My Wives Are A Divine Hive Mind-Chapter 78: The Speaker Of Veins

Within the lower terrace of one of the recently sanctified alcoves in Vaingall, Sarkha’una, the Speaker of Veins, stood barefoot in her sanctum.

"Now that most of my materials have been replenished," Sarkha’una lazily smiled. "Might as well make the most of my first request in a while."

The room was structured like a burrow—hollowed from rock, laced with moss-veined roots, lined with shelves fashioned from aged fungal planks.

Each surface overflowed with bottles, phials, crushed seeds, preserved organ petals, and small wax-sealed canisters of bone-powder tinctures.

In the center of the room, a spiraling mortar made of stone and coiled with embedded veins of fossilized resin spun gently in suspension.

Sarkha’una rotated her wrist slowly, pouring pale green extract into the top funnel of the mixer. Below it, a slow, bubbling churn was taking place, reacting with powdered tendril husk already suspended in moon-crushed liquid.

The scent of burnt citrus and salt-spiced wood filled the air.

"Looks like one of the Endless One’s minions is here."

"I’m more or less an extension of her, instead of a lowly and subdued minion who nary aligns with the future she tries to carve."

A Blessed Limbo Tier Divine Construct hovered nearby. Its silhouette flickered with faint pulses, the inner voidlight glimmering through the fractured shell of ash and dust that composed its limbs.

"Your way of speech is the same too." Sarkha’una chuckled. "The same boasting, wisdom-filled old pot who can’t help but to churn as many words to those who seek the curiosities."

"It is a great privilege of those who touch the sun, unraveling it to those who could barely glance at its sickening radiance."

Sarkha’una spoke as she stirred her wrist, tone soft yet curious.

"Do you believe we’re on the edge of the second Age of Strive?"

The Construct’s hollow sockets flared slightly as it rotated to track her movements. Its voice was measured, calm, woven with mechanical cadence, yet distinctly feminine. A filtered echo of Samael’s own voice.

"Vaingall will be contested again. That much is inevitable. It was a cradle during many of its visible marks on the annals of history, and it now remains the same if not valuable than the last. Someone will notice. They always do."

Sarkha’una lifted a funnel spout and let a droplet slide onto her tongue.

She winced faintly and turned to measure out three pinches of shadow-thistle.

"Who do you think the players will be this time?" she asked. "Nightsilk Order, Crimson Helot, Yellow Order, High Maosh, Hollow Aequor?"

"The Crimson Helot is guaranteed. So is the Nightsilk Order because of it."

Sarkha’una smirked. "Funny how the Nightsilk Order used to keep such a close leash on Crimson Helot behavior. Until they learned how to tinker with fate. Once that happened, no pattern was reliable anymore. Their diviners clashed with one another and both became useless to pry on each other’s activities. Their chains unraveled~"

The Construct’s posture shifted slightly as if acknowledging a long-passed event. "If Vaingall cannot effectively hide itself as a failing domain, the Crimson Helot will perceive it as an anomaly—one that refuses to shatter...

"Certainly, whoever grants the Fleshcrafter the enlightenment for divinity was such a maddening individual. Their fate-tampering capability has been quite annoying as of late."

Sarkha’una leaned over the simmering vat and began adding gradual flakes of unprocessed duskroot.

The liquid inside pulsed with internal turbulence, lapping against the walls of the stone like an organ ready to burst.

Her fingers glowed faintly, stabilizing the brew with her inner flow.

"What do they even plan to do if they find that Vaingall isn’t shattering?" she said casually. "Send in another fleet of puppet-fleshed dolls and cathedral-born meat walls?"

"They will amass their fleshcrafters," the Construct answered. "And they will force out an Original God to cover this land, just for the sake of nullifying it."

Sarkha’una raised an eyebrow. "Why destroy? Why not claim it?"

"That part remains unclear," the Construct replied. "As much as we wanted to know why, we can’t reliably reach any of the Crimson Helot’s headquarters and seek any truth yet."

Sarkha’una turned, wiping her hands with a cloth soaked in vinegar-spiked clarity oil. "To think that we will be dealing with fleshcrafting zealots

"Zealots who write their own prophecy and enforce it with biomechanical dogma."

Sarkha’una adjusted the calibration stone underneath the cauldron. The flames beneath it shifted into a soft spiral, heating the core instead of the outer shell. She ground a strand of sinew between her fingers and dropped it into the solution.

"Any other factions I should worry about? You know, I might be able to prepare one or two contingencies for the sake of Vaingall~"

"The Yellow Order," the Construct replied. "They have not emerged yet. They’re hiding. But they are not gone. They are rebuilding—slowly, methodically."

"Rebuilding?" Sarkha’una echoed. "Did something cripple them?"

"It was me," the Construct answered in behold of Samael. "And the High Maosh. Twenty years ago. We dismantled the Yellow Order’s attempt to conquer Fathomi by fracturing their central doctrine, right at its utmost peak."

"I’m surprised that you worked alongside those arrogant angels."

"The High Maosh requested my aid, fervently." The construct gestured its hand, forming an illusory imagery out of its dusky materials. "There was a critical madness cascade sweeping across the continent of Vel-Trinal. Entire city populations lost to dream-forms and recursive phenomena."

"And you with the High Maosh managed to suppress it?" Sarkha’una asked.

"No," the Construct replied. "We sank the continent."

Sarkha’una paused, mortar still in hand.

"Vel-Trinal? The one with beautiful sight and abundant history of the ancient civilization of gods?"

"A necessary cost." The construct nodded. "Madness had rooted itself too deeply, too much to be saved...

"With great effort, we sunk down the entire continent and let the Hollow Aequor and the Abyssal Spawns consume what was left."

Sarkha’una muttered under her breath and resumed mixing the potion with careful flicks. Thin streamers of steam curled upward, smelling of sweet bark and fermented dust.

The brew thickened. She dipped a silver reed into the mixture, checking viscosity.

A perfect filament trailed upward, holding its form in midair before curling into a spiral.

"It’s done," she said. "The potion of Bellowing Cloud. This should allow you to initiate the next divinity synchronization process, or whatever is that core thingy you implied that turns you into some sort of a Divine Hive Mind."

The Construct accepted the potion in its hollow hand.

The vial shimmered with soft aurora light, as if the liquid inside had once breathed and was trying to remember how.

"You could’ve left Vaingall, Sarkha’una," the Construct mused. "Find a better place to thrive. You’re powerful enough to rule elsewhere."

Sarkha’una tilted her head. She picked up a long, carved pipe from the shelf, coated the bowl with a concentrated drip from a green vial, and brought the stem to her lips. The surface ignited with a swirling prismatic smoke.

She exhaled slowly, watching the colors twist.

"I have a premonition," Sarkha’una said, her voice drifting like the colored smoke curling from her pipe.

She stared into the suspended tendrils of scent, pale indigo and vermilion curling upward like spectral vines.

"One day," she continued after a long pause, "a rather shameless woman appeared before me."

The Blessed Limbo Tier Divine Construct, still holding the shimmering potion in its hollow hand, tilted its head slowly. "Define shamelessness."

"She didn’t knock," Sarkha’una said. "She just... arrived. In my sanctum. Like she belonged there."

"And you let her?"

"She didn’t threaten me. Not in a way that warranted aggression." Sarkha’una exhaled again, the smoke now curling in a spiral. "She said her name was Surreal."

The Construct’s limbs stilled for a moment. "I have no record of such a figure aligned with known major factions."

"That makes two of us," Sarkha’una replied. "She wasn’t from the Nightsilk Order, and she definitely wasn’t one of the Crimson Helot’s flesh puppets. She didn’t glow with the signature of High Maosh and didn’t slither like the Aequor...

"She looks like someone from a completely different world."

"Then what did she say?" the Construct asked.

Sarkha’una leaned against the table, idly stirring the remnants of the potion mix with the end of her silver reed.

"She delivered a message. Said it wasn’t from her, but someone she’s aligned with. Said that if the right timeline emerged and if the essence of world forgery was ever completed, there would be a greater purpose for me. One I must fulfill."

The Construct hovered in silence for a moment.

"You stayed in Vaingall because of that?"

Sarkha’una’s eyes sparkled with amusement. "Would I still be here if I didn’t believe it?"

The Construct rotated slightly in the air, processing. "You said she was shameless. What made her so?"

Sarkha’una smirked. "Her face. Not her features—though they were beautiful in a way that felt engineered—but her expression." She tapped the edge of her pipe lightly. "She looked like someone who didn’t care whether life had meaning. Or whether it should. She talked like she’d seen every possible outcome and decided all of them were equally meaningless...

"There’s a kind of honesty to that. But it’s still shameless."

The Construct didn’t offer a reply.

Instead, it raised the potion into the air.

A small portal shimmered into existence beside it—a circular ripple in space.

The vial passed into the opening, disappearing from view instantly.

The potion passed through layers of encrypted ether.

It emerged again—grasped delicately by another hand.

Samael stood in her sanctified perch, dressed in ceremonial robes made of black silk stitched with celestial glyphs—no longer the regenerating dress that she had since the beginning.

Her draconic horns curved upward, shimmering slightly in the moonlight that filtered through the forest canopy. The Potion of Bellowing Cloud hovered above her palm in a magnetic cradle of mana field.

"Her belief," Samael murmured, her voice barely audible, "and her loyalty to this vision... it will be rewarded."

She tilted the vial gently, observing the swirling layers of muted color locked within the potion.

Then her gaze shifted.

Just beside her, on a royal ceremonial bed, Kivas slept.

Her head rested sideways on a soft cluster of petal-padded pillows. Her silver and gold hair spilled over the blanket, drifting gently with the late evening breeze.

Her breathing was even. Her halo dimmed to a faint whisper, hovering just above her head like a patient ember.

Around them, the forest was quiet—its song muted in reverence.

Samael knelt beside the bed, gently brushing a strand of hair from Kivas’ face.

The sleeping angel shifted slightly, not from disturbance, but as if drawn closer to the warmth nearby.

Samael lingered.

She looked at her with an unreadable expression—something between admiration and ache.

Then she exhaled slowly and tucked the potion away into her own spatial vault, sealing it with a personal cipher.

But her hand did not return to her side.

It lingered beside Kivas’ cheek, close but not quite touching, fingers spread as if to shield, to ward, to cherish.

The canopy of forest above shimmered faintly as divine energy settled across the glade like dew.

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