Kill Six Billion Demons: Tales of Ys-Aesma

Most of the side stories and bonus texts throughout volumes one and two of the comic purport to be in-universe documents and oral traditions. Some of them are attributed to specific authors, while others are anonymous. The former tend to be either about recent, verifiable history, or explaining technical things about the rules of magic and Throne society and so forth. The latter are written more like rumor or mythology, and often concern the doings of Yisun and their seven and a half hundred thousand grandchildren. One of the most frequently occurring names in these mythical tales is that of Ys-Aesma; the chaotic goddess of want, struggle, and aspiration, and the creator of humanity.

In the comic itself, Aesma's name has come up in the context of prayers, incantations, and angelic exposition. Presumably her petrified body is one of the many buildings of modern Throne, and one of the 777,777 universes is of her voice. Of course, her influence on the multiverse is far greater than most of her siblings', due to her having created the most seemingly prolific of the Inheritor races.

Many of these stories contradict each other, and in ways that don't suggest Yisunian paradox so much as conflicting accounts. Given their mythic tone, and the obvious in-universe cultural flourishes attached to some, it's possible that none of these tales are meant to be taken literally at all. The story that prompted this post, "Aesma and the Red-Eyed King," co-occured with Mottom's autobiography and the Hastet-Om reveal. To properly understand that story though, there are some earlier Aesma-focused ones that you're expected to have read first. One of which actually has a lot of light to shed on the setting as a whole, assuming it's anywhere close to the truth.

I'll start with that one; it's an expansion on part of the creation myth we got from White Chain, and it makes no secret of its in-universe origin. What that origin says of its credibility is open to debate.

““Pour me a little more, and gather thee chopwise, and I’ll tell the the tale of Koss and the Flames. It’s said the race of Men was created because of a strained back. Gob thee not! I’ll tell thee shortly how it came to be.””

— An Old Devils' Tale

Yup! It's the origins of sapient life according to the devils. Or at least, according to one specific group of devils. A race of disorganized mercenaries, criminals, and adventurers who periodically lose their memories via demasking is going to be pretty culturally diverse, so they likely have many versions of these stories.

Koss, as you may recall, is the god credited with creating the angels and instilling them with the Law. Earlier, I mused that he might also have (intentionally or otherwise) given the angels their masculine biases.

“The lord UN-Koss was the caretaker of heaven in the days when YS-Pravi was split in two by her lovers, and in the war that followed his cramped and hot workshop was filled to the brim-o-brim with broken chariot wheels, bent swords, and breastplates warped and battered.”

We've never heard about gods fighting gods before. Granted, at 777,777 their population was easily large enough to have full-on wars between divine city states, so it's hardly implausible. On the other hand, this is a diabolical take on an already not-necessarily-literal story, and devils seem the types to add violence to every story. Even if not all of them are as professional and up-front about it as Cio.

“Ole’ lord Koss worked ceaselessly, for his peers had naught but contempt for him and gave him no respite. Thus it came to pass one day after long hours of toil, he knelt to lift his tongs from his hearth and strained his back.

The lord Koss gave out a mighty yelp of pain (oh what a simmery yelp!). Oh, he spat and stamped, and spat many a curse, and there he resolved to do something about his crushing workload. With his bare feet (for he certainly had no chariot) and carrying his tongs, he trudged to the edge of the world, where the bodies of father UN and mother YS lay.”

It notably doesn't say which side in the war Koss was playing Hephaestus for. Either way, he seems to not have much choice in the matter. Sounds like he might be trying to fit in amongst a group of jock war gods by making stuff for them, but they'll never truly accept a non-jock. Koss should have made new friends. Not all 777,776 of his brothers and sisters could have been such philistines.

Anyway, he did the divine equivalent of pulling a back muscle while making weapons for the jock pantheon(s), and decided he needed to....well, not to stop, or to stand up for himself, but to find a way to lessen the workload. Apparently the corpses of Ys and Un had been left behind somewhere and petrified too when they produced their offspring. Are those bodies in Throne, or somewhere else? Unclear, but it sounds like somewhere else.

“There he rooted around their ashes with his tongs, here and there, until he found what he was looking for. It was a ferocious white flame, a brilliant splinter from the eye of might father UN. However, as he grasped it with his tongs, he eyed it far too rigid, and moreover, it burned with a fierce and terrible cold. He flung the flame far into the void, and rooting around, found another.”

The white flame of angelkind is *definitely* getting described differently in this account. When White Chain and Michael talked about the white flame, the emphasis was on the light it produced, with the coldness framed as a benign property; it performs useful work, and demands nothing in return. Here, the cold is described as not just a lack of consumption, but an active chilling effect on everything close.

You can tell that this version was written by the angels' enemies. That doesn't mean it's further from the truth than the angelic version, necessarily, but it's a factor to take into account.

“This one was a hot black flame, a writhing, awful, hungry flame from the tongue of his ole’ mother YS. But as he grasped it with his tongs, he saw it a-licking at his wrists, so hungry and chaotic it was, so he flung it too, far into the void.”

Heh, at least they're honest about being dishonest.~

That's probably where a good 40% of K6BDverse devils' charisma comes from, come to think of it. They all openly admit to being bastards, and own it magnificently.

Anyway, the white angel fire came from Un's eye, and the black devil fire came from Ys's tongue. Tongues are used for consumption, obviously. But I wonder if there might be more nuance in there. More often than feeding, tongues in literature are associated with speech. We've been told that the demiurgi learned a lot of new magic from devils, and devils have a lot of quirks related to speech (their ability to bestow universal speech on people who drink their pregnancy liquor, their strange dialect that somehow DOESN'T get accounted for by that universal comprehension ability, their rituals of names and rhymes, etc). Actually, if we broaden "speech" to mean "communication in general," then that would include writing, which ties into Cio's powerset.

Devils aren't just consumers and users. They're also, on an equally fundamental level, communicators. This accounts for (or is representative of) their more positive aspects, the impulses that let at least a few of them be more than just rapacious monsters.

The angel fire, meanwhile, came from an eye. Connotations there, at least in most cultures, are perception (obviously) and often also judgement. That second one is probably where the connection with the angels is going, but we'll see.

“And rooting around, he found another.

This was a warm black flame, an inquisitive flame (aye!), from YS’ heart. Koss was curious and found it gentle enough to hold, but it would not stay in his grasp, and sputtered as it writhed about.”

I'm pretty sure that this part is completely new.

Anyway, weak and sputtering, but also constantly trying to escape its constraints and expand wherever it can. That definitely sounds like humanity, particularly as this comic frames us. This milder, more manageable black flame comes from Ys's heart. Medically speaking, it's a vital function. Connotationally, emotions and desires. Humans are the feeling, and the wanting.

“Pleased, but not yet satisfied, he put it in his leather pouch, and rooting around, found another.

This was a cool white flame, from the fingernail of his father. And Koss was pleased, (oh how pleased he was!) for it was a pliant flame, a stable flame, yet cool enough to hold.

Koss took the cool white flame and worked it for a year and a day. And when it was to his liking, he took his bronze chisel and split it with a mighty crack, and out sprung up all at once the first order of the race of Servants, the Sustainers. There were servants for mending wheels, and servants for sharpening swords, and tending Koss’ hearth, and servants for sweeping his floor, and many more. And he struck it again, and out came the second order of servants. And when the sound of his chisel ceased ringing, the red city was bustling with canal cleaners, and glass-blowers, and brick-makers, and many more besides.”

Servants, in their various flavors. I guess they're sort of angel-lite in the same way that humans are devil-lite? Cool white flame, watered down from the angelic chill. Just like humans are a lukewarm black flame, not burny like devils. The fingernail origins obviously ties to their nature and role as manual laborers.

This might be coincidence, but there seems to be a pattern of the more intense, "immortal" fires coming from the divine duo's heads, while the lesser flames used to make humans and servants come from elsewhere in their bodies. Maybe significant, maybe not. As for what angels and servants have in common, devils and humans have in common, and what traits either pair lacks from the other...well, perhaps we'll see.

Anyway, all four of these races only existing because a smith god wanted to impress his friends as part of some petty war that wasn't actually important is...something.

“The God were at once astonished and horrified. They rode the void to Koss’ workshop and accosted him. “What have ye done, fool!” they cried, and Koss realized what they meant, for in forging his new creations, his raw material had been the Flame Immortal, the heart and soul of the mighty YISUN. And so, the Servants were no automatons, but all filled with the awful heat of Will, and they very rapidly grew rebellious.”

...I was going to say that maybe the white flame cares only for its surroundings while the black flame cares only for itself, but that apparently isn't the case.

“Koss quickly thought about the warm, black flame in his leather pouch, but it would not fit his purposes (how clever was he!), so he reached out to the void to that terrible cold, white flame, where it had splintered into seven hundred and seventy seven smoking shards. But even one of those shards was still far too cold to bring back into the world. So clever ole’ Koss plucked them in one by one and smothered them in the ashes of his hearth. And from that hearth arose the Aeons, the Protectors.

The Gods were even more astonished, for the terrible fires of Will burned even stronger in the Aeons. But Koss was exceptionally crafty, and very quick. Before the Aeons could struggle free from his hearth, encased in their shells of ash, he grabbed them with his tongs, and he beat the good ole’ Law into each one with his silver chisel. Grasping them, he flung them into the streets, where they quickly set about quelling the rebellious Servants with terrifying efficiency.”

So, here's what I suspect might be the most contentious aspect of the story in-universe. According to this version of the tale at least, the angels were originally created to be taskmasters and slave-catchers. That was their whole reason for existing, before they were repurposed into security for Throne in the gods' absence.

This might just be diabolical propaganda. I don't think anyone is still alive from that time besides the first generation of angels themselves, so I doubt it's verifiable. But, I don't think that it is. There are too many details that line up too well. The way that Michael danced around the question of Servant agency, despite us having seen specimens who are doing all sorts of lawful and unlawful things. Like he was avoiding even letting that subject be raised or thought about. The vagueness of what "the old Law" actually meant in practice. And, of course, the historical parallels with American policing. The degree to which American police had its origins in slave-catching has been exaggerated by some voices in recent times, but that was inarguably one of its major foundations. Given how much social commentary the author has already done with the angels, and the general slant of K6BD's politics, well...it fits. It could still be devilish lies, but I feel it most likely isn't.

This also recontextualizes Zoss' actions for a second time. When White Chain told the story of his conquest of Throne, she made it sound like his battle with the Prime Angels was the result of a misunderstanding. When Juggernaut Star and Michael revealed the secret of the Masterkey, Zoss (or at least young!Zoss) started looking much more like a power-hungry thug with the way he pursued them even after their avatars were disabled and forced Metatron to give him the secret names. But now, both versions of that story look like they might have been missing an important ingredient. Could a lone wizard - before he learned the secret names and gained even further knowledge from the devils - really have defeated a whole army of beings as powerful as Michael and Metatron? What if Zoss did a Cortez and led the Servants in an uprising (with or without the betrayal and enslavement afterward)? That plugs a LOT of holes in the story we've been presented with, and the omission would make total sense coming from angelic storytellers. If that's how it actually went down, then young!Zoss goes back to being a morally ambiguous figure who may have had some virtuous motives (or at least methods) as well as selfish ones.

I also like the double-edged comment about how Un-Koss was wise in not using the protohuman flame as his instrument. You could read that as "humans are dumb and weak and never would have been able to do what Koss wanted," or as "humans are clever and self-interested and would have just joined the Servants in their rebellion." Possibly both.

“The Gods were all agape, and praised Koss, and Koss’ heart swelled with pride, for he had indeed done a mighty service. With the servants to take care of their daily affairs, and the Aeons to hold the Law, the Gods were freed from menial tasks to quench their hearts desires (a terrible thing indeed!). And indeed, they would have remained in that city, living luxuriously, in a circular and stagnant existence, for the rest of infinity, had it been for but one of their number.

As the Gods left, Pree Ashma hid her hot and evil body beneath the ashes of Koss’ hearth. Jealousy burned in her wicked breast, for the praise that was heaped upon Koss. She waited until Koss was sound asleep, and with pickery fingers, plucked his chisel from his belt.”

"Pree Ashma" is an alternate name for Ys-Aesma, who we've been waiting for this story to get to. "Pree" seems to be a female honorific on Throne, with "Preem" being its male counterpart. "Ashma" and "Aesma" are close enough to just be alternate spellings.

The instant Koss gets any recognition or respect, Aesma becomes jealous of him. The later stories will provide some insight into why that might have been.

“Out of Koss’ leather pouch she slipped the warm black flame, and grasping it, cackled as she struck all about it with the chisel. But it would not ply easily, and Aesma was monstrously impatient. As she hammered wildly, the clangs of the chisel grew so loud that they awoke Koss, and the sleeping city, and even reached vestal Prim, where she fought the Archons, lashed to their flensing tree.

Rushing to the workshop, now filled with clashing sparks, the Gods shouted at Aesma to stop. But in defiance, she grasped that chisel in two hands and brought it down in a single wicked strike, and the flame shattered into tiny burning embers. And where the embers touched the dirt arose the race of Men, the Perceivers. And at first the Gods made to stamp them out, but stopping, they were dumbstruck.

Aesma, in her fury and impatience, had very poorly worked the warm black flame of YS (oh poorly indeed!). In her idiocy, she had forged impermanent beings – the first mortals, and in doing so had inadvertently created the Gift of Death. The Gods were bowed in awe, for the little lives of Men burned with meaning many times more potent than the creators of the Red City themselves, and the terrible fires of will burned so brightly within their brows that each was a Universe on their own, and the Gods could say no more.”

Another backhanded complement, or perhaps fronthanded insult. The devils seem to have a grudging respect for humans. Or, perhaps, like Aesma herself they envy the positive attention that early humankind got from the gods.

Strange, that such a mild flame should burn so hot in its new, mortal state.

“It was said that this even inspired them into their self-annihilation by Division sometimes later, and the forging of the wheel, and the abandonment of heaven. But it is certainly known that the children of Aesma’s Mistake would go on to be powerful indeed, and exceptionally foolish. It was their race, after all, that tamed that Hot, Black Flame, and in doing so, brought the first of our kin into the world.

Oh lovely, wicked Aesma! And all because of a sore back, my fellows!

Now, bring me more liquid lubrication, will thee not? The night is ripe and I am exceptionally thirsty…””

This also gives some new context to the devils themselves, and perhaps explains why they have such complicated feelings about humans. The demiurgi didn't just give the devils bodies and let them into Throne. They created them. Or, more specifically, they found the hot black tongue-flame in the void and invented masks that could extract parts of it and give them sentience as well as heat and hunger. This is why devils are so unstable, as we saw after the drinking contest; they're a human attempt at creating life from the fires of will, and thus flimsier than even Aesma's inexpert work.

It should be noted that Aesma actually did get what she wanted in this story. Her creations got more admiration from the other gods than Koss' did. As you're about to see, this is very much the exception to the rule for Ys-Aesma.


The next story is also right at the end of volume one, coming with Killy's decision to head back to Throne and live up to her name. This one is called "Aesma and the Three Masters (and the Lessons She Never Learned From Them)." The source for this one isn't given, but it appears to be from the written traditions of a human civilization that has been contacted/conquered by the demiurgi.

“There came a time when YISUN and their disciple, Aesma, came to be in YISUN’s speaking house, which was often host to the drunken brawls of the many gods as they engaged in heated, and often bloody debate. The previous night had been no different, and the bronze walls still smoked and glowed with the fury and violence of their words. YISUN, as master of the house, reclined as the servants of that place set about undoing the devastation of the night with tired and practiced ease.

Aesma was small in stature, of raw black skin, many teeth, a large mouth, and a bright red tongue. She nurtured an evil and burning passion for dominion over all things, and thus an ugly hunger constantly ruled her otherwise pretty face. YISUN was extremely fond of her, as it was with all ugly children.

“Master of Masters, King of Kings, Empress of Empresses,” said Aesma greedily, “Who is the most powerful of your servants?”

For this had been the topic of the night before, and none in attendance had been fit to answer it, for each of them loudly proclaimed themselves king over the other.”

— Aesma and the Three Masters (and the Lessons She Never Learned From Them)

Yisun's speaking house is a recurring setting in these myths. Given that the gods do just about everything by means of speaking what they want into being (or the things they don't want into oblivion), a "speaking house" is an important place.

As in the previous story, the gods are extremely flawed and humanlike. To a slightly cartoonish degree, even, as is the way of some real life mythologies.

“YISUN had declined to make a judgment, as was the manner, so Aesma was surprised when YISUN shook from their reverie.

“Plainly, it is a difficult question,” said YISUN, pondering, “but I would have to say my three Masters of space-time, aesthetic, and ethics.”

“Why they!” said Aesma, fuming.

“They have been my disciples for at least 30 kalpas, they have studied well my teachings, and each is the holder of an absolute and insurmountable truth,“ spoke YISUN, gravely, “If you are so discontent you may find them on the road and challenge them if you wish.”

Without a word Aesma rudely snatched up Pedam’s walking stick, which could hop thirty leagues at a time, and Akaroth’s feather cloak, which could ride winds both interstellar and terrestrial, and bashing aside servants in her mad scramble, she leapt to the edge of that house and rode the void to the road of the Ruling King.”

The "winds both interstellar and terrestrial" line is the first indication that this story comes from a scientifically literate culture. Until then, it could easily have come from a Bronze Age storyteller.

This is also where we get the first overt "take this story with a grain of salt" detail. The Kingsroad didn't exist until long after the gods had turned to stone; there was nowhere for it to lead to until then, after all. So, while this story might have some truth to it, it's been muddled with millennia worth of retellings and cultural distortions, resulting in some serious anachronisms at the very least.

The ending there is an obvious allusion to Zen Buddhism. "If you meet the Buddha on the road, you must kill him." Which seems like it should suit Aesma just fine.

And yeah, Aesma really is a twit. That devil storyteller before wasn't kidding when they said Aesma was a jerk.

This story is divided into sections, though it isn't quite as long as Het and the Rakshasa. This next chapter is called "Aesma and the Master of Space-time."

“Almost immediately Aesma found the estate of the Master of space-time, a lunar domain of immense proportions. It was incredibly hard to miss the Master, as he was a man thirty stories tall, with skin speckled as a night sky, and in his tangled hair, among his shaggy brow, and scattered in his great knotted beard were a multitude of burning stars. He had served for uncounted centuries as chief architect of the gods after attaining his mastery, and even now was building a mighty dark tower greater than any mountain, and the clangs of his immense silver chisel shivered Aesma’s bones as she approached.”

You just know the author has drawn this guy a whole bunch.

“But she had little regard for his mighty stature as a furious mischief was in her.

“Ho there! A Godling! Young Aesma is it?” boomed the Master of space-time, and as he turned his sweat drops scattered the earth like mighty boulders.

“I have heard you are the strongest of YISUN’s disciples,” said Aesma viciously, “How can that be true?”

“From whom?” spoke the Master, furrowing his brow.

“From YISUN!” danced Aesma, frustrated.

“Ho!” rumbled the master, and stroked his mustaches. “I suppose it is true then. I have long studied the scope and stretch of YISUN’s work, and through immense effort I have attained knowledge of the shape of all things. Down to the exact nano-angstrom!”

Aesma was disbelieving, but the Master showed her each Planck length of each mountain on his estate. And still she was disbelieving, and he showed her the exact number of grains of dust in the universe, and the number of carbon atoms in her body, and the potential shape and shadow of every animal that breathed, swam, flew, or flashed through quantum states.

But still she was not content, so the Master set down his mighty chisel with a crack and gestured to the wide plain and bade Aesma look, and showed her the way to look. He bade her bring forth her illuminated consciousness, and she did, and the master was humorously surprised, for it was a small, evil thing, a nasty red coal, and he wondered why she was so favored as YISUN’s disciple. But then he brought forth his own mind and it was as a great celestial blaze, and as he cast it on the landscape before him, Aesma saw it warp and shift, the hills like water that flowed from form to form. The sky cracked and ignited and was replaced by fire and light, and darkness swallowed and disgorged the land like a great bulbous blossom. Aesma realized then that the Master had perfect knowledge not only of the precise shape of things, but also all the shapes they would ever have and be.”

I'm not sure what this "illuminated consciousness" business is all about. Some kind of soul thing obviously, but no further details have been provided. Anyway, this guy has some impressive informational powers; Yisun seems to have meant it when they pointed to him as one of the three greatest of their grandchildren.

““I have attained mastery of the ultimate and insurmountable truth of Form. Thus, through my mighty studies I know the exact measure of YISUN’s work, the way it is, and the way it always will be. So my knowledge is all encompassing, and perfection is my breath,” said the Master. “Even small things such as yourself, young Aesma,” he said with a jovial wink.

“What are you building?” said Aesma, with dark intent, as a furious scheme was bubbling to the top of her evil mind.

“My Panopticon,” said the Master of Space-time proudly, and clapped the stone of his construction with a sound that shook the dust from the seven corners of the multiverse, “the ultimate observatory. Though my knowledge is limitless, my sight is regretfully less so. With this I will contemplate all things at once, and I will truly be the highest in the land. I will have no need for mundane struggles once I can contemplate all of infinity!”

“That’s stupid!” said Aesma, and kicked the dark construction, stubbing her delicate toes. Her yelp of pain set the master to chuckling mightily at this poor vicious girl, but then Aesma shot him a ferocious glance and asked a stupid question.

“If you know the shape of everything, what is the shape of the universe!” said she.

The Master scoffed humorously at this precocious question. “Well clearly, I know it from the inside!” he said.

“How can you know the shape of anything if you only look at it from the inside!” snapped Aesma, evilly, and the Master gave a great booming laugh that shook stars from his beard, and as they crashed to the dust in great fiery trails, Aesma had to scamper to dodge them.

“Can a man bend his eyes to look at his own face? What an odd question!” said the Master, “It has no outside shape, little one, and thus it is and will always be so.”

“I’ll take a look and tell you, worm!” spat Aesma, and she tore off her clothes wildly.

“What are you doing?” rumbled the Master, bemusedly, but before he could finish, Aesma had planted her feet and took a great hot breath. Her skin puckered and her chest swelled and her small wicked form grew outwards suddenly to fifteen stories tall. The sudden change disoriented her, and she fell over, denting a mountain. The master chuckled at her idiocy as she huffed and puffed and stumbled about, and went to turn back to his work, but then there was another great breath and Aesma swelled monstrously, to twice the Master’s height.

“Ho! Stop this foolishness!” said the Master, amazed at this idiot girl, but before he could say another word, she took another mighty breath and swelled to ten times the Master’s height. The mountains shuddered and the Master’s great unfinished tower shivered as though struck. Now true worry gripped the Master, and he shouted for Aesma to stop, but her monstrous, straining face grew further away as she grew to a hundred times the Master’s height, and then a thousand, and on the fifth breath the land itself was rent up, and the mountains buckled and warped, and the great stones of the Panopticon were ripped from their foundations in the terrible gale of Aesma’s inhalations. The Master was dumbstruck, for though his illuminated mind was much larger and fiercer than Aesma, he had not glimpsed this destruction. And still Aesma grew a million times, a hundred billion times larger than the Master, and the stars bent and space-time itself warped with her great weight. Finally, it gave way, and Aesma tumbled through and outside creation. The great clap as she ripped through woke the archons on their flensing tree, and the worms that shivered in Hansa’s corpse outside reality, and the plum garden of YISUN’s speaking house was so shaken it bore very little fruit that year.”

Kind of puts the lie to the Master's claims of perfect precognition. If he really knew the future form and state of all matter at all instances in time, he'd have known not to bother trying to build the Panopticon because he'd have foreseen its destruction.

Maybe there's an "unless acted upon by another god" limitation on his predictive powers.

“Had Aesma looked then, she would have glimpsed the entirety of existence and non-existence in its totality, and in viewing it she would have discovered the secret name of God, and avoided her maiming by asking YISUN this question some time later. But at that moment, her hubris and pride at her besting of the Master were the only things on her cramped and evil mind, so she gave it but a glance, and discovered that it was somewhat wheel-shaped.

It was extremely cold outside of existence, and Aesma was quite naked, moreover holding so much air in a form so large was quite painful, so she abruptly and quite mindlessly let it go, and plummeted back through the crack in existence and back to the feet of the Master of Space-time, who was thrown around like a leaf in the great storm of her exhalation.

“Plainly you are not the strongest of YISUN’s disciples!” cackled Aesma, and danced naked and stuck her great red tongue out at the broken and defeated master.

“Tell me, as you promised!” implored the Master of space-time, hot tears thundering to the earth like mighty comets, “What is the shape of the universe?”

“It is somewhat wheel-shaped,” said Aesma, which was a completely wrong answer.”

Two ways of reading that "victory" of Aesma's, I suppose. One is, as I said, that the Master proved that he couldn't predict everything. The other, I guess, is that there is a certain level of brute force against which no amount of knowledge can make a difference. Whether that actually makes one "greater," of course, depends on how you measure greatness.

The following chapter is named for Aesma's next victim, the Master of Aesthetic.

“Aesma left the Master of space-time humiliated and battered and set upon the road again, but the heat of victory very quickly cooled into the smoldering jealousy that was her usual manner, and she struck on.

The estate of the Master of aesthetics was not difficult to find either. It hung suspended like a brightly glowing jewel in the blackness of the void. Aesma was taken aback as she hurtled closer, for it grew quickly in in her vision into an expansive palace the size of a city, whose shining streets and ways were packed to the brim with admirers and followers of unbelievable shapes and sizes. As Aesma stowed Pedam’s walking stick, she could hardly move without being assailed with a riot of color and sound and personage. Sprays of brightly plumed dancers spun in the air and sang in speech, thought, and machine code. The cafes were thick with serious-faced philosophers and wild, frenetic writers from the seven corners of the multiverse burning a hundred thousand tongues into brightly fired glyphs. Thick-armed artists and poet-engineers packed the streets, perched over glowing canvases, crowds of admirers and assistants gathered around them, goggle-eyed and gaping.”

Nice place. Reading this in retrospect, having gone through most of volume 2, it also reminds me a lot of the Palace of Radiance. Nadia or Hastet or whoever originally built the palace might have been inspired by legends of the Master of Aesthetics' estate.

Or hell, it could literally be the Master of Aesthetics' estate, if that got left sitting around after the gods turned to stone. Just stick some magitech engines on that thing and call it your capital.

There's also another reminder that this story probably isn't entirely literal, given what was and wasn't supposed to have existed yet with regards to mortals. The talk of computer code and so forth could mean that the gods actually did have computers back when they were physical, or it could be another case of the culture this version of the story comes from projecting aspects of their own era onto divine prehistory.

“Any god or man could a spent an age swallowed in the glorious spectacle, but it merely frustrated Aesma, who rudely cleaved her way through the impossible crowds for three days, scavenging from luminous cafes, and using Pedam’s stave to viciously fend off uncounted party invitations.”

Ys-Aesma is a mighty goddess who can literally break the universe in half, but even she can't afford to pay twenty fucking dollars for a mocha and crescent.

More seriously, Aesma having to scavenge from cafes to get by is part of a recurring motif in her stories. She's often portrayed as simultaneously the weakest of the gods who can be cast out by unamused mortals with sticks, and the strongest of them who can defeat entire divine armies singlehandedly. Given the role that humans play in the K6BD setting, as simultaneously the weakest and most downtrodden (the serfs and slaves of the conquered worlds) and the most powerful and overwhelming (the demiurgi) beings of the contacted multiverse, you can see how Aesma is an appropriate mascot for us. Again, regardless of literal truth or lack thereof.

“But finally, she made her way to the center of that palace, where there was a hall the size of a cavern, filled with rich music, celebrants, and docile animals from a thousand stories. As she smacked and wrenched her way through man, beast, and admirer alike, she came upon a large, beautiful pool, and there seated upon the water was the Master of Aesthetic.

Aesma was somewhat taken aback, as the riotous chaos of the Master’s estate had led her to expect the Master’s art to be quite shallow. But the Master herself was an extremely plain looking woman, dressed almost completely naked in a simple wrapping cloth, her skin and eyes a dull white, her head and brow shaved, and Aesma immediately understood the power she was dealing with.

“YISUN tells me you are the strongest of their disciples,” spoke Aesma, striding across the pool like a great ugly, disheveled bird, and seating herself on the water.

“Young Aesma, who has trumped that gigantic clown, the Master of space-time,” said the Master of aesthetic in a perfectly unremarkable voice. “What an odd question. Did you not stay and observe my estate before coming here?” she added.

“I don’t have time for such frivolity when my reputation is on the line!” fumed Aesma,

The Master made a subtle motion and bread and liquor were brought for Aesma, who also loudly demanded flesh.

“It is so,” said the master as they sipped their liquor.

“How so!” said Aesma quickly.

“Though I have sacrificed much, I have attained mastery of the ultimate and insurmountable truth of Art, “the Master said, “No movement of mind, muscle, or voice is unknown to me. I can measure sorrow, or joy, or pain, or love as plainly as the fingers of my hand. I have laid bare the great filaments of color and sound that connect all life in the multiverse, and I may pluck upon them as I please. Perfection is my breath.””

I like the Master of Aesthetics. Even if the cafes in her city are overpriced hipster hangouts.

Moreso than the Master of Spacetime, she also seems like she isn't even bragging here. Just stating a fact.

““Nonsense! Any fool can say what Art is!” protested Aesma, chewing. “My face is said to be beautiful to many!” she said, contorting her expression so her face resembled the shy, demure, maid that she never was. The crowd of onlookers gasped, so sudden was the transformation. “But for me,” she said, relaxing her expression into her usual demonic countenance, “It is a hideous face of weakness.”

“Have you not seen my estate, my Palace of Resonance?” said the Master. “It is the ultimate cynosure, my final work. Until the end of days the greatest minds and artists will flock here in hope of drinking of my perfection, but never attain it.””

Okay, now she's bragging.

“Aesma conceded that she had not seen the estate.

“Show me your illuminated mind,” commanded the Master in her perfectly normal voice. Aesma did, and the Master was shocked at how writhing and wicked it was. She quickly resolved to give Aesma some tutelage. Motioning for Aesma to follow, she walked out into the city-palace.

Aesma quickly realized that in her hurry to find the Master, she had made a critical oversight. The Palace itself was more than an estate, it was a gallery of monumental proportions, whose architecture thrummed with a harmony that she felt in her bones.
“We will start,” said the Master, “with a work to your liking.”

They stopped at a grand, worn looking theatre. Inside they lingered and ordered drinks while a comedian began a ballad of bawdy poetry. “Of my design,” said the Master, and as the poem progressed, Aesma, though reticent, quickly found herself unable to contain her mirth. By the end, most of the audience was in stitches on the floor, and Aesma’s sides were raked raw from laughing. “A fine work,” conceded Aesma, “but not perfect!”

“An early work,” said the Master slyly, and they progressed to a grand golden dome, where they watched an opera of the Master’s design and ordered increasingly more expensive liquor. At first, Aesma was merely amused by the opera, a simple work about a heroine’s conquest of her fears. But as the work progressed, she found herself increasingly more involved in the plot, which dragged her from emotional high to emotional low, hooked into her throat so tightly that it was raw from screaming from joy and fear. And by the end, she realized that the opera had been written about her, Aesma. It truly was perfection.

“Very well!” conceded Aesma, hoarsely, as they proceeded onwards. By now they had gathered a tail three leagues long of admirers and followers. “But my earlier point still stands,” she continued, gathering her wits, “Aesma has enjoyed your work. But who’s to say she will enjoy the next.”

They went on to observe a humid subterranean dance, a rhythmic, pulsating affair. Aesma found very little pleasure in it, and was about to crown herself victorious, when the Master spoke.

“It is true what you said before,” said the master, “that Art is a matter of perspective. So is reality. The Master of space-time was a fool precisely because he failed to see this. No matter how deep he looked, he could only see with his own eyes, the consummate fool.”

“I have also mastered perspective, “she said, “so I will teach you the way to change your form and the shape of your earthly mind, and the color of my meaning will become known to you.”

They changed their form and bearing to two bearded youths, young men, and it wasn’t long before Aesma felt a stirring in her root and a quickening in her chest. The dance had a perfect effect on her male form.

“Blast you!” she spat.

“You will see nothing is unknown to me,” said the Master, laughing heartily, “Meaning is the essence of existence, and it is a tapestry I weave at my pleasure.”

They spent the rest of the week like that, moving from dance, to art born in light and blood, to song, to music, to performance, to transcendental math, such staggering works as Aesma felt a lifetime pass with each one. Each time they shifted from form to form like the flickering of a candle. Sometimes they were beasts, drinking in the perfection of a fresh kill, sometimes they tuned their ears to trans-dimensional winds. They lived as masochists, as beggars, as kings, as gods, as men, as women, as hermaphrodites, as worms, as stars. The time wicked away like quicksilver, and soon, having gathered a crowd that trailed behind them nearly the length of the palace, they retired to the pool at the center of it all. Aesma near collapsed from exhaustion, and quickly demanded copious liquor to cure her hangover. The Master was wholly unaffected and reclined in the center of her pool in her perfectly plain flesh.

“So you see,” said the Master, “I have mastered Meaning in all its forms and perspectives. My insight is the deepest there is, and so all come to bask in my perfection. That is why I am the strongest of YISUN’s disciples.””

On one hand, I feel like the Master of Spacetime would be able to make some compelling arguments in his own defense if he were here in person. A debate between the god of art and the god of science would probably be fascinating to hear.

On the other...again, gods. For them, the line between material reality and subjective interpretation is a hell of a lot thinner than it is for us. I guess it depends on how much you want to anthropomorphize them for the purposes of this story.

““Now I am sure YISUN keeps you close out of amusement or pity,” continued the Master, “but if you wish to improve your meager talent, I will allow you to present yourself as my student.””

Too bad she isn't the Master of Common Sense. If she was, she'd have known that this is not something one should say to Aesma.

““Die screaming,” croaked Aesma, and the hot fire of jealousy gathered itself within her, and she spat out another stupid question.

“If you understand so deeply, then what is the universal Art?” said Aesma wickedly.

“There is none,” said the Master, untroubled.

“There must be one!” said Aesma, fire rising in her heart, “What’s all this about meaning if there isn’t anything universal about it!”

“I had thought it to be love, or perhaps lovemaking,” said the Master, dismissive, “But of course, universal thinking is shallow, did I not tell you this? Meaning and existence are exercises of self. So it is, and always will be. You should know this, Aesma.”

“Of course there’s one, you smug fop!” spat Aesma, and rage began to bubble up in her boiling mind. “I’ll find it, here!”

“I have little time for the unworthy,” said the Master, and made to call for her servants to cast out Aesma. But before the Master could even extend her littlest finger, Aesma let loose a wild howl and began to tantrum.

“I’ll show you!” she roared, and clothed herself in death. “I’ll find you a universal Art in the ruins of your palace!!” Her tongue lolled, and her eyes weeped blood, and she spat fire and tore out of the pool. She began to rip apart the docile animals there, and their cries of pain brought a hundred martial artists from the crowd, who made to stop her. But Aesma in her destroyer form was a fiendish creature with thirty five arms and three ancillary battle consciousnesses, whose skin was plated like iron and gave off acrid smoke that seared the weak. She beat them bloody and then ran amok in the crowd, breaking and slashing and hurling men and women from fifty thousand worlds to and fro, destroying priceless works of art millennia in the making, and generally making a mess of things.

Her rampage lasted three days and only ceased when the Master herself sallied forth from her pool with thirty five mendicant saints who impaled Aesma on puresilver lances. Her berserk rage finally draining from her body, Aesma conceded.

“Why do you tear up my house, you wretched thing!” said the Master.

“To find the universal Art!” howled Aesma.

“There is no such thing, stupid girl,” said the Master, and Aesma dealt her a single blow across the face. And as the Master was struck, she realized terribly and immediately that Aesma was right. Although Aesma in her blind rage did not realize it, she had spoken with a language understood by all the great men, artists, beasts, philosopher-kings, angels and poets from a million worlds gathered at the Master’s estate.

“The universal art is violence,” said the Master, shocked.

“Aha!” said Aesma in sudden realization.

The master could say nothing.

“I told you!” Aesma cackled, as she was dragged away, and thrown off the shattered and burning Palace into the void.

“That’s awful,” said the Master.

Her body drooped and crumpled, and all the lights in her beautiful glowing palace slowly died as she dragged herself to her pool, which had grown an ugly shade, and wept.”

It took her three days to get up off her ass and do something about this? I guess she's not the Master of Reflexes either. Anyway, like I said before, details like this make the story seem much less literal than it otherwise could have.

I'm not sure whether or not Aesma's "discovery" (really, more like the Master's discovery made by watching Aesma, who remained as clueless as ever) rings true to me. Violence could be argued to be the most basic form of communication, but I feel like art isn't exactly the same thing as that. Also, "violence" is such an incredibly broad spectrum of activities that calling it a universal art is almost like calling art itself a universal art. This part of the story feels like the most philosophically shaky one.

Next is the Master of Ethics. Things might go better for this one, but they probably won't.

“Flush with victory and battle, Aesma took to the road again with extremely little regard for the beautiful community of light and sound she had so violently shattered, and with ignorant glee, she whistled as she rode the void in search of the Master of ethics.

The estate of the Master was easy to find, as it lay atop a shining mountain whose peak was so tall it could be seen from near all creation. Aesma scoffed at such an obstacle and with a mighty stroke of Pedam’s thirty league stave, flung herself to the top. But as she spun up its sides, she saw up its slopes were crawling with grand streams of men, beasts, and demigods. And when she reached the top she beheld a great cacophony, a heaving sea of pilgrims, and rising majestically out of the center was a great shining temple of unbelievable breadth and width, with a peculiar shape that Aesma couldn’t quite make out.

Almost immediately Aesma was smashed to and fro by a mass of bodies of every color, shape, and gender imaginable, and the discordant litany of a thousand tongues nearly deafened her. Irate, she swept the legs out from a broad swathe of pilgrims a kilometer wide with a single swipe of Pedam’s stave, and questioned them viciously as they crawled about in pain.

“Where is the Master of ethics!” she spat, lashing the prostrate pilgrims as they clutched their bleeding shins. Among them Aesma couldn’t see a single unified creed or dogma. There were bell-ringing pilgrims, and cat-burning pilgrims, and hands-and-feet beating pilgrims (who were crying in joy at the exquisite beating Aesma had dealt them), and many more besides.

“Ask the holy men!” cried the pilgrims, and Aesma saw that sprouting from the mighty temple’s base were an uncounted number of smaller temples, growing like ugly ornamented mushrooms as though to squash the life out of each other. So with the hook of Pedam’s stave, she lifted thirty of them clean off their foundations and shook them vigorously until a number of ruddy, sweating priests fell out.

“Begone demon!” the priests wailed in unison, grasping for various holy symbols, so Aesma gave them a drubbing with her stave.

“Where is the Master of ethics!” she said, picking her nose as she sat upon a holy man’s chest.

“He is the holiest of holies and has hidden himself from the sight of the wicked!” gasped the priest in great pain, for Aesma’s evil body was heavier than iron and hotter than a forge, “and ye shall never learn the secret way to pass unto his ultimate truth!””

The Master of Ethics is a very poor teacher, going by the assorted flavors of unpleasantness that were going on in his city even before Aesma came in with her usual flavor of cartoon violence.

“So Aesma rapped him in the stones, and resolved to ask a dog, as they were far more reliable than both pilgrims and holy men.

“He is in the temple of 109 chambers,” said the dog, “each holier than the one before, and only the successively more pure of heart may pass through.”

Aesma kicked the dog, and turned to go, but the dog said, “By the law of dogs, you must carry my burden for a single day. And so I grant you my fleas, so I may rest a single night,” and all the fleas of the dog jumped to Aesma and she howled and scratched and struck at the dog, but the law of dogs was exceptionally strong, and so she could do naught but mutter angrily at being tricked as she pressed on.”

I love the "law of dogs" thing, especially how it comes with no explanation at all. Like the reader is expected to already know about it. Details like this make it feel like a genuine foreign tale missing some of its cultural context.

Anyway, if your purity of heart determines how close to the Master you can get, then that explains the questionable practices and conduct of those on the periphery. Although, if he were truly a Master of Ethics, you'd think he'd be a little more proactive in helping them to be better.

Honestly, if I were Aesma I'd just declare this battle already won and walk away with a laugh. But then, one of Aesma's defining traits is that she is extremely stupid, so she might not have picked up on this failure of the alleged Master's.

“As Aesma closed in on the temple, she saw that it took the form of an immense lantern, with shining gates for its apertures, and through one of those gates she could gaze all the way through its 109 chambers to a tiny pinprick of light.

She sprang through the first gate, but was immediately set upon by a great flock of ten thousand multicolored priests, who slammed the second gate shut before her.

“You may progress no further,” shrieked the priests as they flapped about her, “until you have performed the sacred rituals and proven yourself worthy!”

“What are they?” grumbled Aesma, beating priests off her ankles. But the ten thousand priests gave ten thousand answers. Some of them claimed Aesma needed to cleanse the ghosts of her past lives, others claimed she must douse herself in virgin’s blood, others still required her to stick pins through every hand length of her body. Soon the priests’ disagreement turned to rage and they set upon each other, and still would not let Aesma pass. But Aesma had little time for this foolishness, so she plucked ten-thousand feathers from Akaroth’s cloak, and breathed fire into them, and each became a perfect copy of her evil body, which performed the rituals requested with terrifying quickness, and dissolved into ash. Bested, the battered priests unlocked the gate, and Aesma leapt through into the next chamber.”

I'm starting to think this is all a test, and the priests and pilgrims actors. I'm not sure if Aesma's solution was the intended one, though.

“Immediately, Aesma was set upon by a great crowd of nine thousand shaven monks, all requesting she chant a different mantra to pass, each proclaiming the other charlatan. And as before, spitting curses, she plucked nine-thousand feathers from Akaroth’s cloak, and up sprung her simulacra, and she continued.

So it progressed, from monks, to hierophants, to bearded sages, to ten-thousand year old yogis. And eventually Aesma ran out of feathers in that great cloak, and it was scattered to nothing, so she began to use the threads of her clothing. And when her clothing was likewise spent, she turned to hairs on her body. And when she was plucked completely hairless, she turned to eyelashes.

Finally, Aesma came to the 107th chamber. The walls were silver, and inside were ten beautiful, glowing youths, wearing only transcendental smiles and silence. Yet still they could not agree, and they motioned to ten scrolls, where ten ancient koans were written, and each bade her read a different one. But Aesma, raw, naked, itching from the fleas that still clung to her skin, was quite irate, and instead dealt them a wicked lashing with Pedam’s stave and dove into the next room before they could recover.

In the 108th chamber, the walls were gold, and there were five wise and august elders seated on five golden thrones, wielding scepters of command, with tongues of brass and curled beards of iron. Behind each elder was a different golden door to pass through to the final chamber.

“Out with ye, devil!” proclaimed the elders in solemn voice, “never shall thou learn the secret way into the final chamber, for thy soul is black as midnight!”

“I am Aesma the Destroyer, you old fools! Your reward for your impudence is my greatstaff,” snapped Aesma, thoroughly sick of this whole scenario, and swung Pedam’s walking stick and caved the whole wall in, though with a mighty flash the famous stave shattered into 50 smoldering pieces, which were later gathered by the pilgrims fleeing that place and still burn to this day.

So plucked raw, and clad only in fleas, Aesma leapt into the final chamber, which was full of light and sweet music.”

I'm surprised she didn't just do that in all the previous rooms, lol.

“Aesma knew immediately that the Master of ethics was the most powerful of the three Masters, and truly the holiest of holies. They were a hermaphrodite of pure, blazing, gold-brown skin, with long, glossy black hair, a perfect smile, and crowned with flowers and fire. They sat hovering in the golden air ringed with nineteen virginal attendant demigods who swooned and sang choruses of praise.

Aesma was struck with wonderment, for the great light of Truth emanated from the 109th chamber, and she was surprised she had not seen it before. The pulsing light scoured her blackened mind, and she felt strong and sudden trepidation.

The Master of ethics did not befoul their perfect lips with air, but instead smiled in five ways as they spoke with a mind-voice that rung with eons.

“I have heard of your defeat of the the other Masters,” they said, intoning gloriously and knowingly. It is true that I am the strongest of YISUN’s disciples.”

Aesma scrabbled against the great light in that room, and sucked her itching hands.

“How so?” said she.

“The Master of space-time was mighty, but his gaze was singular. The Master of aesthetics had a broader gaze, but still she looked outwards. These were their fatal flaws. I have looked inward,” said the Master of ethics, making a small gesture of humility and song, and their virgin attendants gasped in wonderment. “It is only through mastery of the internal self that we may master the external self. Now all who gaze upon my temple may learn the righteous way.”

Aesma tremored at that, for the light of that great temple seemed very powerful indeed.

“I have studied YISUN’s teachings,” the Master continued, “and every holy text produced by man or mind besides. I have aligned my sight and every aspect of my being away from violence and towards gloriousness and the moral right of all consciousness. Therefore I have mastered the ultimate and insurmountable truth of Truth itself, and perfection is my breath.””

Note that this whole story started with Aesma already at Yisun's side. Lots of Zen Buddhist sensibilities in this story. "The path to enlightenment is the discovery that you already were enlightened to begin with," etc.

““Aesma, I pity you, for though you wallow in it, I have excised myself from struggle. I have never committed an act of violence in my life,” said the Master sadly, and all their attendants wept.

“Nonsense!” spat Aesma, incredulous.

“No, it’s true,” the Master said, casting their infinite eyes downwards, “I was born immaculately from the lotus that sprang from YISUN’s right eye, and so caused no mother pain. From birth I had the knowledge of a full grown man or woman, and so taught myself to regulate the flow of my consciousness to never require food or drink.””

Taking moral credit for totally involuntary things lol.

“Aesma was disbelieving, as the Master continued.

“I was raised by the three legendary beasts that hold up the throne of YISUN. From the Roc, I learned discipline of language, to never harm another by words. From the Behemoth, discipline of body, to perfect my spirit and flesh and never raise hand to man or beast. And from the Leviathan, I learned discipline of mind, to purge all evil thoughts before they are formed.”

Though cowed and squinting, Aesma was incredibly irritated by the singing and swooning of the Master’s virginal entourage, and her bites itched hotly, and so she asked yet another stupid question.

“Then why are you still here, you self-righteous twit? If you’re so holy, isn’t it selfish of you to stick around?” she hissed, enraged at the purity of this luminous being.

“Truly, I wish to sublime,” said the deity, and their attendants bowed their heads in pity, “but the single selfishness I allow myself is to exist. I alone am the sustainer of this great light of Truth that shines here in this temple, by which men may learn enlightenment, the beacon that can be seen from all corners of the universe! Without my teaching, a great darkness would surely wash over creation.””

The assertion that existence itself is unethical is one that I'd normally be sympathetic to, but the Master of Ethics' case seems like it should be an exception since they don't consume resources of any kind. This feels like style over substance, which seems to be the flaw of the Master of Ethics in general.

“At this Aesma was confused, for the light had seemed quite small when she stood outside the temple, and she had barely perceived it until now. But still, she could find no fault with the Master’s words, and fumed and gnashed her teeth in defeat.

“Why do you hold so much pain in your heart, Aesma?” spoke the Master gently. “Open your illuminated mind to me, so I may help you align yourself with righteousness.”

Aesma obeyed, and the Master beheld the painful red embers of Aesma’s mind, and saw how twisted and writhing it was. Such was the intense pity in their perfect breast at this wretched sight that they wept tears of pure crystal, and they took a single golden step earthwards, reaching out towards Aesma.

But at that precise moment, exactly a day had passed, and the fleas on Aesma’s body, as bound by the law of dogs, ended their tenancy in all directions at once. And as the Master’s perfect and supple foot touched the ground, in their great pity and distraction, they quite carelessly stepped upon a single flea and crushed the life out of it.

Immediately the nineteen attendants of the Master screamed and pointed and laughed at the Master’s momentary transgression Their faces became ugly with shock and horror, and they danced about, wailing. The Master was stunned by their careless behavior and thoughtless actions at the Master’s minor breach of self, and cast their great, shining mind upon them, and was struck dumb, for though the attendants had spent their infinite lives at the Master’s side, the Master could see that not a fraction of the great light of Truth had penetrated their souls, and their minds still teemed with impurity.

With great consternation, the Master flew rapidly to the 108th chamber of the great temple, where the five august elders lay battered, and saw that not a single scrap of the great light of Truth had penetrated this room at all. So they strode with increasing concern to the 107th chamber, where the ten youths lay groaning, and saw that not one iota of the great light of Truth had even entered through even the door way.

And so the Master strode, from chamber to chamber, hurtling through each shimmering gate in horror, and each time the already dim light of Truth grew increasingly dimmer. And finally the Master exited the temple, and saw the heaving discord outside, and cast out their mind with an awesome heat and glorious fire that nearly flattened the ground itself. But as they stood, golden, with molten sweat dripping off their perfect form, they could not detect one speck the great light of Truth anywhere outside that temple in the entirety of creation.

“How could this be?” gasped the Master, but as they turned, they saw that, although already hardly visible, the light in the temple was sputtering and dying. Planting their golden feet, the Master hooked into their transcendent consciousnesses and swallowed the stars, and directed their immense and dread will towards the light.

But no matter how hard they burned with glorious incandescent power, the light grew dimmer, and dimmer, and as it flickered, a great murmur went up amongst those inside and outside the temple.

“The light in the temple is dying!” murmured the cat-burning pilgrims, squinting.

“Do you see a light, dying there?” said the bell ringing pilgrims, peering into the temple.

“What light?” said the hand-and-foot-beating pilgrims, straining to see.

Eventually there was agreement that there hadn’t really been a light there in the first place, and with that, what little remained of it finally sputtered and vanished as the temple went completely dark. A great ripple went out through the heaving sea of priests and pilgrims, and ever so slowly, they began to drain out of the temple and off the mountain in great tides, and then streams, and then rivulets.

Finally the nineteen virginal attendants ran shrieking past the straining Master, holding up their robes, and pattered their way down the rocks. A dog came close, and sat, and scratched its haunches.”

The emperor had no clothes.

Only this time, the child didn't point it out. She just kind of tripped over his nakedness in a way that made it obvious. Without noticing that she'd done it, even afterward.

It seems like the Master of Ethics' moral philosophy caused him to be completely passive. Not even paying attention to the people in his immediate surroundings. Which...does not seem ethical to me, honestly. He impresses me the least by far out of the three.

“Then, at the very last, Aesma stumbled out of the blackened temple, goggling in disbelief.

“You!” gaped the Master, “What have you done?”

“Truly, nothing!” protested Aesma, and the Master realized then that they had never sustained the great light of Truth at all, but it had been a false light, fed not by the purity of a single great consciousness blazing outward, but by the gazes of a million small and ignorant minds gazing inward.

With this terrible realization, the Master sat down heavily in the dust, and for the very first time felt a black twinge of hatred.

“You!” sputtered the Master again.

Aesma didn’t learn this lesson at all, as she was far too hot, itchy, and confused to focus on such trivial things as her enlightenment. She kicked the dog once, and returned its fleas, for which the dog was grateful. Then, scratching her buttocks, she rode the void stark naked.”

Blaming her for his self-perception being off. How very ethical.

This guy isn't the "master" of anything. His morals had never even been put to the test before now. He was no ethicist, he was a newborn baby.

And now, the final chapter of Aesma and the Three Masters.

“Though Aesma as she traveled was far too ignorant to realize it, a great note of discord had been struck and now rang with terrible fury across the universe. The estates of the three great Masters were shattered and wasted, and, disgraced, they gathered up what few followers they could and their instruments of debate and war, and rode at once to YISUN’s speaking house to vent their anger.

“Your oafish disciple Pree Aesma has wrecked my Panopticon,” bellowed the Master of space-time.

“That hideous worm burned my Palace,” sulked the Master of aesthetic, whose skin and clothing had turned the color of bruises, and knotted her lank hair.

“She has scattered my students, and darkened my temple,” wept the Master of ethics, “who now will teach the truth of your Word?”

At that moment, Aesma returned to the hall, quite oblivious, and a great wail went up amongst those assembled. YISUN motioned for silence and said, “I told Aesma you were my strongest disciples. This was a lie.”

The three Masters were taken aback by this assertion, and loudly protested, but YISUN continued.

“You, the Master of space-time, are exceptionally strong indeed. But you limit yourself by the shape of what is, and not by the shape you want it to be.”

“You, the Master of aesthetic, are strong as well, but by seeing only beauty you blind yourself.”

“And you,” YISUN said, to the weeping Master of ethics, “are of purest mind and heart, but by looking only inwardly, can not perceive external illusion.”

“Who is the strongest, then?” clamored the Master of space-time, banging his great chisel with a crash that shook the speaking house, “Let me know them and I will take their measure!” The others echoed the same, and the hall was soon filled with imploring cries.

“Plainly, I will tell you,” said YISUN, “it is Pree Aesma.”

“What!” spat Aesma, furious, and the others echoed her sentiment.

“The three of you were content with your mastery, but Aesma is not,” said YISUN.

“But she is an idiot, and a loathsome schemer!” wailed the Master of aesthetic.

“This is true,” said YISUN fondly, “but she carries with her the most powerful mastery, which is the hunger of desire. She is the Master of want.”

The three Masters considered this statement, as there was a lesson in it, and as they were each exceptionally wise, they realized its power, and one by one they slunk away to their ruined estates.

“What three lessons did you learn, Aesma?” asked YISUN after they had left.

“The universe is somewhat wheel-shaped!” said Aesma, proud.

“Surely, but only from one angle,” said YISUN, amused.

“The universal art is violence!” continued Aesma, hotly.

“Truly, but the second and far greater is lying,” said YISUN.

“The Truth is dependent on those who uphold it!” she finished, stamping her feet.

“There is no such thing as Truth,” said YISUN, “rely on lies instead. They are far more consistent.”

“Why, Lord?” sputtered Aesma.

“Because we constantly strive to uphold them.”

“What is your meaning, oh lord of lords, oh queen of queens!” growled Aesma, gnashing her white teeth. “You sent me on this fool’s errand!”

“You are a liar, and you have a mind of boiling wicked schemes,” said YISUN, “and for this you are my favored daughter. You alone among my disciples struggle.”

“Struggle, Lord?” said Aesma, trying to catch some meaning.

“Struggle is all there is,” said YISUN, “want and struggle are the twin essences of existence, and to rest is death. You are a mercurial fighter, quick of finger, you hate stagnation and thirst terribly for power. You accept the world not as it is but seek greater shapes beyond, and strive fiercely to carve it to your will with the dread instruments of hunger. For this you are my strongest disciple.”

“I still don’t understand,” fumed Aesma, frustrated.

“Perfect,” said YISUN.”

So, that's "Aesma and the Three Masters." If you didn't read Yisun's lines in the last section in John de Lancie's voice, you're missing out.

The power of desire. Because of her self-defeating nature, Aesma's life is the most meaningful as Yisun sees things. After all, if existence is a lie, then isn't complacency or mastery a sort of just...not engaging with the story you're being told?

I'm not sure that I agree. If there isn't the possibility of progress and achievement, even if it's just minor ones in the grand scheme of things, then that also makes the lie fall flat. There's no meaning if there's no potential accomplishment. There's no real struggle if the prize is truly unattainable.

Making an effort to be more open minded, I guess I could see this as a journey versus destination dichotomy. Aesma never reaches her destination; thanks to her refusal to learn, she's perpetually on a journey. If she ever made it to the end, she'd stop being the Master of Want. Seeing her as an archetype rather than a person - the struggle toward a goal, independent of what the goal in question might be - makes it work better for me.

Though in that case, I'd have to take some issue with the Master of Spacetime's alleged besting. The Master of Aesthetic had declared her own journey over, which made her passive and static (maybe that's what the three day reaction time was hinting at). The Master of Ethics never even started his, and thought he didn't need to go on one. But the Master of Spacetime WAS struggling. There was something he wanted that he didn't have (the ability to see everything at one time). He was working on a big building project in pursuit of that goal. He *did* have Want, at least for the time being. So, I'm not sure what that part of the story is supposed to mean.

The main reason I included this story in the post is because it gives the most comprehensive look at who and what Aesma is. The Fool archetype, with a side order of Loki at his pettiest and most unpleasantly absurd. Actually, come to think of it, there are some permutations of the North American Coyote/Raven god that she's much closer to than Loki. Just ramp up the dickishness and add a dash of One Punch Man, and you'll get something pretty close to Yis-Aesma.

It's simultaneously unfair and completely fair of the story to use Aesma as a kind of sort of representation of Killy. They have some traits in common, but fortunately not too many.


Anyway, that brings us to the third and last story I wanted to cover. Like I said before, "Aesma and the Red Eyed King" comes along with the comic pages of Nadia introducing us to her husband. And, in this case, Aesma *isn't* playing an analogous role to Killy's. The style of this story is close to the Three Masters one, but it's much more sardonic and deconstructive in tone, as well as preachier. It reads like a more countercultural, revisionist myth from the same broad society.

This story is a bit longer, so I'll take it chapter by chapter like I did with the Het story.

“Once, and always, there was Aesma Ten Yondam, who was a very powerful goddess. She had anywhere from two to forty five arms, she was exceptionally strong, and had an insatiable red hunger for dominion. She knew five ways of smiling, ten of the forty five forms, and all the syllables of Royalty, though she understood none of them. In her blackened heart she let many wicked schemes and plans ripen and kindled an endless rage against the inadequacy of the universe, which made her one of YISUN’s favored companions. She was poor at Patkun, could not tolerate pedantry, and her ribald jokes and raucous behavior frequently got her thrown out of YISUN’s speaking house.

On one such occasion, Aesma was thrown out long before she could get at the wine. Her wailing and pounding at the doors of the speaking house drew nearly two score of pilgrim-saints, who were passing on the King’s road. When they approached to inquire about her distress, she engaged them in a ferocious battle that lasted the better part of five hours, as was her custom. The battle was so fierce that it cracked two roaming moons and threw part of one into a primal sea, which boiled away to steam.

“That’s better,” sighed Aesma, when the dust had settled and the sea had finished boiling. “Hey,” said Aesma to the battered and bloodied pilgrims as an idea struck her, “Where can I get some wine about here?”

“Foul creature! If it’s nourishment thou seeks, get thee the great and holy Temple of the Disc of the Sun,” croaked a furious pilgrim. “Drink thee of the consecrated wine there, not thy common lecher’s milk, and purify thy fetid soul!” Aesma was grateful, and turned the man into an exceptionally large golden fish as way of saying thank you, for she was fond of well-colored fish. She grabbed a strand of frozen light and broke it into the shape of a door. This was an old and popular trick which the god Un-Kaon had taught her in return for Aesma stealing sweets, for Kaon had a terrible sweet tooth. It was called Division, for it was a cutting art, of which there are thirty and one.

Aesma leapt out of her skin and through the door, and then back into her skin, which was waiting on the other side, through a tangle of twisted planes of space. As she emerged, the temple of which the man spoke lay directly ahead of her. It was a grand and stately building, with sandy white columns, and the Holy Sun Disc enshrined there was visible for fifty or sixty leagues about, so bright it was.

The priests offered libations and chants to the great altar of the Sun there, and payed homage to the stars, and studied in minute detail the nature of a man’s soul. Each was a scientist and philosopher of clean and manly visage, who wore a neatly pressed apron. He discarded ostentation and valued virtue above all else. Members of the temple spent many hours contemplating the proper roles for women and men, the just ways of proper rulership, and the ways in which a man’s perfect qualities could be compounded in his body as in his mind. They had there a great golden scale, with which the head priest measured the weight of a man’s vice against his virtue. It was a place of great influence on the enlightened thinking of the time, a temple of grand seriousness and moral import.

For this reason, of course, Aesma immediately hated it. She lasted about thirty minutes in the public service. “I can’t stand it!” howled Aesma, “Your elegies are dull! Your saints are all liars. Your youth are pallid and weak, and your wine tastes like piss. One cannot as much fart in here without being preached at.”

“Out, demon!” said the Hierophant, and brandished his stave of authority. A score of priests stood beside him, robed in their aprons and strewn about with their golden chains. The light of good and righteousness sharpened their noble features and rugged eyes. “Were violence not forbidden in this most holy temple, we would have thee out by the stave,” boomed the head priest. “I pity thee, crawling thing, for thy black heart is all shriveled and malnourished without the guidance of moral authority!”

“At least I’m not being sucked on by old men!” spat Aesma at the holy congregation. She then pulled down her loincloth and mooned them, to great dismay. Then the staves came out after all, and she was thrown out of the temple in a short order.

“Get thee a husband!” said the exasperated priest, and slammed the door shut. Aesma thought this was not a bad idea at all. Husbands were rumored to be better than dogs. She set off, her quest for wine quite forgotten.

Aesma looked far and wide for a husband. She broke a sunbeam fifty times by Division and split her mind into fifty shards and hurled those shards, molten, through the gaps therein. This was a trick she stole from Ovis by watching her bathe. Each shard grew into a splinter-clone of Aesma’s evil body, and did great mischief as it ravaged the earth, befouled the land, frightened the populace, and scoured the nations of the universe for husbands. But after five hours had passed this way, Aesma grew frustrated and annihilated all her extraneous selfs in godsfire. It took some effort, for their accomplishments in such a short time had been exceedingly high, and one had even installed herself as queen.

Exasperated, she resolved to ask the God Un-Ogam, who she often came to with difficult questions. Ogam was in his White Aspect, and thus a little more contemplative. However, he was a ferocious god of battle, and not a philosopher, and thus rarely gave good answers. Aesma liked visiting him anyway, as he was older than her and loved to spar. So Aesma rode her chariot to the gore-soaked battlefield where Ogam was doing battle with a dozen minor gods of justice, and landed it amidst the melee “Ogam!” shouted Aesma, “Find me a husband! Surely you have a slave that will do?” Ogam couldn’t hear Aesma at first, as he was in a berserk rage, bending the great stave of the bird-headed god of Law UN-Ghum in half. When the stave snapped, Ogam hurled Ghum into the sun and calmed down a little. He and Aesma were very close friends.

“I have many slaves,” said Ogam to Aesma, “but none will do for you, little sister. None are your equal. Come back later, and I will find you a great, roaring god for your spouse, hung like a bull and with muscles like an elephant!”

Aesma was discontent, and smacked Ogam in the forehead. Ogam hardly noticed, as his skull was thicker than a fortress wall. This was one of his excellent qualities, in Aesma’s view. “I’ve waited enough!” fumed Aesma, “Why, just now I was preached at just for wanting a drop of wine! If you can’t find me an equal, tell me, who is my equal?””

— Aesma and the Red Eyed King (chapter one)

Like I said, this feels as much like a parody of an Aesma myth as an actual Aesma myth. The other, shorter ones that have appeared here and there throughout the comic were less irreverent than this, usually being more like the Three Masters story.

The story is also very heavyhanded with its attack on patriarchy. The other Aesma myths seemed to assume a more or less egalitarian default as far as gender is concerned. Here, Aesma is being led astray (as she is wont) by assertions of what makes a proper woman. The authority figures are all explicitly male, and their maleness and authority are distinctly associated. Contrast this with the last story, where hermaphrodism seems to be considered the godly ideal. It feels like the in-universe author is criticizing their own society through allegory.

Aesma starting the story by looking for something to drink might be meaningful, given that this story came with a Mottom scene. That consumption motif. And the pursuit of consumption leading to a husband...well, that last bit is an inversion of Mottom's story, at least to hear her tell it, but close enough.

I don't know what the "Ten Yondam" suffix means. I don't think I've seen it before, attached to Aesma's name or any other. Her stick-fighting skills are also even more inconsistent than usual in this tale. She was practically designed to troll Versus Debaters with.

Also, there's lots of weird dog-related turns of phrase and superstitions in these stories. Hmm.

Next chapter.

“Ogam was perplexed, but he was saved when Boratus of the Silver Scales smashed into him with his six-wheeled chariot and knocked him off his feet, sparing him an answer. The other ten gods of justice leapt upon Ogam at once with their clubs and staves and holy rods, and began to beat him savagely. Aesma found this uproariously funny.

“You, wicked one!” said Ys-Perator the Crown of Truth, “How can you stand there and cackle? Begone. We are punishing the tyrant Ogam for his drunken transgressions with the Mistress of the Petal Tower.”

“You’re doing a terrible job of it,” pointed out Aesma, snorting with laughter. It was true. Ogam had grown ten stories tall, so that the strikes of the gods of justice were like matchsticks upon his mighty hide. The gods scramble to pin him down with shards of moonlight, but before they could impale him he grew a score of arms and plucked them by their cloaks and rained blows upon them that would have pulverized normal men into gruel.
Perator gripped her stave with white knuckles and gave Aesma a scornful look. “Well, go off then. Don’t you have better things to do?” she growled. She was of half a mind to drive Aesma off with the rod, as she had done many times before.

“Not until Ogam tells me who my equal is!” protested Aesma.

“Fool!” said Perator, “Anyone would be hard pressed to find your equal in wickedness. There are none with such a soul stained with evil save the Red Eyed King who is kept in the Crucible of Punishment, and he is singular in his accomplishments!” Perator realized her mistake a moment too late, for Aesma had already leapt into her chariot and taken to the skies.

The Crucible of Punishment was a terrible place. Once, the old god Muam was discontent with the angle of the sun upon his mountain lean-to. To this end, he made an arduous journey to the end of the universe, where he found one of the ancient trees that held up its corners, and stripped one of its branches into a mighty pole two and a half billion leagues long. He trudged all the way from the edge back to the center, where he thrust the pole deep into the earth, and using it as an axle, turned the world by five degrees, and was content.

The world-axle was withdrawn, but the hole it left remained. And halfway down that hole, was the Crucible, which was steeped in perpetual Chthonic gloom. It was a mighty fortress, an iron vessel full to the brim of the worst and most despicable beings to defile the earth, and for this reason it was kept deep and out of sight of the innocent. The Crucible was lashed to the walls of the hole by great chains large enough for a man to walk on, and it had one hundred and five watchers – powerful saints of justice clad in white funeral robes. Each saint had dipped their eyes in quicksilver, rendering them blind to worldly concerns, but able to keenly discern the impurities within the souls of any visitor. It was for this reason that when Aesma arrived, all one hundred and five scrambled with great speed from their watch towers and arranged themselves in battle formation.

At first the saints were aghast, for they perceived very clearly that a being of tremendous evil was upon them, and wondered for a second if one of their prisoners had in fact escaped. But then they recognized Aesma, and a collective groan went up among them.

“I’m here for the Red Eyed King!” proclaimed Aesma.

“The King shall ne’er see the lands above again,” said one of the saints. “He has proclaimed his enmity against the forces of good in clear terms. He is a sun swallower and a world destroyer, a tyrant and a demon of pure malevolence.”

“He sounds dreamy,” said Aesma, “when can I see him?”

The saints narrowed their silver eyes and set their spears as a thicket of blades against Aesma, for they knew her well. “Never!” they said in unison.

“Great saints!” wheedled Aesma, “Please, have pity on a poor and desperate girl! I merely want to lay eyes upon this wicked king. Surely there must be some task I can accomplish to prove my worth to you?”

With great reluctance, the saints raised their spears a fraction of an inch, for there was an air of true desperation in Aesma’s voice. They entered into a hushed and grim discussion, for there was among them a general belief in redemption, no matter how small the chances. It was considered among many of the great gods of justice that Aesma was in fact an idiot, and shouldn’t be blamed for her wide and colorful list of transgressions against the common good.

“Very well,” said one of the saints, “Here are your tasks. First, you will find the names of forty two men who truly have not sinned. For if you do not have the discerning eye to find purity amongst the decay of this world, then you do not have the means to pass through these halls with true intent.”

“Ok,” said Aesma.

“Then you must bring us the heart of a leviathan, which is only given to those righteous of purpose.”

“Ok,” said Aesma.

“You must know,” continued the saint, “You can not cut out the heart, or bring it by violence alone. It must be living, and we must see proof of its offering. Even the greatest of questing knights have been turned aside by one of the mighty beasts, for the smallest of evils.”

“Next, you will travel to the holy mountain of Saboth-Ur, where the monks of the Empty Voice keep the silence. For a year and a day you must dwell on that mountain and utter not a word. You must discard your possessions and go about naked as the day you were born, but rid yourself of all lustful ambitions and aspirations of the flesh. You must cast aside your battle consciousnesses and ancillary violence forms. You must rid yourself of the poetry of destruction, break your weapons, and purge the breath of death from within your lungs. Bring us then a token from the abbot there that proves you have undergone these trials. With the heart and token both, we will let you in to lay eyes upon the wicked King.”

“This sounds too complicated,” protested Aesma, “Let’s fight instead.”

So they did, to their great dismay. The battle lasted a day and a half. So much of Aesma’s molten blood was spattered above that it melted through three of the iron chains that held the Crucible in place and caused it to tilt. Later this would cause the Crucible to swing against the wall of the pit and crack, releasing a hundred and fifty of the world’s most evil beings onto the surface, who caused so much trouble that it took several wars and the participation of no less than twelve supreme gods of battle to recapture them.

The saints were very powerful, and were able to slay at least five of Aesma’s war forms, but by the end of the fight, Aesma had hurled all of them into the pit, where they fell for seven hundred years before hitting the bottom and starting their arduous trek back up. She plucked the spears from her flesh and caved in the iron gate of the crucible and limped into its cramped and labyrinthine interior. There, inside, in the deepest pit, she beheld a tiny prison cage with bars made of red hot iron, so that they constantly burned their inhabitant. And kept inside that cruel cage, with charcoal-like flesh smoking, was the Red Eyed King.

He was truly, as Aesma saw, a being of quite singular evil. Though his skin was black from the fire, and cracked and red-raw from his prison, he did not flinch a bit from his torture. Tendrils of dark and oily vapor rose from his charred body, and he had the cruel face of a tyrant. But by far his most notable feature were his eyes, which burned with an insane and hungry red light. As Aesma saw his eyes, she saw instantly that they were sparks of an awful dark flame that would grow to consume the world if they were given kindling. They were pinpricks of the light of destruction that would shine at the end of the universe. It was for this reason that Aesma instantly fell in love with him.”

— Aesma and the Red Eyed King (chapter two)

Can I just say that I loved the confrontation between Aesma and the guards? Both the "oh, never mind, the ruinous evil being approaching is just Aesma again" part, and the "too complicated, I'll fight you instead" thing.

It seems like the best way to get rid of Aesma is to just give her something else to do. Tell her about some other shiny thing on the other side of the cosmos, and if you phrase it the right way she'll forget all about what she was destroying your city for and go be someone else's problem. That makes sense for a goddess of want and struggle. Unfortunately, the guards of the Crucible laid it on a little too thick.

Given the heavyhanded second wave feminist vibe of this story, I wonder if the part about them not taking Aesma seriously as a powerful evil being is also saying something. Why isn't she already in that damned prison herself? Infantilization of women, etc.

The description of the Red Eyed King with his dark, burning hunger sounds very devil-influenced. Though of course, if there is any literal truth to this tale then those events would have long predated the existence of devils. Unless that devil creation story was also wrong, of course.

“This was a massive problem for Aesma, for she had never before felt love of any capacity, so at first she thought she had fallen violently sick.

“Stop that at once!” she gasped, clutching her chest, “You are using some foul art to explode my heart!”

“What misbegotten wretch are you?” said the Red Eyed King. He had a voice like drifting ash and it was said the moment you heard it you would not forget it for the rest of your life. It could reduce a normal man to a babbling, terror stricken mess. Aesma merely fell in love a little more.

“You!” she screamed, panting and sweating, “I demand you become my husband!” There was no response from the Red Eyed King, and Aesma was taken aback. For most of her problems she had solved quite easily by beating them to a pulp, and her usual approach didn’t seem to apply in this case. She was thoroughly stuck.

“I’ll beat you to a pulp!” she said, hesitantly.

“An odd threat to make to a man in a cage,” said the Red Eyed King, “I refuse.”

Aesma’s heart jumped again, and to her immense surprise, her face screwed up in a tight and pained expression of grief, and molten tears began to pour from her eyes in great rivulets, searing the iron floors.

“What are you doing to me?” she wailed in confusion.

“Nothing,” said the Red Eyed King, perplexed.

Aesma did not hear, for she ran, blubbering and wailing from the deepest pit of the Crucible to its exterior, her tears burning holes in the floor the entire way. And once she was outside, through her steaming eyes she groped for and found the tiniest particle of matter she could and smashed that particle into an explosion so violent it sent plumes of white fire shooting up and down the shaft, and hurled her up and out of the pit, where she grabbed a passing shaft of sunlight and broke it into a door she could travel through. When she hurtled through that door, the light in her destination was clear and unwavering, for she had returned to the only place that knew anything about husbands in her esteem, the Temple of the Disc of the Sun.

When Aesma landed, she ran right up the temple steps, leaking molten fire from her eyes, and knocked on the great temple doors so hastily that she bashed them right off their hinges. They flew right through the mid-day congregation, sending worshippers flying and completely demolishing the large and stately Altar of Philosophy. In any other time Aesma would have found this hilarious, but the matter of her leaking face and jumping heart terrified her, so when the hundred manly priests of the temple came to beat her away with their staves, they found her apologizing profusely and were thrown into great confusion.

“What’s wrong with me?” wailed Aesma.

The priests had a hurried and argumentative conference, and then the Hierophant said, “You appear to be suffering from a broken heart.”

“I think I will die!” said Aesma.

“I assure you, you will not,” said the Hierophant, with very little sympathy. “How did you come by this condition?”

“I found a husband, as you asked,” said Aesma, “but he will not take me!”

A great discordant cry went up then among the priests, and they threw themselves into furious debate. Some of them wanted Aesma out by the stave immediately, no matter the truth of her words. Others could not believe that such a wicked being could find love. But the sentiment that won out in the end was the rather self indulgent and completely wrong notion that if Aesma had indeed found a husband, she would be far better served by having a man to reign in her wanton and vile habits. The priests were very firm in their belief that the moral authority of a good husband could tease out an enlightened womanly virtue from even the most wretched of creatures, and therefore they ceased to see Aesma as a base and vile creature beyond redemption, and began to see her as a great conquest and affirmation of their own righteousness. They began to imagine in their enlightened minds the power and prestige of a tame and demure Aesma, the most infamous and despised of goddesses. This was a fantastic mistake.

“Aesma Ten Yondam,” said the Hierophant, “Do you truly desire a husband? Have you found such a man, with a nature to guard against your womanly vice? The priests of this good and holy temple can hardly believe that you have.”

“I have!” protested Aesma, and wiped her eyes clean of fire, “What should I do?”

“You must promise to submit to his superior will,” said the stern Hierophant. “It is accepted in this society that a woman should do three things for her husband: tend to his meals, darn his clothing, and obey his every command without question. In return he will be your protector, guide, and counselor, and will not lift his hand against you in violence. Go to your prospective husband and promise him these things, and he will surely take you as a wife.”

Aesma was very tempted to beat up the Hierophant, for she hated commandments, and she hated things that came in threes. But for once in her life, her desperate desire for a husband overrode her natural instinct to apply violence directly to her problems. This was very uncomfortable for her, but Aesma’s desire was the strongest among all divinities, for she was the Master of Want. So while the priests saw her twitch at their commandments and readied their staves in fear, Aesma merely knelt and bowed her head quite awkwardly, for she was unused to such things. “I will do as you say,” she said, and in quavering voice recounted the things the Hierophant had said to her.

The priests were ecstatic. “Go and bring your husband here,” they said, “And we will join you in holy matrimony, under the light of the great Sun Disc.” They were very firm in their belief that a great moral victory had been won, and saw Aesma off with great pride and vigor as she grabbed a passing sunbeam and rode it all the way back to the Crucible of Punishment.”

— Aesma and the Red Eyed King (chapter three)

Preachy, in all the ways that a bunch of 70's-80's vintage feminist parables I've read were. The fictional historical context that this version of this story was written in would really interest me to know. It's also a testament to the real life author's skill that I'm attributing this to his fictional counterpart rather than himself. Moving on.

“Aesma was in such a great rush when she arrived at the battered iron gates of the Crucible that she made a very ungainly landing and sent the whole fortress swaying side to side. She rushed through its dreary halls, thick with the howling of the evil beings imprisoned within, and arrived with great haste at the tiny red-hot cage of the Red Eyed King.
“I’ve come back!” gasped Aesma, out of breath.

“What are you doing?” said the Red-Eyed King, for indeed he saw Aesma was trying to accomplish something that she seemed to greatly struggle with.

“I’m trying to prostrate myself,” said Aesma. It took her the better part of the morning, and even then she could only manage it for five seconds at a time. But in those five seconds she said this: “I promise you that if I become your wife, I will tend to your meals, and darn your clothing, and obey your every command without question. In return, you must be my protector, guide, and counselor, and you must not lift your hand against me in violence.”

The King mulled this offer over, and saw that there were many fine things for him to exploit, for his wicked mind was as twisted as Aesma’s, and he too could bend the world into shapes to his choosing. This was the source of his power.

“I accept,” he said, and his evil red eyes burned ever brighter. Aesma could barely contain herself, and jumped for joy, which only sent the entire fortress swaying and shaking more violently. “What should I do, oh husband of mine?” said Aesma. “Let me out of this cage,” said the Red Eyed King. So Aesma struck the cage with all her might, and bent the bars asunder with a shower of sparks. The bars were very hard and white hot, and Aesma was burned quite badly, but Aesma was so love-struck she hardly noticed.

“Ah, I am so weak,” whispered the Red Eyed King as Aesma carried him out of the cage. And Aesma saw that this was true, for the King’s form was charred and pitifully thin from his confinement, so that he could barely stand. She cradled him and fussed over him. “Oh what I can I do for thee, my husband?” she said, desperate for his affection. “Please make for me my favorite meal,” said the Red Eyed King.

“Your favorite meal?” said Aesma, who hadn’t anticipated ever having to actually cook.

“Yes,” said the Red Eyed King, and his eyes flashed with an evil glare. “It is a plum from YISUN’s private garden. I used to eat them all the time when I was free, and I crave their sweetness now. If it is thy wish to be my wife, then that is the succor I crave.”

“Oh, that’s easy!” said Aesma, who was privately very relieved she wouldn’t have to cook, and didn’t give one thought to what the king had asked for. For the plums of YISUN’s garden could grant eternal life, and their juices nourished the flame of the body to an immense, roaring brightness, so that any who ate one would be almost impermeable to harm. Aesma dropped the Red Eyed King with very little ceremony and leapt to it, and very shortly she had returned with a glistening plum from YISUN’s garden, plump and ripe. Normally the garden was guarded by a red ten-antlered buck, who was resolute in his duty, exceedingly calm, and the most powerful fighter in the universe, for the wide trunks of the plum trees were littered with the bones of his foes. But when Aesma had arrived there and asked for a plum to please her husband, the buck had been so taken aback by the notion of Aesma submitting to marriage that he was completely stunned for a whole three seconds, which was more than enough time for Aesma to snatch a plum and leap out.

“Ah, excellent,” said the Red Eyed King, “Now feed it to me, wife.” And Aesma did, bit by bit. And bit by bit, the Red Eyed King fleshed out, and the char and scabs fell away from his flesh, and his wounds sealed, and he grew more and more in stature until he stood three times Aesma’s height. And Aesma saw that he was a tyrant king with night-blue skin and a wild mane of hair like a tangle of shadows, and great fangs and tusks jutting from his black lips. His nails were wicked claws, his arms were like corded iron, and his hands were large so as to easily snap men’s necks. For this reason Aesma fell in love just a little bit more.

“Oh but husband,” said Aesma, blushing and giggling, “You are quite naked.” She was thoroughly enjoying being a wife so far.

“Yes,” boomed the King, and gave a mighty evil laugh. “Wife, attend me!”

“Oh what can I do for thee, my husband?” said Aesma. “Mend my clothing!” commanded the Red Eyed King, “I had one time a hauberk made from the scales of the Ur-serpent that coils beneath the ash of the world. The feathers of the screaming Roc I took for my mantle, my shield was of the tail-hide of the Leviathan that haunts the deep, and my sword was carved from the bone that is found in the heart of a World Tree.” This was all a fantastic lie, of course, for the King had never had such fine or rare clothing. And if he had been girded in such armament, so empowered by the plum he had eaten, the Gods of justice would never have had any hope at all of defeating him in battle. He would have laid such waste to the universe had never been seen before, and burnt it to a cinder, so that his red eyes could lay their baleful gaze on only smoldering ashes. This was his one and true desire, for like Aesma, he was an idiot and did not understand the true nature of Royalty.

Aesma, of course, did not detect his hidden intentions, for she was smitten with love. “At once, my husband!” she said, almost tearful in her joy, and strode off to gather what she could. She was so focused in her matrimonial bliss that she scarcely gave any thought to the monumental scale of the tasks she was accomplishing. First she dug until she found and tugged upon the tail of the mighty Ur-Serpent, whose body was thicker around than a city. Yanking it from the earth, she wrestled with it for three days, during which she bashed enough scales from its body for her purpose. Then she dove into the black and limitless ocean, and swam until she found the leathery and ancient Leviathan of the deep. Aesma was very bad at fighting underwater, and couldn’t hold her breath for very long, so the battle went very poorly for her at first. But very shortly, she became so fed up that she summoned a score of transcendental fist arts and rained such horrific blows upon the water around her that she beat it back for a full day, turning the bottom of the ocean into dry land for a short while. The Leviathan was very slow on land, so Aesma bludgeoned it into unconsciousness and stole it’s tail while it slept.

Next Aesma tracked the Roc, and clung to its back for a full week while it pecked her viciously, but she was able to pluck enough feathers to make a fine mantle. Then she rode her chariot to the edge of the universe, and fought through the howling winds, the scouring cold, and the limitless demons that poured in from the edge of existence there. And after a harrowing journey, she was able to hack out a heart-slice of the fourth World Tree that held up creation using a vorpal shard of void-ice. The tree was mighty enough to withstand its mutilation, and it recovered in time. But until that time it was injured enough to bow, just a little, so for a while an entire corner of the universe sagged quite terribly. This caused great consternation in YISUN’s speaking house and among the multitudes of star-gazers, astronomers, sorcerers, and techno-saints that measured such things, but Aesma was scarcely aware of this. In a fervor, she fled to Koss’s workshop and stole his lesser chisel when he wasn’t looking. Then she crouched over a public hearth for a full week and banged her husband’s armaments into shape.

When Aesma returned, she was truly a terrible sight. Her skin was puckered and swollen from the venom of the world serpent, she was frost burned from her trip to the edge of the world, and she was bitten and punctured all over from her great battle. But she was beaming, for she was still terribly lovesick, and in her arms she had a great hauberk of shimmering dark scales, a glorious feather-mantle, a mighty hide shield, and a white and curved sword carved from the iron-hard heartwood of the world tree.

“Here is your armament, O husband,” she said, out of breath and beaming with joy. “This is a sword that will cut thirty six ways at once!”

The king was greatly pleased at the gullibility of this poor fool, and he donned his impermeable garb.

“Oh what else can I do for thee, my husband?” said Aesma, totally consumed with love.

“I am not thy husband yet,” said the satisfied King. “I think it is time for my return to the surface world. Who are the sorry fools that sent thee?”

“Oh yes, I almost forgot!” said Aesma, prancing about in joy, “Will you return to the Temple of the Disc of the Sun with me and join me in marriage? We can have a massive wedding ceremony and I’ll invite everyone in YISUN’s speaking house to attend. No, everyone in creation! We can have drinking, and dancing, and fighting, and fighting and dancing, and afterwards I can build us a great big house and we can have lots of magnificent and gigantic children!”

“Yes, let us attend this ceremony,” said the King. “Make of thee a beast I can mount and we will be there promptly.” And Aesma did. She turned herself into a massive black beast with wings of the darkling sky and talons the size of a man. And the king sat astride her back and rode her out of the pit, his red eyes flashing the entire way.”

— Quote Source

The "make of thee a beast I can mount" part is what really made the applicability of this story to the comic clear to me. It's just that the framing of the "marriage" threw me off at first.

It's not a paralel to Nadia's first meeting withy Hastet. Nadia's account of how he married her may or may not be entirely truthful, but it's the only version we've got, and it doesn't match this Aesma story at all. What it DOES parallel is Nadia's second "marriage" to her late husband, in his new form with new things to offer. The fruit of immortality making their way into the story in some capacity was a nice touch.

In the beginning, Aesma is thirsty and exhausted. That's elderly Mottom, who's just killed or transformed Hastet. She has immense power, including the ability to carry the tree around on a palace-ship powered by her will (a beast he can mount), but she's been conditioned to fear and hate her own aging, and is looking for something to quench that need for youth. The buried, evil thing underground can be raised up to give her what she thinks she needs, but only if she plunders the universe to feed and fatten it. It's her power doing all the heavy lifting, but he's the one calling the shots. A multiversal kingdom ruled by a stomach and administrated by a goddess who has nothing better to do than feed it.

The priests' denial of Aesma's guilt and culpability for her many misdeeds correlates pretty well with Mottom's victim complex. She blames Hastet for what she's become, even though she has agency and he in his tree form really doesn't.

“So it was that the Red Eyed King rode Aesma through star-winds and yawning gulfs of space-time to where the Temple of the Disc of the Sun stood glowing in its stately majesty. And when Aesma landed with the King astride her back, the priests from the temple marched out from between its columns in graceful stride. Their aprons were neatly pressed, and their collars were starched and spotless, and their gleaming rods of office rapped out a pleasing synchronous pattern as they came down the temple steps. For indeed, the priests were expecting Aesma. Their hearts were full of the pride of their victory, and anticipation to see what manner of man had conquered Aesma the Wicked so thoroughly. Already they had spread the word of Aesma’s forthcoming wedding widely across the world, and it had become table talk across all creation in short order. The temple at that time was for that very reason bustling with activity. Worshippers, gossips, and philosophers alike had all come to see the triumph of order, reason, and light over womanly discord, darkness, and wantonness.

But as the priests descended into the temple courtyard, they beheld that the throng gathered there around the new arrivals was recoiling in horror. There was no proud and virtuous man standing there, for as the King dismounted, and as he stood to his full monstrous height, the priests beheld that he he had a pure and perfect aspect of a destroyer. And at once, all their notions of victory melted away, for victory itself is of course a ridiculous notion.

“What is the meaning of this?” boomed the Hierophant.

Aesma made of herself a woman-shape again, and dusted herself off. “I have done as you said, oh great teacher!” she said, throwing herself to the dirt in joy. “It is so grand and great to be submissive! I have brought my husband meals, and darned his clothing, and he has even mounted me across the stars.” She blushed and looked demure as well as she could, which was to say quite terribly. “Now I am here to be joined in holy matrimony, and to submit to the will of my husband, as you have asked of me!”

“What has overcome you?” said the Hierophant, aghast.

“It’s love, I think!” said Aesma, “Isn’t it wonderful?”

The priests racked their staves against the King, and charged with a mighty battle cry. But the king swept up his shield, which was a thousand times heavier than stone, and their attack was dashed against it like water breaking on a cliff.

“I must thank you for inspiring this poor fool to free me from my long imprisonment,” said the King, in his voice like drifting ash. Aesma was too dazed to notice being called a fool and merely gazed upon the King through tears of admiration.

“Now that I’m free,” said the King, “These eyes of mine see a world even more putrid and insipid than in ages past. I ache for its destruction, and since I only deal in fire, fire shall by thy reward.” The king pulled his Roc-feather mantle tight about him, and drew into him all the dread powers and venoms of the night. He invoked his war forms of which he had ninety and two, enclothed himself in roiling smoke, and crowned himself with cinders. Planting his feet, he grew to such monstrous size that his flame-circled brow seared the clouds, and the earth shook and shuddered with his mighty inhalations. The crowd at the temple scattered before his majesty, and black clouds obscured the light of the Great Sun Disc as the king reached out with taloned hand and crushed it into a thousand splinters. The light and power of the Disc was exceptionally potent – a great beacon of strength and wisdom that had drawn in pilgrims from distant empires to bathe in its majesty. For this reason it seared the king just a little when he crushed it with his hand, but then its light was snuffed and it fell in shards to the earth. As an oily night fell upon the land about, the virtuous and manly priests of the Temple knew immediately that they had made a terrible mistake.

“Wife,” roared the king, in a voice that seared the mountain tops far away, “Bring my mine sword!”

And Aesma brought the king his massive sword of bone, that could cut thirty six ways at once, and he enwreathed himself in a dread black fire that could burn up the land, and immediately set about his rampage. First, he smashed aside the priests and roaming saints that came up to defend the temple, for their staves and starched aprons could do naught but turn to char beneath his onslaught. He toppled the white and stately columns of the Temple and he burned the altars to cinders with the mere heat from his body. Most of the crowd and congregation was slaughtered and torn to bits from the gale of his passing, and the Temple was consumed by hellish flame.

So satisfied with his work, the King turned his red gaze away from the temple, and found all the land about unspoiled and pure, which offended him greatly. He took five great strides across the land, and each stride burned a forest up and smashed its trees to matchsticks. On his fifth stride, he found the great domain of the king Mavamatri Io, which was a shining white city that had long revered the great Sun Disc, with orderly avenues and leafy boulevards of gilded paving stones. As they saw the King approach, the city guard blew the great horn of defense, and to its clarion call rallied five thousand men at arms in armor made from gleaming fish scales, whose chariots were drawn by horses shod in silver. The warriors of that city could draw a bow heavier than any man in five hundred kingdoms, and they were brave and righteous men, bearded and muscled from toil and training. They loosed upon the King their shafts, but once again he drew up his bulwark and dashed the rain of arrows into a pitiful shower.

The King struck out with his sword that cut thirty six ways, and it cut the air with a fierce and awful wind that blew the walls of the city asunder and killed seven hundred men at once. And in very short order, the King’s red gaze beheld only ashes were the great city had stood, and he was pleased. Aesma, for her part, was so lovesick that she could only sit in stunned admiration in the smoking ruins of the temple and watch as her would-be husband lay waste to the land about. But very shortly, it occurred to her that the marriage ceremony would still have to take place, so she staggered to her feet and skipped after the King, following the wake of his destruction.

And indeed, that wake grew very large indeed. On the first day of his rampage, the King razed ten cities to the ground, and slew a score of demigods. On the third, he had razed thirty five cities, and slew a hundred and thirty two demigods, and thrown twenty temples into ruin. And by the seventh day, he had razed ninety five cities, slew five hundred and sixty demigods, boiled seven seas to dust, burned the College of Stars to the ground, set alight the Ulaptis river, and slaughtered the god Un-Utram in single combat. And each day, Aesma would follow along, giddy with love, mend his battle-worn armament, sing his praises. But as the sun grew low and the only light was from the cities burning to the ground around the King, Aesma would tug at his ankle and say, “Oh husband of mine, will you come back to the temple with me? Have you forgotten our ceremony?”

This grew extremely vexing to the King, who truly cared little for Aesma and could harbor nothing so infinitely complex as love in his small and dull heart. And by fits and starts, the King made the exact same mistake as the priests of the Temple. He began to relish in his conquest, and he grew assured in his victory, for the swathe of carnage and devastation that the King had carved was visible even from YISUN’s speaking house, and it’s smoke was so thick that it blotted out the sun for near half of creation. Grand and imperious armies rallied against the King, and were dashed to pieces upon his armor, and everywhere he went he left a sea of dying men and horses. Even the meta-dimensional halls and transcendent planar-estates of the Gods began to pay attention to the King, and rallied their celestial hosts. War gods girded their loins and clad themselves in steaming armor and summoned their sword arts for battle. The Great Gods of Justice summoned the minor Gods of Justice from where they were harassing Ogam, and together they shouldered their spears and clothed themselves in molten law, and marched for the battlefield.

But even the Gods themselves could do little but slow down the King’s ferocious rampage. For battle as they might, they were unable to strike a single wound against the King, who was encased in his invulnerable armament. And the King did not sleep or tire, for his hatred of creation and his burning rage against the insipid beauty of the universe gave him the awful power of Want, which filled his limbs with unstoppable force. He shattered the smoking spears of the Gods of Justice, and threw down the Gods of Law with a strike from his shield, and did battle with Sivran, God of Conquest, for seven and one days before Sivran retired to his palanquin from exhaustion.

So indeed, the King’s victory seemed assured. And it was there at the height of his conquest that he decided to rid himself of Aesma.

“Oh husband of mine, won’t you come back to the temple with me?” said lovestruck Aesma, for the twentieth time. The King looked at her with his terrible red eyes and said, “Get thee gone, gnat! Thou hast served thy purpose, now play in the ashes a while!” And he took his sword that could cut thirty six ways and smote Aesma with a blow so mighty that it sent her hurtling across the world and blew all the love clean out of her. When Aesma landed, she was pouring tears again. She staggered around, sobbing, until she found herself trudging through the ashes of the Temple of the Disc of the Sun. By this point she had been crying for a good day and a half, so her eyes were very sore and blurry with fiery tears. But she could see just well enough that she made out the sorry and filthy figure of the Hierophant of the Temple, who was poking through the smoking mess that had been the mighty congregation hall with what remained of his staff of office.

“Oh teacher!” sobbed Aesma, and shook the poor Hierophant from side to side, “I did what you asked! I followed all the rules of your temple! Is it because I’m too wicked that I must be punished so?”

“You awful, wretched creature!” shrieked the Hierophant in rage, “Look at what your foolishness has wrought! Get up and set this right at once!”

“Oh I was struck by my husband,” said Aesma, “And now my heart is aflame with pain!” And she sobbed and rolled around in self-pity, covering herself in ashes and moaning. The immediately Hierophant saw that he had made a second, and far greater mistake than getting Aesma to marry in the first place. By trying to tame Aesma, he had inadvertently removed one of the only weapons that could be relied on to trounce pompous fools such as the Red Eyed King with any degree of reliability.

“Get up!” sputtered the Hierophant, “You have to fight!”

“Oh but that’s against the rules!” sobbed Aesma.

“You useless moron!” said the Hierophant, “The great Disc of the Sun is shattered! This temple is brought to ruin, and the world will ne’er see its like again, even in the whole history of creation! The stars themselves burn with the evil you have unleashed! Who cares if you were struck?”

It was true that the Temple would never return. But Aesma was not listening, for a sudden thought had hit her like a stone, and she stood up.

“Say!” she said, nurturing a growing anger, “If my husband strikes me, doesn’t that break our marriage vows?”

“You absolute dolt!” said the Hierophant, “You haven’t even been married yet!”

“Oh!” said Aesma, standing up, and becoming herself again. “I’ll beat him to a pulp!” She smacked the Hierophant for good measure, and felt fantastic. Then she set off in a dead sprint through the charred and smoldering landscape to where the Red Eyed King stood, wreathed in ruinous power, and laying waste to the world about him with great bolts of black fire and scorching ash. Five hundred gods were doing furious battle with him, and the light of their burning combat obscured the sky itself. Aesma instantly filled to the brim with an unstoppable berserk rage upon seeing his wicked face, and she began to tantrum, as was her custom.

“You!” she screamed, and laid hand upon the nearest thing to her, which was a large rock. She hurled it with tremendous force, where it struck the King in the thigh and made hardly a dent. Aesma was so angry, she turned to the next largest thing she could find, which was a stray horse. The horse was a well-bred steed that had once pulled the chariot of Mantos Am, God of Tax Law, but Aesma cared very little. She gripped the horse by its mane and flung it bodily at the king. It bounced of his thigh and he barely turned from his heated combat.

This so enraged Aesma that she turned to the next largest thing she could find, which was a boat – a mighty war barge a hundred paces long or more that had washed ashore when the river was vaporized by the king’s passing. She flung it at the king with terrifying force, and it glanced off the back of his hauberk and shattered into a thousand splinters of wood. This got the king to turn a little in Aesma’s direction, but at that point he gave her so little regard, so enthralled by victory as he was, that he spared here only the tiniest sliver of a sneer before turning back to his fight and swatting three Gods of war out of the sky with a swing of his hand.

Aesma couldn’t take it at that point. She dug her fingers in the earth, and with a mighty heave, flung part of the entire battlefield at the King. It struck the king square in the shoulder, and knocked him off balance as clods of earth, men, horses, and errant war machines went flying everywhere.

“What are you doing, miserable creature,” said the King. He threw off his combatants and turned to face her, and aligned all his aspects of war and mastery, armor states, and vorpal blade arts in her direction. He was an awe-inspiring sight.

“I think you’re the handsomest man I’ve ever met,” said Aesma, and she was quite sincere, “And you’ve got such a great work ethic! But you struck me with that sword that cuts thirty six ways, and more importantly you let my love for you pour out of me and die cold and withered on the floor. And that I cannot forgive!” She leapt at the king, and summoned up her destroyer form, and rained such ferocious blows upon him that the other five hundred Gods made a circle of their shields and gave her wide berth. But the King was a mighty warrior, and would not yield, so clothed in the invulnerable armor that Aesma had made for him. Any other warrior would have shriveled in dismay at the impossibility of victory in such a situation. It quickly became apparent that Aesma could not beat the Red Eyed King in battle. He was equally as fast as her, better trained, and his war aspects were more deadly. Most of Aesma’s killing blows bounced harmlessly off his shield, while others were rebuffed by the scales of his hauberk.

But Aesma did not cling to victory. Her lack of success merely filled her with a hot and infinite rage.

With a free hand, she groped around until she found the largest object she could find, which happened to a nearby mountain, and with impossible strength she tore it up by the root and dashed it across the Red Eyed King’s shield. The mountain shattered with a colossal rumble and the King was thrown back, but still he would not yield. So Aesma found the next largest object she could find. She raised herself up and reached into the sky and tore a passing moon from it’s orbit. And as the King staggered back from the mountain blow, Aesma ripped the moon molten hot through the atmosphere, and smashed it down into the King’s sword. Moon and sword both were blown into a million pieces, and the battlefield was rent asunder and turned into a maelstrom of screaming men, and gods, and horses, and chunks of stone and clouds of earth. Up and down ceased to have meaning, and the stars were blotted out by the cloud of destruction. But still the King would not yield.

So Aesma reached even further out, and pulled stars, one by one, and hurled them at the King. And the King hunched low and charged at Aesma through their fiery trails as they hurtled to earth in great explosions. He kept coming, even as his shield was blown into pieces, and gripped Aesma by the shoulders, so Aesma grabbed an Eye of Night, which was a star so large it had broken through space-time and collapsed into a hole infinitely more massive. She bashed the king over the head with it, and he was stunned and bloodied, but managed to knock it away from Aesma, where it flew off and devoured a nearby lunar kingdom.

“Yield!” said Aesma. But the King would not yield. He was exceedingly foolish, and still clung to his dreams of conquest. This allowed fear of losing to make its way in his limbs, which poisoned his grip. Instead of snapping Aesma’s neck, as he should have easily done, she instead squirmed out of his hold.

It was exactly then that Aesma did a truly impossible thing, since by then she was thoroughly fed up. She flexed her fingers, and planted her feet, an inhaled a mighty gale of breath, and reached out to grab the fabric of the world itself. And with a deafening roar, she lifted, and the entirety of creation shook.

“What are you doing?” said the King, aghast. And the other Gods who were hurled too and fro through that chaotic battlefield echoed his cry, for all could feel it.

“I’m going to lift the Wheel and beat you over the head with it until you give up!” puffed Aesma.

And the King saw that this was true. Aesma had indeed lifted the Wheel. He knew then that he had lost utterly and completely, and yielded. He lay down his shattered sword, and shuffled off his battered scale hauberk, and dispersed his dread aspect. If there was anything to be said about him further, it was that he was a graceful loser.

Even still, it took some convincing by the five hundred other Gods and the celestial hosts to get Aesma to put down the universe, but eventually she did. She remained upset all the while the King was escorted back to the Crucible of Punishment and locked inside an even tighter cage, and only cheered up once the key was turned in the lock, removed, and melted. Aesma was brought before Payam, who was foremost in YISUN’s Speaking House in those days, and sentenced to a hundred days as a scullery maid as punishment. Strangely, Aesma seemed rather meek about the whole affair and accepted her punishment gracefully as long as she was brought wine once in a while.

“You seem changed, Aesma ten Yondam,” said Payam to Aesma.

“I’m done with husbands,” said Aesma, who was despondent. “I think it’s time to grow up.”

“Oh?” said Payam, with great concern. The other Gods in YISUN’s speaking house also leaned in closely at this, for they were very worried at what could possibly go wrong next.

“Yes,” said Aesma, “I’m getting a dog.””

— Aesma and the Red Eyed King (chapter four)

Well. Aesma actually did learn something this time, though it might not have stuck.

Mottom gets slapped by Killy on the same page where this last chapter appears. Unfortunately, it didn't seem to have snapped her out of it. Granted, in the Aesma story "one hundred days as a scullery maid" is still very much a downplaying of Aesma's culpability. She chose to be the Red Eyed King's tool. She knew what he was using her to do. When he displeased her personally, she stopped. Aesma is not the victim in this story. Or at least, not mostly.

It also relates to the "grand enemy called I" concept. Defeating the Red Eyed King in combat was never the dramatic question. The question was if Aesma would decide to. Really, with all of his power coming from her efforts, you could say that he was more just an extension of her than anything else.

Killy rejects the offer outright, mirroring Aesma's triumph without having to cause the damage that preceded it. Mottom caused the damage, and I don't think she'd going to have learned anything good. Like Zoss said, you can always choose to not do what you've been told and conditioned to do; that's what distinguishes true Royalty.