across the landship, echoing from hidden amplifiers embedded in the structures.

"Attention, inhabitants of the Resilient Mother. We approached Yelmen bastion. Prepare for temporary docking in one hour. All hands to stations for mooring protocols."

The restaurant stirred with activity, patrons murmuring about the stopover—trades to be made, curios to seek, anomalies to scout.

Noirette and Blanchette exchanged a glance, the promise of new horizons hanging in the air like the steam from their plates.