Without warning, the leader of the Radiant Conclave’s face contorted in pain. The muscles along his jaw and neck trembled ever so slightly, a subtle spasm that would have escaped anyone not watching closely.
Jake saw it. Only him. The next instant, the old warrior’s expression smoothed out as if nothing had happened, but a bleak resignation lingered in the depths of his gray eyes.
"That is what I mean," he continued, quieter now. "Even shielded behind a barrier, I am constantly resisting its commands. I told you the Goblets of Ethershine serve as antennas for Anthace. It goes far beyond mere surveillance." After a heavy silence, he stated flatly, "Anyone who has spent sufficient time around something derived from Anthace belongs to it in every possible sense. At any moment, it holds the power of life and death over us. And if it so chooses, it can control us."
Jake’s pupils narrowed sharply at that final truth, suspicion toward the old native spiking to a new high. His voice, when he spoke, was calm—almost detached—but carried the cold edge of a headsman delivering sentence.
"Are you under Anthace’s control right now?"
The Celestial did not flinch.
"All Celestials are," he replied solemnly.
"The Radiant Conclave, this nation—my very identity—was cultivated by that tree. We exist for it. Anthace predates every civilization of the Lustra Plains, and those civilizations prosper only to make its designs more convenient to accomplish."
Jake couldn’t help pushing back.
"Celestial isn’t just a title. It’s a cultivation realm. Are you implying that reaching a certain level of mastery over Lumyst automatically places you under its control?"
If that were true, the implications would be beyond catastrophic—far worse than anything he had modeled in his worst-case projections. Fortunately, reality wasn’t quite that absurd.
"No," the head of the Radiant Conclave answered, a faint shake of his head accompanying the word. Then he added, more quietly, "But the end result—for my predecessors and for myself—is nearly the same."
He went on to explain, in stark terms, how each leader of the Radiant Conclave—each future Celestial of the Lustra Plains—was selected and prepared. There were two methods. The first was unspeakably cruel. The second was worse.
The first method began at birth. Every year, millions of infants—orphans, abandoned children, the missing, the kidnapped—were thrown into the Lumyst River. No preparation. No training. No mercy.
Half died immediately.
Those who survived earned nothing but the right to be thrown in again for another round. And another. After roughly twenty-five cycles, the rare survivors—drawn from more than thirty-three million infants cast into those waters—were groomed as Celestial Seeds.
The term was no metaphor. A literal seed of Anthace was implanted in their brains from an early age. Combined with systematic indoctrination and a religious fanaticism cultivated with surgical precision, the future Celestial became a perfectly obedient instrument. These Celestials had no independent thoughts to betray. The very concept of treason against Anthace could not even take root in their minds.
It followed, then, that the second type of Celestial was the one responsible for resisting Anthace—and for triggering those Ordeals. These were individuals who had clawed their way up through cultivation alone, earning the realm through sweat, blood, and willpower.
So how were they ensnared?
Because Anthace’s reputation within the Lustra Plains had been crafted so flawlessly that suspicion felt almost irrational. From architecture to everyday furniture, materials derived from the Titan Tree saturated their culture. Roots, bark, sap, leaves—every part had a purpose.
Sick? A bit of diluted sap from the Tree of Life in a cup of hot water would do the trick. Libido faltering? Grate a pinch of Anthace root and everything returned to form. And of course, anyone seeking to accelerate cultivation, reinforce their body, enhance recovery—there was no better resource than the tree itself.
It was convenient. Multifunctional. Miraculous.
A panacea embedded in civilization itself.
Who could resist something like that?
Not the Celestials of the past. And certainly not Valandar, the current Celestial.