Kalagar S. Sully awoke to the gentle, rhythmic shush of a broom.
He lay on his cot for a long, blissful moment, his mind blissfully empty. The nap had been deep, dreamless, and restorative. He felt calm. He felt centered. He felt—
Click.
The sound of reality returning. The sound of a pen on parchment.
Shush. Shush. Click.
Kalagar opened his eyes. He was in his study. The door was conceptually locked. Outside, he could hear the faint, serene sounds of his new "Sect." The shush was Boro's golem, 'Cogsworth', sweeping the balcony. The click was Archmage Elara, downstairs in the main hall, happily indexing his philosophy books.
It wasn't a nightmare.
He had five disciples.
He had cured a plague he caused by fixing a drought he caused, and in the process, had created a... Forbidden-Rank Holy River.
"Fine," he muttered, swinging his legs off the cot. "This is fine. I am a god. They are my cult. The world is my accidental test-lab. At least," he looked at the door, "they are quiet."
He was beginning to accept his new, insane reality. His standards for "peace" had been drastically, and perhaps irreversibly, lowered. "Not actively breaking the continent" was his new baseline for a good day.
He stood, stretched, and unlocked his door, intending to get a cup of tea. He stepped onto the balcony and... froze.
His five disciples were in the clearing. Lined up. Kneeling. Again.
They were kneeling before a man.
He was an older, powerfully-built man with a neatly-trimmed grey beard and a severe, military posture. He was dressed in what looked like the simple, dark-green tunic of a wealthy merchant or a retired soldier. But the fabric, even from 30 feet away, was flawless. His boots were worn, but of the highest, most supple leather.
He was, in short, obviously not a 'simple' anything.
Kalagar's shoulders slumped. He didn't even have the energy to be surprised. He just felt... tired.
Archmage Elara had been the first to "index" the newcomer. She had been happily cross-referencing Kalagar's copy of Thus Spoke Zarathustra with Sylvie's [Samsara] art when the man walked into the clearing.
Her [Akashic-Mandate] had activated instantly.
[Subject: Karl-Theodore von Aethel. Status: Emperor of the Arcane Empire (Incognito). Power: Level 8 (Arch-Swordsman). Intent: Investigate [River of Samsara], assess 'The Sage'.]
Elara's blood had frozen. The Emperor. Her Emperor. Here. In disguise.
She had glided from the pagoda, her face a mask of stone, and immediately dropped to one knee.
Lila, Valerius, Boro, and Sylvie, seeing their new, Archmage-level colleague instantly prostrate herself, had scrambled to do the same.
Emperor Karl-Theodore stared at the five kneeling figures. He had come here expecting... he didn't know what. A fortress of monsters. A pillar of divine fire.
Instead, he found a glowing pagoda, a sentient silver-jungle... and Archmage Elara, his most powerful, most-feared, and missing subordinate, kneeling in the dirt like a common acolyte.
"Elara," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "What... is the meaning... of this? You have abandoned your post. You have abandoned the Conclave."
Elara did not look up. "I have not, Your Majesty. I have found my post. I am home."
"Home...?" the Emperor began, his mind failing to comprehend her words.
And that's when he heard it.
A sigh.
A loud, aggrieved, profoundly annoyed sigh from the pagoda balcony.
"Oh, for... GET UP."
The Emperor looked up. A thin man in a simple tunic was standing there, his hand on his hip, looking furious.
"Master!" his five disciples chorused, but they did not rise.
Kalagar S. Sully stalked down the stairs, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated annoyance. He was done with this.
He didn't just look at his disciples. He loomed over them.
"Get. Up," he snapped. "All of you! You look ridiculous! He is just a man! Stop... kneeling... at every single person who walks up this mountain! Are you a Sect... or are you a doormat?!"
The Emperor's blood turned to ice.
He had just watched five god-like beings—including the Archmage of Mind—who were kneeling to him, their Emperor...
...be scolded...
...for kneeling to him.
And then...
They obeyed.
As one, Elara, Sylvie, Boro, Valerius, and Lila scrambled to their feet, their heads bowed to the Sage.
"Forgive us, Master!"
"It will not happen again, Master!"
"Our apologies, Master!"
The "Sage" had, in the space of three seconds, casually, angrily, and with total dominance, countermanded the innate, soul-deep authority of the Emperor of the Arcane Empire.
The Sage knew who he was.
And he was insulted that his disciples would kneel to someone so... lowly.
This... this was not arrogance. This was not power.
This was a fact.
Kalagar, his disciples now properly standing (and looking ashamed), turned to the "old soldier."
"And you," he said, his voice sharp. "What is it this time? Is the water too wet? Is it the wrong color? Is it... too holy?"
The Emperor, an Arch-Swordsman whose aura could freeze a lesser man's heart, found his voice caught in his throat. He was being... scolded.
"I... I am Karl," he managed, his voice stiff. "I... am from the... 'Hundred-Valleys'. I... I came to... to thank you."
"Thank me?" Kalagar blinked, his anger deflating. "Oh. Well. Good. You're welcome. It's fixed. Don't let it happen again." (He glared at his disciples, who all flinched). "Now, if you'll excuse me..."
"WAIT!" the Emperor said, his voice too loud. He was here for a reason. "The... the river. The [River of Samsara], as my people... as the farmers... are calling it. It is... divine. It is not... mortal."
Kalagar's eye-twitch returned. "And? What's your point?"
"My... my point, Sage," Karl-Theodore said, his mind racing, "is that I am a swordsman. I have, for fifty years, tried to comprehend the 'Soul of the Blade'. I have studied fire. I have studied wind. I have studied light. But this... this river... it is... life. It is death. It is... water."
He was, without realizing it, babbling. He was revealing his own, deepest, martial-arts failure. He had never been able to comprehend the 'Flowing Sword-Art'.
Kalagar, however, was not hearing a martial-arts plea. He was hearing a philosophy student.
And he was, frankly, sick of it.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," Kalagar sighed, rubbing his temples. "It is not 'divine'. It is not 'life and death'. It is not a 'concept'.
He jabbed a finger in the Emperor's face.
"It's. Just. WATER."
The phrase hit Emperor Karl-Theodore von Aethel like a physical blow.
It's. Just. Water.
It wasn't a rebuke.
It was... an answer.
It's not complex. It's not divine. It's not a 'concept'.
It's... simple. It's just... 'water'.
I... I have been... overthinking it. For fifty years.
The 'Flowing Sword-Art'... it's not about the 'concept' of water... it's just about... being... water!
[System: Potential Disciple 'Karl-Theodore' is attempting to comprehend [Lesson: 'It's Just Water']...]
[...Comprehension: SUCCESS!]
[...Level 8 Arch-Swordsman 'Karl-Theodore' has comprehended: [The Empty-Mind-Flowing-Soul Sword-Art] (Top-Tier Sword Art).]
A visible, audible aura of pure, flowing, crystalline mana exploded from the Emperor. His sword, which had been silent at his hip, sang—a high, clear note. He had, in that instant, broken through his 50-year-old bottleneck. He had achieved the 'Flowing-Soul' state.
His disciples stared. Elara's [Akashic-Mandate] was flashing so fast she looked dizzy.
The Emperor... had just comprehended a new, Top-Tier Art...
...because the Master...
...had insulted him.
The Emperor looked at his own hands. He felt the new, clear, flowing power in his soul.
He looked at the Sage, who was just standing there, looking impatient.
The Emperor of the Arcane Empire did the only thing he could.
He fell to one knee.
And, for the second time that day, his disciples watched, horrified, as a world-leader begged.
"Sage," the Emperor's voice was thick with emotion. "I am... nothing. I am a fool. My fifty years... wasted. Your... your 'lesson'... has re-made me."
He looked up, his eyes shining with the fervor of a new convert.
"I am Karl-Theodore von Aethel, Emperor of this land. And I... I wish to abdicate my throne... and become... your sixth disciple."
Kalagar S. Sully just... stared.
...Emperor.
...Emperor of this land.
...abdicate...
...sixth disciple...
His mind did not just panic. It blue-screened.
He had just... angrily... unintentionally... head-hunted the King.
He was now, officially, not just a cult-leader.
He was a king-maker. Or a king-breaker.
He was, he realized, in the middle of a political-coup that he had just accidentally started.
He looked at the kneeling Emperor.
He looked at his five, awestruck, god-like disciples.
He looked at his quiet, peaceful, self-cleaning pagoda.
He knew, with an absolute, bone-deep certainty, that if he said "No," the Emperor would interpret it as a "divine test" and just... stay.
If he said "Yes"... he was now responsible for the entire Arcane Empire.
He opened his mouth. He closed it.
He finally found his voice. It was the small, weak, broken whisper of a man who had completely, utterly given up.
"...Fine."