《Breathe – an Isekai, LitRPG, cultivation adventure》


 1. Arc 1: Freshly Isekai’d

    He awoke at a funeral. It had been hard to make sense of at first, but the solemn air, the preaching figure, and the repeated mentions of God''s embrace for the dearly departed had helped confirm his suspicion.


    He assumed it was his own funeral. It would only make sense - a very logical conclusion. The last thing he remembered was the impression of drowning: this intractable feeling of choking, trying to take in air but finding none. The coughing had been incessant, with secretions stuck deep in his lungs, refusing to clear out. The only sounds surrounding him had been those of alarms and shouts, cold and efficient. The memory of his helplessness was imprinted in his mind. He recalled being stuck in his body without any reprieve in sight, with fatigue slowly overcoming his will to live as seconds passed.


    Or had he been choking on smoke instead? A different image had sparked in his head. A scene from his point of view, of a compacted earth floor slowly passing under him, illuminated by nearby flames. He remembered his throat being parched and tight as he coughed on ashes. The fire had gained on him, the blaze licking his feet while screams battered his eardrums, and hoofs almost trampled him.


    Whichever sequence he preferred, the ending was clear: death. His, to be precise. A horrible, breathless death, steeped in panic and pain. His last moments had been a constant fight for survival. An exercise of will doomed to fail by the ruthless circumstances. Considering where he was, the inevitable had happened. He had failed to survive despite trying his hardest to live, despite his desperate cling to life. Death had finally welcomed him in their bittersweet embrace.


    He took a look around him and noticed how most faces were unfamiliar. Actually, all faces present belonged to strangers. Weird. Wasn''t a funeral supposed to gather loved ones, friends, and family of the deceased? While he had never been a particularly popular guy-hard to be when one spent most of his life sick in bed - he would have at least expected his favourite nurse to show up. To be abandoned even at his own funeral was a bit much. His estranged grandparents should have shown up, for appearance''s sake at the very least. Their precious reputation should have forced them to fake the bare minimum of consideration due to their lone grandson''s death.


    Oh well, nothing to do about it. Hard to act from the afterlife.


    Centering himself, he was pleasantly surprised by how calm he remained. He felt somewhat numb, emotionally speaking. Death wasn''t that bad after all. Deceptively not that different from living. He was not even cold. He was quite warm in fact - for a dead guy at least. And sweaty. And a little hungry. Not enough to consider himself in the "ravaging ghoul" category of undead, but a little concerning. He had never envisioned himself as someone at risk of becoming a fantastical evil entity, but maybe that was a mistake. Maybe he was the exact type of person who later became a horrible undead monster. Clearly, he needed to work on his introspective skills...


    Guess you keep on learning about yourself, even when your life is over, he surmised.


    Nonetheless, he would prefer to avoid such a transformation. Becoming an all-devouring ghost did not appeal to his sensibilities. He did not wish to ponder the associated moral dilemmas. Vegan versus meat-eating - cute animals and environment against deliciousness - was as much ethics as he could take. He did not need to add unhinged consumption of sapient beings to the things he had to think about. He would aim to dodge devolving into any type of human-eating entity with all of his meagre power.


    Looking around, he realized the church, or perhaps it was a temple¨Cnot like he knew the difference- was odd. He had expected his service to be in a church, a synagogue or a boring and basic funeral home''s non-denominated space. Neither he nor his late parents had been religious, but one of those would have made sense, culturally speaking. This edifice, however, was none of the above. He did not recognize what kind of spiritual building he was in.


    The bizarre building''s inside was clad in shades of white, gold, and touches of purple. It looked quite fancy. The nine-sided, even shape of the main room was pleasing to the eyes, especially with the abundant natural light present. Gentle sunlight entered through stained-glass mosaics set in the domed ceiling. Gold and white rays descended on the room, adding an ethereal feel to the dour ceremony.


    The people in attendance were murmuring all around him. Their low chatter made a subtle buzz in the background of the priest''s chanting. It gave a mildly dissonant effect, cutting with the solemnity of the event.


    Looking further, he noticed everyone, without exception, was dressed in light gray. No sombre suit in sight. Instead, men wore embroidered kaftans over robes with flowing sleeves, and a similar outfit for the women, with the kaftans replaced by shorter, corset-like belts with extravagant over skirts attached. No colour other than light gray was seen. Not even black or white, the only "funeral appropriate" shades he knew of. Unexpected. Although he had to admit he had never researched other cultures'' funerary customs. Regardless, the monochrome impact of the crowd managed to awe him for a moment.


    He honed in on the priest again. The officiant''s attire was undoubtedly the most striking, so flamboyant was he. He had donned a golden robe threaded with white, shimmering silk thread. His white overgarment was inversely embroidered with gold. Disproportionate shoulder pads and a stiff, flared bottom gave an exaggerated and sharp hourglass effect. The priest''s attire could also be described as a borderline successful marriage between a 1980s power suit and ancient Chinese emperor garb. As he looked at it, he found it less and less odd, and more and more fashion-toward. Bold even.


    Was this setup a governmental attempt to, in a weird way, compensate for the lack of love at the end of his life? Did they decide, in their oh-so-grand wisdom and good intentions, to invent flashy new traditions for lonely foster kids, especially chronically sick ones? Depressing, it was all so depressing, he...


    "Myrkas? Myrkas! Are you there?" a feminine voice screamed, next to his ear.


    Surprised, he turned to his right. The girl standing next to him looked frazzled. She had grabbed his shoulder and was shaking it gently, as if afraid to hurt him. Her hazel eyes stared straight into his own, large and unblinking. It took him a moment to process. Up until then, he had been convinced no one could see or touch him. He assumed he was a ghost, after all.


    He examined her closer. He could detect a mix of fear and hope on her visage. As if she had a wish she held dear, but was afraid it would never come true, just missing the mark. An eternity passed while they gazed at each other, both bewildered. Then relief, tremendous relief fell upon her, and a weight visibly vanished from her shoulders, She had found whatever it was she had searched for in his eyes. A luminous smile instantly transformed her entire demeanour.


    "Oh Myrkas, you are finally back! I was so scared you''d be lost forever. That you''d stay like that... You have no idea how scared I was, how worried. You were so empty. You would not answer. You barely ate or drank. It was as if the ashes we recovered you from, still kept buried whatever spark you had left. Like what made you you had been burned away," she said, with complete disregard for the ongoing ceremonies.


    She turned silent then and, without further warning, proceeded to bear-hug him. She threw her arms around him and crushed his head to her sternum in a smothering embrace.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    Utterly confused, Myrkas - apparently his name- froze. The skinny girl - young woman? - had clearly recognized him. He sensed he should have known her. The name she called him, Myrkas, wasn''t exactly right, but it wasn''t wrong either. It could very well be his name, not like he knew any better.


    Wait, did he not know his own name? Wasn''t a first name a pretty basic thing to know? The exact manner of his - presumed- death, he could understand forgetting. Trauma response and all that. But his own name though, was going too far. Something was wrong, very very wrong.


    Unaware of his sudden existential crisis, the young woman continued to squeeze him to her chest, unfortunately restricting his breathing in her unbound enthusiasm.


    As panic surged. Myrkas - he would roll with it for now - pushed her away. Gasping for air, he had no time to compose himself before getting surrounded by the crowd. In an instant, gawkers flooded him from all around. A chorus of "Ohhh" and "Aaahh" and "Thank Allrikh" assaulted his eardrums. Hands grabbed him. Prayers rose. Bodies collided with his own. Myrkas could not manage. His breathing quickened along with his heart rate, the beating organ attempting to escape his chest. His vision darkened, becoming tunnel-like. He barely had time to acknowledge how alive he felt for a supposedly dead man before blissful relief rushed over. Myrkas had passed out.


    ¨C¨C¨C


    "Silence," the bass voice resounded inside the temple.


    People quieted as the imposing middle-aged man parted the crowd and reached the collapsed boy. Carefully, he cradled Myrkas in his darkly tanned arms.


    "Nirrina, come girl," he ordered, before leaving the main room through a side door hidden behind drapes. Few heard his whispered "worse than a pack of vultures, the lot of them" as he left.


    The girl, Nirrina, half-walked, half-ran after him. She kept her eyes low, conscious of the ongoing murmurs in the crowd. The ceremony had been irrevocably interrupted. The priest paused, able to take a hint. How could he proceed when the front-row guests - the remaining family of the deceased - were leaving for a side room? The holy man did not seem overly upset by this unexpected break in his duties. It might had to do with the clergyman''s known penchant for stiff drinks at any hour. Rumour was he hid expensive Eternal Willow Wine under his robes at all times.


    While the ceremony came to a halt, Nirrina sat quietly next to an unconscious Myrkas. The same imposing man who had quieted everyone sighed in a corner as he rummaged through his bag. No words were exchanged between the two. The near silence in the room weighed heavily on Nirrina''s spirit, the muffled brouhaha seeping in from the main room insufficient to distract her.


    She occupied herself as best she could, laying a fresh, damp cloth on the boy''s forehead. She worried her bottom lip as she looked at him. Her short-lived elation upon his awakening was all but forgotten. Nirrina felt powerless, again, at the precipice of despair. She had lost too much in too short a time. She knew she could rebuild her life - she was still young, barely eighteen. She had time if little resources. But she did not want to do it alone, not again. And the only person in the world she had a true connection to, her only family, lay unconscious next to her.


    She had so hoped her prayers had been answered when his gaze had lit up back there. When Myrkas had looked around, "seeing," for the first time in two long weeks. It had lasted but a moment. Now, they were back to square one.


    And that useless uncle of his was still not doing anything. Stuck in a corner, ceaselessly muttering, shifting through powders, pills, and concoctions but never actually trying anything. What a reputed alchemist he was, leaving his only living relative in a catatonic state.


    Myrkas was only twelve, for Allrikh''s sake. He was so young, so full of promise. And all that fool of an alchemist could do was lock himself in his workshop and worry endlessly about " deviations," "anomalies," "twisted flux," and "soul cracks," whatever those meant. Myrkas'' uncle had shelved everything he had made these past two weeks, from potions to pills to elixirs. Even that one weirdly shaped candle had been shelved, never to be lit.


    The pathetic man did not dare look at his own nephew. Myrkas was the last of the Hakhmir line, the fool''s only blood left, his only heir. It should mean something. Prompt the alchemist to save his lineage at minimum, bring him to try something, anything to save Myrkas. That old man had no other options.


    Unless... unless he finally decided to use her key and unlock her belt, as was his right. Such was Nirrina''s fate, as Myrkas'' uncle had "inherited" her through this tragedy. But she preferred not to think about that. Myrkas needed her attention and care, everything else would wait. She would be there for him like he had been for her, her only ray of sunshine in his father''s house over the past two years. She would get back her sweet, serious Myrkassa.


    He will wake up again, he will. Soon, or I swear I will find a way to make that useless uncle of his act. No matter the price I pay. I swear on my face, may I be damned to the deepest hells if I fail, Nirrina promised herself.


    For the second time that day, he awoke at his funeral. Wait. Scratch that. Rewind, restart. A funeral, not his. Myrkas felt way too alive to be dead. Dead people did not faint from panic attacks. They also did not possess a beating heart. It was pure logic. One needed to be alive for their heart to speed up. No one had ever heard of fainting ghosts, vampires or zombies.


    Not that those were actually real but whatever, semantics, Myrkas snarked inward.


    Hence, Myrkas had concluded he was very much alive. And he could breathe, truly breathe. Big gulps of air easily flew in and out his airways, without any mucous rattling in his chest or the need for an oxygen mask to blast in his face. Myrkas did not need to sit forward with a desperate hold on his knees, muscles shaking with effort to suck in his next breath. There was no ringing alarm to be heard or screaming people to manhandle him. He just breathed, in and out, effortlessly. He had no recollection of ever breathing so easily, of the last time his innate breathing reflex had been sufficient to sustain him. He breathed automatically, no need to think about it, like a normal person. What bliss, what sweet sweet bliss.


    His momentary musings were interrupted by a feminine voice. A growly older man answered her soon after. Myrkas assumed she was the same girl who had been so happy to see him, though he still could not recall if he was supposed to know her.


    He quickly decided to keep his eyes closed to gather clues the others might reveal while he still appeared to be sleeping. The important people - though Myrkas wasn''t sure who, why or when- tended to talk around him, about him. They discussed critical decisions at his bedside, usually when he looked asleep. While Myrkas'' memories of those occurrences were vague, he knew it was a tried and proven technique to gather intel.


    So he kept his eyes closed, his ears opened, and his breathing regular - once again deeply grateful to all available superior beings for his seamlessly working lungs.


    "We could try smelling salts at least, Master Hakhmir. It should be harmless enough by now," the girl said.


    "Nirrina, girl, it''s not his body that''s the problem," the older man replied. "The burns are all healed, with almost no traces left from the fire. Myrkas'' lungs have little residual damage anymore. No girl, the problem lies in his soul. It''s cracked. Still fracturing as we speak. That is a whole other monster, one you don''t mess with lightly."


    "But how? Myrkas never cultivated. He never received any aid or resources. How could his soul be damaged?


    "Myrkas was awake, I saw it right before he fainted. It has to be a good sign, no? Is there really nothing to try? He is my only family. Please, I beg you, I will do anything," Nirrana said, sniffling. Her sobs were subdued as if she tried to keep them inside.


    "I don''t know girl, I don''t know. It is what it is," the man replied softly. "However it happened, the fact remains. I''ll look at him again though. We should aim to make him stand until the end of the prayers at the very least."

 2.1 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai’d

    The gruff man reached Myrkas'' bedside with one stride. He replaced the cloth on the boy''s forehead with his hand and concentrated, focusing on obscure forces Myrkas had no clue about. Meanwhile, the boy was doing his very best to keep "sleeping". The recent info dump had not been within his expectations. His body had burned then healed? Without significant sequelae?


    How much was "almost" exactly? Was it a "can expect a normal life" almost or a "will survive but cannot run up a flight of stairs" type of almost? This is a vitally important distinction, Myrkas thought.


    Important but glossed over by the two interlocutors. And inexplicable soul damage? That sounded more than ominous. How was Myrkas supposed to fix himself?


    To add insult to injury there was no appropriate moment in view to "wake up" naturally. Was Myrkas supposed to simply open his eyes following this dreadful conversation? To stand and shout "Hey! What''s up, people? Sounds like I''m in bad shape. By the way, I have no idea who you are, who I am or where we are. Beautiful day, isn''t it?"


    While Myrkas'' thoughts spiralled further towards the nonsensical, the alleged alchemist at his bedside finished his examination. In truth, the older man was only touching Myrkas'' forehead and sighing gravely. It was a fairly limited medical examination in Myrkas'' humble opinion. Sighing again for the umptieth time, the alchemist went back to his bag and took out a small vial.


    "Boy, open your eyes. I know you''re awake," the man said while turning back towards Myrkas.


    The man held a small flask in his hand. It was filled with a strange, murky, purplish liquid which twirled inside the glass container in ill-defined patterns. One could almost guess at symbols hidden in the swirls'' depths. Especially if one possessed the imagination of a five-year-old child, or if one partook in the use of certain "recreational" substances.


    Myrkas, after receiving the perfect cue to "awaken," sat up in the cot. The boy eyed the forbidding substance and felt a chill run down his spine. He could already see himself forced to swallow the undoubtedly foul mixture in his very near future. Myrkas could only imagine the terrible side effects that would follow. His extensive knowledge of science-fiction and fantasy literature pointed towards a disgusting, painful, and horrifying gustative experience incoming.


    Bracing himself, Myrkas turned towards the alchemist. He would not be defeated by a mere dubious potion, Previous mentions of cultivation, soul, fast healing burns, and the look of the liquid itself all hinted at a magical aspect in this world. Myrkas'' memory might be lacking, but all hinted he was no longer in the land of demystified, pragmatic technology his brain remembered. More and more, Myrkas suspected he had fallen victim to a somewhat recent but wildly popular fictionary trope: transmigration, or being "isekai''d" in westernized Japanese. Somehow, he had been sent to another world. His soul or his mind - not his body, it seemed- had taken residence in a new reality. One with magic, at least Myrkas hoped so.


    Probably. That was probably what had happened. Myrkas wasn''t entirely convinced yet. His entire self was still confused, his mind scrambled like eggs. It was a daunting possibility, as exhilarating as it was scary. For the moment, Myrkas would follow his instinct. Not like he had much else to refer to.


    Staring at the alchemist, Master Hakhmir as the girl had called him, and the purple vial in his hand, Myrkas exclaimed "I''m ready!" with all the determination he could muster. Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    "Ready for what, boy?" was his only answer.


    The conversation died thereafter. Myrkas was speechless, his built-up courage on stand-by. His "uncle" looked just as confused at his nephew''s outburst, seemingly unable to process the boy''s intent. The two relatives kept staring at each other, unmoving. Without a doubt, social awkwardness ran in the Hakhmir family.


    On the other side of the bed, Nirrina was recovering from her apparent disbelief at Myrkas'' sudden rousing. This time though, she refrained from any effervescent display of affection. She kept her reactions moderate. A quick pinch to her own forearm shook her out of her daze. Taking charge, Nirrina interrupted the stale staring contest between nephew and uncle.


    "Myrkassa dear, are you truly awake this time? Please be so. Squeeze my hand if you can."


    An action Myrkas executed flawlessly. Whatever was happening, following this woman who undoubtedly cared for the confused boy seemed like a good idea.


    "Good," Nirrina went on. "Now, Master Hakhmir, did you have a plan for this vial?"


    "I am still debating," the alchemist answered. "However, I believe it would be safest to wait. The boy is no longer in meltdown. It would be much more appropriate to conduct further examinations and to gather a few colleagues'' opinions before we take any drastic action."


    "Noted. Now, Myrkas, do you know where we are?"


    Thank Heavens, Myrkas thought.


    She had just provided him the perfect opportunity to disclose his complete and total lack of knowledge about his situation. Myrkas was unbelievably grateful he did not have to lie in the moment. He was lost enough as it was - he could not fathom keeping straight lies on top of everything. Reassured, Myrkas confidently declared: "No."


    "I see," Nirrina continued. "Do you remember anything? You were a little out of it these past two weeks."


    "Honestly, not really. I don''t even know my name. Everything is confused, tangled in my head."


    He choked on a sob as he answered, the enormity of his circumstances finally crushing him. The boy was lost, utterly lost in a strange and unfamiliar land. He had no landmarks, no scale to rely on. He felt inadequate and nearly fell into despair in the split second it took for him to acknowledge his crumbled world. As emotions rushed him, Myrkas noticed a flash of sadness pass through Nirrina''s face, quickly replaced by deep-set determination.


    "It''s okay Myrkassa. It will be alright. I''m here with you. I will always be there for you," she murmured, taking Myrkas in her arms gently this time, without any likeness to bears.


    "I will always care for you, like a true big sister. Take your time. When you are ready, we will have to go back to the ceremony. Once it is over, we can go home, We are almost done. Don''t worry, I am here, by your side. I will explain everything. We''ll be strong together, as always."


    Soothed a little, Myrkas nodded, his emotions receding. He might be lost, but he was not alone. He had Nirrina, even if she kept changing his name- a worry for later. Myrkas knew, from deep inside himself - dared he say from his soul that they were linked, Nirrina and him, no need for precise memories to confirm their bond. Myrkas wiped his tears away and, for the first time since he had awoken that day, smiled. It was a small one, a slight, closed-mouthed one but a smile nonetheless.


    Nirrina noticed and smiled back. Of course she did, her entire focus was set on Myrkas. Before they left the side room, Nirrina hesitated to add something, as if she wanted to tell the boy more but could not decide if she should. With a short sigh, she chose silence and took Myrkas'' hand to share courage and strength.


    "Let''s go. Just follow me, do what I do, and everything will be fine, Myrkassa."


    Resolute, the three of them headed back to the temple''s main room

 2.2 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai’d

    He was back at the funeral, which was starting to get quite old. At least, Myrkas was a bit more aware now. It was not his funeral, that was clear. Myrkas was very much alive.


    Instead, one man, two women, and four children were being mourned this day. The entire neighbourhood had gathered in the nearest temple to Allrikh. They were present to honour the deceased''s memories, as well as to gossip about the tragedy that caused their deaths. But mainly to gossip. An activity not at all hindered by the ongoing ceremonies. Murmurs flew around Myrkas, ripe with information for anyone willing to listen.


    The departed family had not been well-liked, to say the least. Most had thought the man, Kalor Hakhmir, an upstart. A cruel man, undeserving of his rising status in the city guards. His two late wives had likewise been seen as snobbish and petty. The nearby shopkeepers each had horror stories regarding their incessant quarrels. The collateral damage from the Hakhmir wives¡¯ schemes had ruined more than one business in this provincial town.


    In truth, most attendees had shown up to learn more about the suspicious circumstances surrounding the family''s demise. The entire household had been devoured by flames. No one had had time to react. The sudden fire had lit up the sky, overpowering the early dawn. The Hakhmir family and their servants had been swallowed by the blaze in an instant. Only one survivor remained. Well, two if one counted Kalor Hakhmir''s young third wife, the one who had been away at the market when the fire started.


    The story gained clarity as Myrkas pieced together ever more whispers. Myrkas was the only one to survive the flames. Despite being the first son of the second wife, the second in line to inherit, Myrkas'' standing in the Hakhmir family had been low. The tween was in the stables, sleeping with the animals as punishment, when the tragedy occurred. He had survived this literal trial by fire thanks to those same beasts. Their hoofs had broken down the door, opening the way for their escape and allowing him the chance to flee as well.


    The young boy had still suffered grievous burns, left at death''s doorstep. Nirrina and his uncle were the only reason Myrkas was alive. Nirrina, seeing the reddened sky from the market, had gone to fetch the alchemist immediately. She had been scared for Myrkas. The location of the fire had sparked her instincts. She had gone straight to get help. And Master Koriss Hakhmir''s impromptu treatment on arrival had allowed Myrkas to survive.


    It was a terrible tragedy. Everyone and their cousin were obsessed over the details. People, strangers, kept on guessing and commenting through the service.


    "Wasn''t it strange how the youngest wife was the only one away that morning?" said one.


    "Had she known the estate would vanish in flame?" replied another.


    It was suspicious, so suspicious. Everyone knew young Nirrina had never wanted to marry Kalor Hakhmir. Rumour was she had been won at cards, bet by her father like a mundane horse. Such shame.


    There was no way her father, a low-grade merchant, would have tried so hard for the favour of the city guard''s second lieutenant. She had had better prospects, closer to her age, as plain as she was. No doubt her shameful father cursed the day he lost a precious asset in his gambling. Such a loss of face for all involved. If the merchant had truly wanted the younger Hakhmir brother''s favour, he would have sent Nirrina''s older, prettier sister to marry him.


    Wild hypothesis flourished in the crowd. Maybe the fire had been Nirrina''s father''s ploy to get her back or to get a better profit for his "gift?" And what about that wolfish Sona Ranil, suddenly in line for Kalor''s officer position? Everybody knew he and Kalor had hated each other. Hard not to when they had taken bribes from competing gangs. Even the shopkeepers were suspect. Didn''t they find the remnants of a mysterious artifact at the scene? Were the merchants in cahoots? Could they have formed an entente, and fomented revenge against the despised Hakhmir Sabisa and Sabi? Money grudges knew no bounds, rage and greed ever a powerful combination.


    Myrkas heard it all. One comment after another, some more fantastical and some sounding too much like truth. As hard as he tried, his recollections of his supposed family were fragmented, barely accessible. The chatter brought blurry images to his mind, accompanied most often by feelings of dread and rage deep in Myrkas¡¯ gut. The more he tried to focus on those, the more his head hurt. So much so he was nearly convinced his head would split down the middle if he continued so. The boy knew not what to make of it, so he tried to fill his memory''s gaping chasms with the gossip.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    One thing was sure: natural fire had been dismissed as the sole cause. The flames had been too sudden, too destructive. The blaze had come and gone in an instant, burning little else but the estate. It stunk of Qi-fuelled flames.


    A terrible tragedy indeed, seeped in mystery. Koriss, Kalor''s older brother, was a renowned alchemist. And while he catered more to the common people, his talents were well recognized. Popular wisdom deemed him able to create such a feat.


    Although it was unclear what Koriss would gain from his brother''s death. There was the third wife, but little else. It was doubtful Koriss had craved Kalor''s meagre fortune, especially with the elder Hakhmir already living at the border of the upper district. Hence why Koriss killing his brother made little sense. Unless... Unless the old alchemist became mad with jealousy, rendered insane in his loneliness, unable to tolerate his brother''s happiness. Indeed, Koriss was wifeless and childless before the event, but no longer.


    "Or maybe Koriss had succumbed to a heart demon, suffering Qi-deviation and engaging in bouts of mindless violence."


    "Or a demonic sacrifice caused the blaze!"


    "Or ..." as the guessing game went on and on.


    Tired of the endless chatter, Myrkas stopped listening. He had figured out they were "mourning" his family by now. Myrkas did not know how to feel, how to react, still reeling at the news. His head hurt. His brain felt like mush, having difficulty processing. The boy''s memories were scrambled, especially those from his current body''s life. All Myrkas had were vague impressions, scenes and emotions sensed through fog.


    Myrkas'' other, distinct set of memories was more clear. His past in that technologically advanced world was easier to recall. He had been sick, chronically so. His whole life had comprised of brief interludes at home first, then in foster care, in between hospitalizations at a children''s hospital. Hooked to machines and intravenous drugs, without any signs of magical Qi, alchemy or remedies of the shifty purple variant.


    Those existed in the realm of fantasy. Of epic adventures to fight world-ending threats while saving pretty princesses. Unfortunately, these usually came with a dire lack of modern convenience and amenities. Myrkas preemptively missed easily accessible electrical power and temperature control. He refused to think about the loss of the internet and its trove of knowledge, previously at his fingertips. It would break his poor little beaten heart.


    As Myrkas dreaded these more than likely lost facilities, his head split in half. Figuratively. His headache, that low thrum beating inside his skull since he woke up again, was worsening. He imagined his two sets of memories clashing against each other, his brain transformed into a battlefield. The armies of his pasts warred without mercy, each unwilling to settle for anything but supremacy.


    It was all too much. Overwhelming. Myrkas needed time to digest, to figure himself out. All he wanted, no needed, was for this damned funeral to end. Have time to take a breather and rest. To lay his head down and let the headache pass.


    The ceremony went on, the people continuing with their quiet chatter. Trying to preserve his sanity, Myrkas switched his focus to the decor. He would think no further about the dead family he didn''t really remember, nor about sinister enemies plotting their downfall. He preferred to look up at the domed ceiling, to observe the exotic craftsmanship.


    The tall dome was splendid, adorned with glittering mosaics. Tiny white-and-gold ceramic shapes made up repeating geometric patterns. A giant sun, its rays speckled with flecks of metallic purple, presided in the center, directly above the believers'' heads. The stained-glass windows interspaced between the ceramics gave the illusion the light truly came from the depicted star.


    The late afternoon light further entered the premises through pale stained-glass images ensconced in the walls. They depicted religious scenes¨Csomething Myrkas had deduced all on his own. A blond-haired man, with golden skin and purple eyes took center stage in most of them. Images of conquests and peaceful times alternated. The largest picture stood behind the priest at the front. A large purple sun was rising above the clouds, its rays blessing the adoring crowd witnessing the ascent. It was quite grand, very impressive.


    Much opulent, thought Myrkas. And strangely familiar...


    The entire imagery sparked a hint of recognition in Myrkas'' mind. Deja vu suffused him. A piece of the puzzle was on the tip of his tongue, relishing its escape from Myrkas'' consciousness.


    Nothing to do about it.


    Myrkas'' head hurt too much to spend brain power on a feeling. He did miss the internet. A quick "purple sun religion" in a search engine should have answered his question. Oh well, not like the missing info could change much to his situation¡­

 3.1 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai’d

    The ceremony dragged on. There was a finite amount of chants, prayers, and sermons any individual could endure at a time. Myrkas had long passed his quota. With his aching, pulsing head on top, Myrkas could barely restrain himself from walking out. His guilt, born from his lack of emotion regarding his family''s passing, was nowhere large enough to make the experience bearable. Myrkas could not even remember one tender feeling related to any of the departed. It was hard to feel grief¨Cor guilt for its lack¨Cfor those who amounted to strangers. He did not wish to add mourning, and a possible righteous revenge, on his to-do list.


    The Hakhmir boy refrained to chuckle at the thought. According to most fantasy works, he should have felt a rising anger, a burning desire to avenge his dead family. Only to later find out revenge did not carry many benefits in and of itself... Myrkas had reached this conclusion on his own, without the need for the usual tribulations. Revenge was way too much trouble.


    No thanks, he thought.


    The overarching vengeance plot had officially been killed in its shell. Myrkas simply had better things to spend his energy on. Such as figuring out who he was and what he wanted from this life.


    It took what felt like hours for the funeral to end. The few remains which had been found were further cremated in golden flames, directly in front of the audience. The ashes were then buried in the temple''s garden, under the eyes of the gathered crowd. The mortal cycle ever turning. The immortal souls released to the heavens, on their way to judgement and reincarnation. A final prayer blessed the souls'' journey to Allrikh''s warm embrace, concluding the whole thing.


    The sun was setting as they exited the temple. At last, it was time to head home for Myrkas, to his uncle''s house at least. If it was "this" Myrkas'' home was to be seen. Myrkas simply followed Nirrina and Master Hakhmir, letting himself be led without any resistance on his part. He saw no better option to choose, and he preferred not to run away on his own. Myrkas was dead¨Cpun intended¨Ctired.


    Nirrina and his uncle were the only people around with an ounce of care for Myrkas. Sticking with them was his best bet for survival in this unknown world. Too many transmigration stories were strife with mortal dangers hidden in plain sight. Myrkas was desperate for support, for trustworthy people to help him navigate his new reality. He could have gotten much worse, he concluded. He hoped his situation would provide the respite he needed. Especially while his identity remained fuzzy. Fuzzy to himself, to be clear¨Cthe people around him were pretty convinced he was this boy named Myrkas Hakhmir, to be honest.


    The trio walked home, winding through a number of paved streets. Simple gray-beige brick buildings gave way gradually to larger and larger estates, glimpsed through cement-like walls bordering the road. Lush greenery grew along those borders, interspaced by mature fruit trees. The walls became taller and fuller as they went, the plant similarly becoming more curated as they neared the richer neighbourhoods,


    Myrkas recognized citruses and peaches among the fruits hanging from branches. They were early in the season, not yet in the middle of spring, Many trees they passed intrigued him, their fruits and flowers not any he recognized.


    Small, pink-and-white berry clusters particularly caught his attention. They gathered three-by-three atop the highest branches. Myrkas salivated at the thought of eating one. Their sight and scent evoked warm summer nights and whispered lullabies to his addled mind.


    "The louktams are almost ready. It''s your favourite fruit, right Myrkassa?" asked Nirrina.


    Myrkas nodded reflexively in answer. Darkness had fallen when they veered left. They turned just shy of a large, gray-and-white marble arch. It was set in an intricately carved inner city wall, with guards standing near the open doors. They jealously guarded the most prominent domains of the city of Piercing Jade Valley. The walls and greeneries, ever more extravagant, continued past the arch and down the road, keeping the rich¨Cand maybe famous''¨Csecrets. Sprawling estates were visible above the barriers, imposing in their unabashed grandeur. Lanterns, statues, and private gates completed the tableau.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Myrkas stood agape, wanting to look his fill despite his aching head and feet. His curiosity had been sparked. Unfortunately, they had arrived at his uncle''s estate, adjacent to the inner wall, on the "wrong" side of the marble arch. They passed through the estate''s gate at once.


    Myrkas'' new house¨Calthough housing complex might be a more accurate term¨Cwas somewhat modest in comparison to the truly wealthy''s domains. Its gray and tan stone blocks¨Can upgrade from cheaper bricks¨Cmade up a dozen squared pavilions, arranged around extensive gardens. A small, domed tower stood above the largest building. Plain stone paths ran through, leading from one feature to the next. Small bridges crossed streams and ponds where carps could be seen and heard breaking the water''s surface.


    The view upon his entry stopped Myrkas in his steps. He had not dared to have any expectations about his living situation. Myrkas had feared the worst. The apparent low level of technology had hinted at crudely made houses without running water. So far, Myrkas was more than pleasantly surprised. His uncle''s estate was way more luxurious than he could have reasonably hoped for. What the grounds lacked in extravagant flourish and art pieces, they more than made up in magnificent blooms and meticulously cared for bushes and trees. Furthermore, Myrkas had definitively avoided the classic "street urchin orphan" trope. With such a large and well-maintained estate, there was no way his uncle would notice one more month to feed. Myrkas could survive without flushing toilets, most likely.


    As long as I have a nice bed to collapse in.


    "Come boy," his uncle urged while grabbing Myrkas by the shoulder.


    Koriss walked his nephew towards one of the smaller buildings in silence. On the way, they almost collided with a man so concentrated on his rose bushes he was oblivious to his surroundings.


    "Master Hakhmir! Welcome back. I apologize, I was entranced by these beauties. We already prepared a light dinner in the secondary hall. Marta and I thought it better to leave you with your family tonight. Is there anything else we can do?" said the man, unfazed by the situation.


    " No," Koriss answered, short and to the point.


    "I see. My condolences again. Let me know if there is anything," replied the man with a sad smile, " Have a good evening then, Master, Young Master," he concluded, kneeling right back to his roses.


    Said dinner passed quickly, none in the mood for useless chatter. Nirrina, ever-attentive, made sure Myrkas ate his fill, if not more. The fare was simple but filling, eaten with metal chopsticks. Myrkas was quite glad he knew how to use them, even if he was too tired to be embarrassed by anything.


    Without needing to ask, Nirrina guided the boy to his room, anticipating his lack of familiarity with the estate. Collapsed in his bed, Myrkas was finally alone. His headache lurked in the background, memories still clashing. As he closed his eyes, he heard a knock at his door.


    "Yes?"


    "Myrkas," said a gruff voice, no doubt his uncle. "Can I talk to you?"


    Without waiting for an answer, Koriss Hakhmir entered the bedroom. The large man had changed from his light-gray mourning robes to some beige night clothes. His salt-and-pepper hair and beard were still wet from washing up before bed. Rigidly, Koriss sat down next to his nephew, the bed creaking under his weight.


    "I wished to talk to you. We need to discuss... how to say it... hmm... what do you recall of the past two weeks?"


    He paused.


    " It''s important. There were some... things... I found earlier, in your soul I mean. It may be concerning."


    The young boy stared, unsure how to answer. Myrkas had already deduced his state was far from ordinary, yet he lacked the knowledge required to guess the kind of danger he was in. If he should keep his cards¡ªhis past life¡ªclose or reveal everything. His diverse fiction knowledge had limits. And it was, for all intents and purposes, based in fiction, unclear if truly applicable to his current reality. So Myrkas stared, letting the growing silence fill the room. Crickets sang outside, the only sounds to be heard in the quiet night.


    Visibly disheartened, the older man sighed.


    "Well, I''m not sure what you heard today or how much you remember, but you must be tired, so I will let you rest. Sleep well."

 3.2 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai’d

    On these words of infinite wisdom, Koriss left the room, his nephew as confused¨Cif not more¨Cas before their enlightening discussion. A little stunned, Myrkas sat up, his sleepiness forgotten. This impromptu conversation had not helped his state of mind whatsoever. Anxiety filled him, his soul issues back at the forefront. He took a deep breath, to calm himself. The simple, easy act was endlessly soothing. Ignoring his headache, he chose to focus on what he knew, what he could plan to act on in this mysterious universe.


    First item: what to do about his dead family. All had died in a suspicious fire. A fire which almost killed Myrkas too. Suspects and motives abounded. Good thing Myrkas had already decided looking for revenge was a foolish endeavour, a waste of time and resources. He had an entire world to discover and only so much leeway to do so. No need to chase after shadows. Anyway, the likelihood the perpetrator had something personal against a powerless twelve-year-old boy was so low as to be laughable. Myrkas was safe, most likely.


    Fortunately, he, Myrkas Hakhmir¨Che had accepted the identity at some point in the day¨Cstill had living relatives, caring ones. His uncle might not be the easiest to talk to, but he was present. And sufficiently rich. At the risk of sounding a tad materialistic, Myrkas much preferred a rich uncle to a poor one. The boy might even become his uncle''s apprentice! Employment security was essential, even in a fantasy setting, if "Qi" was indeed as real and magical as people believed. At worst, he would become a pharmacist equivalent and call himself an "alchemist." With the scientific method in his metaphorical back pocket¨Ca feature so lacking in robes¨CMyrkas was sure to improve whatever this so-called alchemy ended up being.


    Family-wise, Nirrina remained an enigma. She obviously adored him. Myrkas has not seen his face yet, but he had to assume he was insanely adorable. That, or past Myrkas had had a great personality. With his family history, he doubted the latter. While not blood-related, she seemed set on acting like his big sister. According to gossip though, she was technically his step-mother¨Chis only six-years-older-step-mother¨Cfrom his late father''s harem. A bona fide harem, for decency''s sake. She¨Ca person!¨Chad been inherited by his uncle as part of the Hakhmir succession. Was Nirrina his uncle''s wife now? Or, Myrkas shuddered, his future wife? That image did not agree with his insides. It felt plain wrong.


    Myrkas did not know exactly why. It wasn''t her appearance or her personality. She was not terrible to look at. A little on the skinny side maybe. Her straight, light-brown hair was pretty enough. Nirrina had a few pimples but who didn''t? This universe did not seem to be very advanced in terms of skincare. If the ambient smell was to be trusted, soap was a seldom used commodity. Cultivation¨Cif truly possible, for Myrkas was a realist at heart even if he did dream of Qi-powered superhuman feats¨Cdid not automatically equal jade beauties with perfect complexion and inexistent body odour.


    Anyway, Myrkas liked Nirrina¨Ca lot¨Cbut not in a romantic way. Whatever the reason, she was now family. That was what mattered. He would have to make sure her place at his side was secure. To do everything he could so she stayed safe and happy. For Myrkas, living in a new world was manageable, being lost and lonely was not.


    Myrkas would not cry that night. He had better things to do, no time for wallowing. He needed his priorities straight. Emotional distress could wait. Nothing bad ever happened from chronically repressed emotions.


    His first worry had become his clashing memories, as having two sets in one''s head was definitely not normal. Especially with one set coming from another dimension. Random flashbacks and glimpses from his pasts kept popping into his conscious mind. It was disorienting and frankly annoying. Surprisingly, his recollections of people¨Creal people, not fictional ones¨Cand his close relationships were vague in both his past lives. He could not remember names or most events. Myrkas recalled an odd mix of faces and impressions, sometimes associated with violent emotions. But it was too much to analyze at once, too much to untangle. And they were in the past, most of them dead or in another world, unreachable. Clearly a sign that triaging his incomplete memories could, and should, wait. This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    On the other hand, a lot of his factual knowledge was intact. Myrkas remembered a staggering amount of information such as basic physics and chemistry, or how to differentiate pyrite from gold. While he did not know how useful this knowledge would be, he did appreciate its availability. It did not replace the internet, but it was a start.


    At least, if Myrkas ever became bored, he could fall back on his plethora of fantastical references, including a bat detective, three different gun-loving archeologists, and many giant-sword-swinging heroes. Hopefully, his memories of characters dumped to different worlds by a truck accident or an afterlife bureaucratic error¨Calso known as divine intervention¨Cwould help him navigate his new reality.


    Fatigue was catching up to him. Myrkas hadn''t yet addressed his damaged soul. He would have to think about it in the morrow. His head was bad, the pressure on his cranium begging him to rest. Thinking was hard, like cogs turning through sticky slime. Put against insurmountable odds, Myrkas quickly surrendered and let sleep take him.


    ¨C¨C¨C


    Late into the night, Serni Kroush listened to the familiar sound of his wife''s sighs. With a half-smile, he waited, knowing she would soon share her worries. His sabisa always did.


    "I swear, Master Hakhmir is even more stiff with his new family here. And you''d think the Young Master would look better awake than whatever he was before, and yet, the boy is nearly as silent, stuck in his head. Before, he looked dead. Now, he looks dumb!


    "Thank Allrikh that Nirrina is a good girl. I had feared the worst. She is smart, that girl, hear me Serni. Allrikh knows a woman''s touch would do Master good, if only he would let her."


    "Sabisa, he''d have to remember she exists for that," the man replied, amusement twinkling in his eyes.


    "Stop laughing you, husband! Master has always been kind to us. I prayed and prayed for him to settle down. To get a nice wife and a few rugrats. Then he finally lands some and it is all wrong! So messy, so tragic! I worry.


    "Poor Master. See Serni, even now in the middle of the night, he is at his workshop, ruining his health on who knows what. He will tire himself to death! Then what will we do, huh? Put our hopes on the Young Master? Find another household to serve? Oh Savosa, I worry. I wish Srevan was back. It would ease my nerves."


    "Stop worrying Martasa. Everything will be fine. It will fall in place, you will see. Master Hakhmir and his family just need some time. They are grieving. Now sleep Sabisa, we have a big day tomorrow."


    ¡ª¡ª¡ª


    Morning came too soon. Myrkas'' headache had worsened through the night, becoming unbearable. With great effort, the boy forced down half his breakfast¨CNirrina''s stare was scary.


    His head was in so much pain, Myrkas was nearly convinced two highly competitive construction crews were having a sledgehammer contest in his brain. Not fun. Not a recommended experience. At this point, Myrkas wished they would finally break his skull, to relieve some pressure and pain. Surely, a brand new hole in his cranium would help. Nothing could be worse than enduring this pain.


    Blinded by the state of his head, Myrkas did not notice his uncle and Nirrina''s worried gaze, nor their intense murmurs. Keeping his eyes open was an ordeal, the pain sending lashes of light with its incessant pounding. Only half aware, Myrkas recognized the purple, shimmering flask in front of his eyes. Dread filled him. Before the boy could react further, the sickly sweet liquid was poured down his throat.


    Pins and needles travelled through Myrkas'' limbs, numbing all. His head started to float¨Cthough not literally. When Myrkas started to see sounds and taste colours, he made the executive decision to fall unconscious. A task Myrkas promptly succeeded at.


    Blacking out was quickly becoming Myrkas'' go-to solution, whether ill-advised or not.

 4.1 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai’d

    Myrkas was floating. His body was aimlessly drifting, weightless. The walls of this sphere he was in were far away. They had an intangible quality Myrkas sensed even from afar. They should have been smooth and even, he knew, but instead were marred with cracks, holes, and fissures. Void-like space could be glimpsed through.


    As he drifted, Myrkas noticed he wasn''t alone in this mysterious space. By flexing his will¨Cwhich did look a lot like aggressively staring at nothing¨Chis position stabilized. It allowed Myrkas to look at himself, or, more accurately, at other versions of himself. It was as if he was seeing double, an uneven double. Two versions of Myrkas were fighting, blind to their surroundings.


    They fixated on each other, focused on their clash, each trying to prevail, to dominate their adversary. The two clones? alternates? metaphysical representations? had Myrkas'' curly black hair and amber eyes. They looked remarkably similar but for a few crucial differences.


    One was obviously older, with the beginning of a beard on his chin as well as a flimsy moustache on his upper lip. He stood almost a foot taller than Myrkas himself, but was way too thin, his cheeks sunken, bones showing under his stretched skin. He wore a hospital gown, pale blue and tied at his side. This taller version of Myrkas had trouble breathing. His chest rattled with his every breath. His neck muscles strained visibly under the effort, the skin in between his exposed ribs and clavicles drawing inside his ribcage with each of his inhales. The older teen looked sick, and deadly so.


    Nevertheless, he fought on. His strikes were wide and uncoordinated. He was slow, his footwork poor even to Myrkas'' amateur eyes. But he tried, he persevered. He used his superior height and mass to his advantage, though not skillfully enough to win, He only prevented his opponent from gaining on him.


    The smaller Myrkas was more skilled, more trained. He ducked and dodged, retaliating with fast but weak blows. His body was half-burned, red and peeling in places. Half his hair had burned away, his scalp pocked with blisters. His clothes were scorched and hung on his small frame. The boy wheezed each time he breathed in. His swollen throat menaced to close at any time. And still, the young teen fought, grappling and kicking, only to be pushed back again and again.


    Their fight spread shockwaves through the sphere. The damaged walls shook under the strain, some cracks crawling further and deeper.


    Throughout the two''s battlefield, frames and varied lights filled the space, in no particular order. They floated around, sometimes bumping each other. On occasion, a new light was born from those gentle collisions.


    The drifting frames presented pictures, moving scenes from Myrkas'' past lives. The images made an eclectic mix.


    One showed the last Tremblay-Stein "Happy Holidays" card, with a tween black-haired boy smiling between his parents despite the nasal cannula on his face. Another revealed a younger Myrkas, four or five years of age at most, being held down in the dirt by his half-brother, the beaten Myrkas black and blue with bruises. Their father''s shadow hung in the background of the scene.


    Some had similarities between his two lives: pictures of a boy falling asleep on a maternal lap, his hair gently stroked. Others were stark in their differences: evenings of videogames contrasted with nights spent on a dirt floor, warmed by an ox''s flanc.


    Whichever their origin, the frames were caught in the ongoing clash''s shockwaves. The memories did not resist intact. Most broke, fragments breaking away and fusing back randomly. If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    The fight was wreaking havoc. The space threatened to crumble, unable to sustain itself any longer. The conflict had gone on for too long. A victor needed to emerge. But none of the two combatants would give the fight to the other. Both were determined, if not stubborn and filled with spite.


    That mindset had brought them to this situation in the first place; the refusal to surrender when faced with their inevitable death, their resilience despite all. Both fought to live, to survive.


    The oldest had fought to breathe his entire existence. He had spent an inordinate number of nights hooked to tubes and machines, hanging on willpower, antibiotics, and medical-grade oxygen. He persevered, always, despite setbacks and loneliness. He remembered being loved once, being happy, with goals and dreams and hopes. Life was worth it. Anything needed, he''d do for another chance.


    The youngest gritted his teeth with pure spite. He used his rage to carry on, to keep training despite the scorn, and the repeated disappointments. He had only recently found acceptance and comfort. A warm embrace always ready to dry his tears and bandage his knees. For the first time, he held a piece of happiness. He could not let it go; he would not. This was his life, his body he had held on through the fire, through the pain. He raged on, unable and unwilling to let go.


    Throughout their stalemate, their combined world continued to disintegrate. Myrkas felt painful spikes breaking through, heralding the end. Despite the chaos, the situation seemed salvageable. A purplish substance covered the walls, preventing leaks from the many fissures. However, Myrkas knew it would not last. Already, flakes came off, disappearing into the void beyond. Some lights and pieces of memories seeped by. They were lost, never to be recovered.


    Myrkas'' life hung by a thread. His state was dire. Dread too soft a word to describe the emotion filling his consciousness. His two alternate selves were fighting still, oblivious to the rampage they brought. Their will to survive alone, to prevail, the only thing that mattered. Compromise was never an option. Their common doom inconsequential.


    Myrkas, the not-fighting version, the "stop being such dumbasses" one, had to intervene. His "Grand War of Selves" was destroying him. Literally killing him, little by little, shredding his soul from the inside out.


    Armed with his will and fear of death, Myrkas flew over, stopping abruptly between the fighters. Before Myrkas could act, the other versions of himself attacked, for once in unison. Myrkas narrowly dodged the first blows, leaving him unsteady, unbalanced, and unprepared to deal with his copies¡¯ next moves.


    The short one kicked Myrkas in the gut, pushing the air out of his lungs with the shock. As if choreographed, the tall one immediately tackled the non-violent Myrkas, using his superior weight to keep him grounded.


    Myrkas saw stars, disoriented. Fortunately, he remembered where they fought. They were floating in a metaphysical space. Meaning there was no actual floor, physical rules did not apply. Superior skills and physique did not provide the expected advantages. Instead of wrestling free, Myrkas "fell" out of the tackle, reversing their position with sheer willpower.


    When the younger version punched Myrkas, he let himself be pushed away, as if inertia never existed, negating all intended damage. Again, he stopped his motion with a flex of his will, preparing to fight back. His battling versions kept fighting as before, oblivious to their third as well as the limitless possibilities this space allowed. Their vision was narrowed, too focused on their need to be the sole winner.


    Myrkas flew back in the ring. The three clashed. Despite avoiding most damage to his metaphorical self, Myrkas hadn''t spent much time wondering what he was in the present. He had bigger fish to fry¨Csuch as not dying from fighting with himself. So far, Myrkas was unable to prevail, to forcefully assert a cease-fire. The momentum had merely shifted from a two-sided stalemate to a three-sided one.


    Worse, while neither of his representations were taking any permanent damage, their soul space and all it contained degraded under his gaze. The wild energy unleashed by their blows reverberated on the walls. The foreign purple energy keeping it together would soon be exhausted. It''s shine was visibly dimming. Despite Myrkas'' entry into the arena, their predicament had not improved. Death loomed ever closer.

 4.2 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai’d

    Seized by despair, Myrkas screamed at his other selves. He tried his hardest to get them to hear reason, to cease this doomed brawl. Myrkas pleaded, cajoled, and threatened, to no avail. His versions were blind and deaf to him, too intent on annihilating the threat in front of their eyes.


    Myrkas stopped fighting. It was pointless. The other two ignored him as long as he left them to their battle. They were stuck, headed towards a pyrrhic victory at best, and mutual destruction at worst. There had to be a way. If his copies were too stubborn to listen to reason, Myrkas would force them to fall in rank. This was his body, his soul they were threatening. Whatever concept they represented, he had to bring them to heel, to show them who was boss here.


    A plan quickly formed in his mind. Myrkas needed to restrain them first, to stop the ongoing damage. He gathered part of the ambient energy. Motes of lights and some of the "purple stuff" coalesced in his hands. He was following his instinct and intuition. And a bunch of literary ramblings he recalled from cultivation novels.


    Myrkas held a maelstrom of light between his cupped palms. It was warm and tingly, sending light sparks up his arms randomly. The energy spun between his hands, soon becoming thread-like. Myrkas attempted to pinch a strand away, without success. The substance slipped through his fingers, refusing to be used by such a common method as simple physical manipulation.


    Myrkas could still hold the ball of light-like material. But doing anything with it was another story. He didn''t have time to experiment endlessly. He had to fix this and fast. No help was coming. A guesstimate had to do.


    Myrkas closed his eyes, taking deep breaths. He concentrated on the feel of the energy in his hands. The warmth, the physical sensation, the way he kept it there, willed it into stability. A thread formed, then chains. That''s what Myrkas needed: restrictive bindings. With his fingers and his mind, he combined the energy, shaping it into meters and meters of thick, solid, metal-like chains.


    On a bout of inspiration, he weaved images into them: spider silk imprisoning living flies, death-row shackles on both wrists and feet, Qi-restricting ropes as used on criminal cultivators, and seringes filled with anaesthetics and paralytics. Again and again, Myrkas folded these concepts in, molding the chains with his will, strengthening them.


    When he next opened his eyes, Myrkas held those links. The metal bindings were dark and heavy, a gray hue with traces of purple.


    Somehow, they felt more than solid, almost immutable.


    With his implement ready, Myrkas prepared his trap. He had to hurry. Too much time had passed. More and more motes of light and memory-frames leaked out. He was loosing parts of his soul, parts of himself, his core being. No time left to dally.


    He baited the other two, going to stand between them. As Myrkas foresaw, his alternates charged in unison, blinded by their desire for total domination. Faster than sound, they approached from opposite sides. A fraction of a second before they all collided, Myrkas dodged. He lassoed the two, thightening the first loop around their arms and torsos. Quickly, Myrkas then used his will to bind them tighter. He knotted the chains in complex loops. The two still squirmed, resisting Myrkas effort. Myrkas flexed his will further, sending it down the metal-links.


    The fighters finally bound and immobilized, the shockwaves ceased. Their surroundings calmed, the sudden silence jarring. The walls were still fractured though, with the purple substance getting ever thinner. Pieces of Myrkas kept on escaping to the void.


    The work wasn''t over. The misbehaving children strained against their restraints. Myrkas spent most of his focus to keep them within bonds. He strained as his other selves did.


    They had reached a new stalemate.


    At his wits'' end, Myrkas resolved to bet on an ancient mystical power. A type of strength celebrated in most heroic stories. The ultimate power up in dire times: the power of friendship. Friendship under duress still had to count. It was totally possible to become friends with oneself. Even easier to do so with some alternate metaphysical representations of himself. Myrkas suspected they each represented one of his past lives. The exact concept didn''t matter as long as they all started to work together. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Myrkas needed to figure out how to¨Cforcefully¨Cbefriend himself (himselves?) sooner than later. All while actively restraining his representations. An uncomfortable and possibly painful situation. Obviously, they were in the best circumstances to build a long lasting, healthy three-way relationship here.


    While thinking, Myrkas tightened the chains further, lest they escape and restart the hostilities. This place, their communal soul plane Myrkas guessed, could not bear any more strain. Memories, energies, and what else leaked evermore. Too soon, they would have nothing left to loose, their core being an empty husk. Time to take the kids'' gloves off. Ruthlessness was on the menu. If reason and metaphysical attacks did not work, Myrkas would harden his heart and appeal straight to their instinct and emotions.


    The one floating free boy frowned. His eyes became cold, his body still, his shoulders straight. Resolute, Myrkas moved the last loop higher on his bound copies. Following a quickly passed flinch, Myrkas rounded the chain around his versions'' necks, keeping control of the shared pressure on their airways with the length he kept in hands.


    The other two immediately glared at him with hatred. They now stood perfectly immobile, focused on the threat to their respective breath.


    Myrkas swallowed back his bile but kept his hold on the chain. He knew how the other two Myrkas felt. He acutely remembered both their deaths, and their appearances didn''t let him forget. The burns, the coughs, the wheezes, and rattles all reminded him of what he had endured. Myrkas did not wish to strangle them, as he was filled with sympathy. But they had left him no choice. He, too, wanted to live. Not just survive but live, and thrive. And his past selves'' fighting threathened that simple dream. They needed to listen. Myrkas would force them to understand.


    Myrkas held their stare. He would not falter. They all had to live. The unbound boy scoured his remaining memories. He found all the similar ones between his past lives and battered the chained Myrkases with them. With their airways threatened and their limbs entangled in energy bindings, his two versions had no choice but to suffer the onslaught.


    In addition, Myrkas bombarded the two belligerents with how dire the state of their soul was. He showed them in full the damage their battle had wrecked. All that they had lost and were still losing.


    Myrkas'' willpower was stretched beyond its limits. The boy tasted blood in his mouth. He felt his pulse beating up to his gingiva. His throat was dry, his mouth stuck in a rictus as he pushed through with effort. Myrkas would have screamed if all his energy wasn''t already taken by his task. He held on. To the chains, the binding, and the volley of images and emotions directed at his past selves.


    The war of wills lasted an eternity. A relative one, for Myrkas had no clue how time worked where they were. Then, the balance shifted. His mirror images relaxed together. They stopped fighting. The chains loosened on their own and fell, floating back towards the Myrkas who held their ends.


    The burned boy and the sick one stood back-to-back. They had reached a common conclusion, accepting to co-exist in order to survive. They would fuse, both getting to live fully through their altered selves. It happened within the blink of an eye. One second two stood, and the next, only one was left.


    Myrkas stared at his new reflection. The entity''s appearance kept shifting, alternating between different mixes of the previous fighters. The effect was eerie. Myrkas and his image took a moment to observe each other, both relieved in the newfound peace.


    They did not rejoice for long. They still had a soul to fix. With a concerted nod, Myrkas and his shifting version each took a half-lenght of the remaining chain. The links dissolved back into lights, though uniform and even in color now. The Myrkases condensed this energy, using the infused binding principles to create a plaster-like substance. With it, they patched the sphere''s walls, going as fast as they could.


    The dark-gray mixture held well. It mixed with the purple energy left and closed most flaws. In the end, some fissures were left, although they were superficial ones. No leak remained. A soft purple glow emanated from the repaired walls, basking the space in a soothing light. It would have to do.


    Satisfied, Myrkas glanced at his other self one last time. His image smiled for once and gave him a thumbs up. That one would stay in this space, his rightful place, and keep an eye and a hand on things.


    Reassured, Myrkas closed his eyes. It was time to go back. Instincts let him know this event would fade from his memory. Myrkas had traveled too deep within his consciousness, his mind was not ready to fully process what had happened.


    No matter. Myrkas¨Call versions¨Chad done the job. He wasn''t dead. Surviving in okay shape had been his main goal.


    All considered, a solid performance. Myrkas thought, then scattered away.

 5.1 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai’d

    Once again, Myrkas awoke, briefly disoriented. He was on a roll, well on his way to becoming a "passing out" champion. Eyes wide open, he sprung out of bed. One thing was certain, Myrkas had not felt this well in decades! Or well, maybe a decade, at most two with both his past lives combined... It was hard to do a proper count in his circumstances. And did baby years count or not? Anyway, his head didn''t hurt any longer and he felt great. Myrkas''d take the win,


    Smiling, Myrkas took the time to look at his brand-new self, as he felt all shiny and new. The simple, silver-tinted wall mirror did its job, revealing Myrkas in all his glory. The tween was scrawny, little more than skin and bones. However, the lack of fat did give him some nice muscle definition. And meant he could eat to his heart''s content. Obesity concerns were not in Myrkas'' near future.


    A mass of tight black curls fell from atop his head. The lengths reached just above Myrkas'' shoulders. His curls were messy, in dire need of some upkeep. Myrkas would have to ask Nirrina for help. His smooth, darkly tanned skin was otherwise devoid of any "manly" hair. It seemed puberty had not yet knocked on Myrkas'' door. The boy repressed a shiver, unsure whether to rejoice or despair at this fact.


    Myrkas was surprised by how much he resembled his uncle. They had the same eyes, sharp, and a rich whiskey in colour. His strong brow made him look a little too serious to be called cute but overall, the boy was happy with his looks. Myrkas was no pretty model, but he had potential, in his own opinion.


    Height-wise, he had no clue where he stood¡ªpun intended. Myrkas had had more important things to focus on than to compare himself to his peers in the short¡ªtwo? three?¡ªdays he had been aware of in this world. Seeing his uncle, though, Myrkas had high hopes for puberty. The mature man stood a good head above the average, the top of Nirrina''s head reaching just above his uncle''s shoulder. It would be a sacrilege for Myrkas not to grow at least to the mythical 182 cm¡ªor six feet for imperialist heathens.


    Myrkas already envisioned his future grown-up self. Him, tall and ruggedly handsome, towering over the crowd, with his bulging muscles on display. Men would move out of his way. Women would fall over themselves to be at his side. His future deep, baritone voice and undeniable charisma would mesmerize all. Tales of Myrkas'' heroic feats would spread far and wide. Myrkas saw it already: the glory awaiting him.


    Lost in his daydreams, the boy failed to detect his captive audience. Only when he heard subdued laughter at his antics did Myrkas notice the intruder. She was a short thing, barely tall enough to reach Myrkas'' chin. Her curly, reddish-brown hair was a mess. Red jam splattered her cheeks. Her bright green eyes were looking straight at Myrkas, filled with mirth. Her plump face was scrunched, holding in her giggles.


    Myrkas assessed the situation at once. He had been discovered, intruded upon in a moment of vulnerability. Unacceptable. The enemy dared to mock him in his own room. Only one course of action was left.


    "You dared enter my lair. Impudent!" Myrkas declared.


    The boy then lunged across the room, catching the little rogue. A fierce battle ensued, a whirlwind of hair and sticky fingers. Myrkas'' opponent attempted to escape in vain, her call for reinforcement unintelligible. Myrkas prevailed, confirming his undisputed dominance with his ultimate technique: tickles. Tickles until surrender and beyond.


    The tiny fiend soon recognized her loss. She pleaded mercy through wheezing laughter. But Myrkas gave no quarters. He had to qualm this rebellion in its infancy. He was the Supreme General Myrkas, chosen as the Ultimate Martial Master of the Realm. All needed to bow before his supremacy! Especially puny monsters.


    "Martine? Myrkas! what the... Cease immediately!"


    The two children froze. A greater foe had appeared. One clad in simple, practical light blue robes, her familiar green eyes fixed on the miscreants. She was armed with the ultimate weapon of all: maternal omnipotence.


    One shared look and the former foes became inseparable allies. As the saying went, the enemy of thy enemy is thy friend.


    Myrkas gathered his thoughts. It appeared diplomacy was their best bet. Meanwhile, the little devil quickly went on the offensive with a devastating attack: a koala-hug and puppy-dog eyes combo.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    "But Mama, we were just playing."


    A critical hit. Proof of a shrewd practitioner of the martial arts despite her young age. The way of Cuteness was strong in this one.


    "Don''t you try, little lady. You know perfectly well you should never enter the Young Master''s room. And still in your night clothes! I turn my back one second and boom, disaster. What will I do with you my Tinesa."


    But Myrkas would not abandon his newfound ally so easily. He settled his expression and advanced to the front.


    "Don''t you even try, Young Master. How is she to learn if you indulge her so? You should be resting, in bed. Not wrestling around with a child, no matter how much she begs and pesters.


    "Young Master, you were unconscious for two whole days," Marta di Kroush continued in a gentler tone. "Now is not the time to chase around little terrors. Back to bed immediately or I''ll get Nirrina. Master Hakhmir will come to assess you soon. Do not dare come out of bed before!"


    Defeated, Myrkas obeyed.


    A slight smile still managed to stretch his lips. He felt good, great even; his mind cleared, his pain gone. With nothing better to do, Myrkas took this time alone to reflect, to actually make sense of his situation.


    His memories had settled, no longer dashing around randomly in Myrkas'' head. Holes cribbled them but now, they made sense, mostly. The loose threads of his pasts had been spun into rudimentary balls, then unceremoniously dumped in the basket of his skull, With his life experience somewhat organized, Myrkas could navigate his mind.


    The memories overlapped at many points. In both lives, Myrkas had experienced extensive loneliness, helplessness, and recurrent bouts of unbridled anger. Despite it all, Myrkas'' desire to live, to stir his destiny with his own hands was stronger than ever. No longer would Myrkas feel useless, battered by fate''s currents. Power rested at his fingertips, waiting to be gathered. Cultivation was the key.


    Myrkas spent a while shuffling through his memories, carefully examining each clue, linking events, and corralling general facts. He was tempted to write a dissertation to properly organize his thoughts: it would have been a masterpiece, Myrkas was certain. However, he refrained. Not only would some of his thoughts make a random reader potentially question Myrkas'' sanity, but Myrkas suffered from a distinct lack of nearby paper and pen, and his bed was way too comfortable to leave. It was not that Myrkas was scared to disobey Marta''s order to stay in bed, not at all.


    After analyzing all the facts, Myrkas was pretty convinced he was, indeed, a transmigrator. A modern soul¡ªor mind¡ªmagically transported to a fantasy world. Or, possibly, a past life''s personality resurfaced through extensive trauma. One or the other. It didn''t matter much as the end result was the same: two sets of memories for one person. Furthermore, Myrkas had an inkling he should recognize this universe. Too many things seemed familiar, like knowledge half-forgotten he needed to review to remember. A missing puzzle piece patiently waiting under the couch.


    Anyway, the magical aspect of this world had been all but confirmed. Nothing else could explain his body''s rapid recovery from extensive burns a mere two weeks ago. A feat witnessed by enough people to be believed. In addition, whatever that purple potion was, it was undeniable it had cured Myrkas of his headache and confusion. Qi energy was real, Myrkas knew it in his bones.


    It was tremendous. According to all his sources¡ªthough fictive in origin¡ªMyrkas should be a so-called mighty protagonist! A main character, the unparalleled existence of any story, armed with plot armour, "random" luck, and convenient plot holes. All Myrkas needed was to find his fated overpowered advantages and to get stronger. His golden path to power and riches was traced. The sky was no limit to Myrkas. He was destined to rise above the heavens; as any good cultivation novel''s protagonist.


    Myrkas needed more information. Knowledge was power¡ªcue profound music. His first order of business was to figure out if his new world belonged to a known fictional universe, be it a book or a videogame from his past life. Myrkas intuited he should recognize this place. He knew it, but could not yet ascertain where he was. Fortunately, he had ruled out the popular style of games where the main character died every five minutes. The horror genre was similarly out, to Myrkas'' unending gratitude towards whomever deserved the praise.


    The boy secretly wished his new fate included great adventures, lifelong friendship, and a reasonable end goal to his story, such as saving the world from a great evil. He could also settle for saving a continent. The Empire at the smallest. Although rescuing an Imperial Princess would also be acceptable. As long as there was a dragon somewhere. Because dragons were awesome and made everything better.


    To figure out his current universe, Myrkas needed more information. He, unfortunately, did not remember any specific names. The Holy Allrin Empire, in which he lived, or the God Allrikh did not ring any bells. Even Piercing Jade Valley, their town, did not bring up more than vague recollections from his younger self. Certainly nothing to indicate in which work of fiction he had travelled to. Any rumours of a demon king to defeat, mysterious towers sprouting, monster invasions, aliens or any other world-ending calamity would be beyond helpful. Everything was too damn peaceful, suspiciously so in an isekai world.

 5.2 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai’d

    Disappointment did nudge at him a little. Myrkas'' dreams of piloting a mecha or of an owl bearing magical letters were down the drain. The typical, western medieval setting was also out. The people''s skin colours varied too much, from "burns-like-a-lobster on a cloudy day" to "century-old varnished walnut-wood hard floor." The architecture did not fit the typical castle town. The roofs were too flat, with curved extremities, and half-sphere domes on the taller buildings here and there. The ensemble gave more of an ancient Eastern to Middle Eastern flair to the urban environment.


    Despite the setting, Myrkas had yet to encounter any flashy ninjas, jade beauties, or entitled young masters. It might have escaped his notice that his own circumstances could qualify him as a so-called young master.


    While their absence did not confirm anything, it did narrow down the list quite a bit. At least Myrkas had not ended up in a lower technology mundane world. Imagining leaving modern times, with cellphones and other conveniences for a good-old, magic-less, elbow-grease-powered world made Myrkas shudder. He quickly thanked again any divine entity in his vicinity for having avoided this fate.


    Myrkas couldn''t help but be a little worried about his assumed protagonist status. While it usually meant great rewards, protagonists'' trajectories were often not straight and involved more pain and sorrows than Myrkas cared for. And while he had all but confirmed to now live in a not entirely typical cultivation world, Myrkas had yet to see overt cultivators: those powerful people on the road to immortality and ascension.


    His immediate entourage also lacked any obvious co-leads or important secondary characters. Myrkas himself was pretty plain for a main character. He had no fancy hairdo with natural, two-toned hair or a striking eye color or even a magical birthmark. He was a little disappointed, to be honest. Almost enough to make him doubt his lead character status. Almost.


    Another crucial clue, harems were a thing here. Widely accepted and not just for stupidly rich people who could get away with it. Very much double standards though, as they were always composed of one man with any number of women. Absolutely no reverse, whatsoever. As a hopeful romantic, waiting anxiously for his one true love, Myrkas disliked the whole one-sided harem concept. Especially with Nirrina just thrown at his uncle, like mere chattel. It wasn''t right. He wasn''t sure how exactly marriage worked here, but from what Myrkas knew, it smelled fishy.


    Something to dwell on later, though. He first needed power and influence to be able to change anything. Myrkas had to build his strength to protect Nirrina. His envisioned future awesomeness was only a happy side-effect.


    Before Myrkas could ponder any further, the door opened. His uncle, Koriss, entered. Like the previous night, the older man settled on Myrkas'' bed without a word in greeting. A heavy silence followed, neither relative knowing how to start the conversation.


    "You scared me," confessed Koriss. "Not your fault, of course. Never your fault, boy, but maybe mine. I thought I would lose you. That Nirrina girl was beside herself, sick with worry. And just as we finally get her to rest, you wake up."


    Sharp amber eyes, the same as his own, looked back at Myrkas.


    "Sorry," Koriss choked out, looking away, embarrassed. "I''m not good at this boy, never been. And I can''t keep calling you boy, it''s not right. Humm... Myrkas, Myrkassa," the man paused, hesitating.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    "Kassa, talk to me please."


    "I don''t know what to say," Myrkas said, his voice feeble. "I''m lost too."


    Silence stretched anew between them, although much lighter.


    "I can help with that, I think," Koriss said. "Kassa, the day that fire... burned, I don''t know what you remember. Might be better if you don''t. Anyway, when I found you, you had stopped breathing. Your body was burned so bad, almost charred. You kept making this terrible wheeze every few seconds, followed by a weak cough of ash and blood. If we''d been even a little later... If Nirrina had not come straight to me..."


    Myrkas'' uncle stopped for a moment, his eyes glassy, unfocused. Myrkas was transfixed. He swallowed thickly, throat suddenly dry. Flashes of heat, pain, and panic busted in the boy''s mind. He closed his eyes and could not help but listen on.


    "I dumped every healing salve I had on you. Every potions, elixirs, and pills. I thank Allrikh every day I carried enough. That trauma, that kind of damage Kassa, it can reach deeper. Go beyond the physical and seep through to your soul.


    "You''re strong, boy. A lot more than me. Got out of it. Survived on sheer will."


    Koriss gingerly reached for his nephew''s shoulder, gave it a short squeeze, and retreated his hand. Following a deep breath, the man went on.


    "I can sense Qi you know, comes with the profession. Any half-decent alchemist needs to cultivate. Bare mortals are but charlatans, snake-oil salesmen.


    "There was Qi in that fire. Not natural those flames. They had intent, a foreign will was driving them. I don''t know who, how or why but they will pay. This, I promise you, Kassa."


    Koriss sighed again.


    "Your soul, boy, it cracked, got damaged. I am not much of a healer but I can still tell some. Again, comes with the alchemy. It''s odd. The soul is protected, hard to reach. You never cultivated, never carved meridians or tried to open one of your gates. There should not have been a path for the fire to flow through. And the cracks didn''t feel burned. It was almost as if the force came from your soul, not the other way around. It''s baffling. Makes no sense. I hoped time was all you needed, didn''t want to make it worse. The girl was right though, I should have given you the elixir earlier."


    Koriss''s shoulders dropped under unseen burdens. His expression was dour. The man was wary.


    "What''s done is done," he said. "It worked, praise Allrikh it worked."


    Koriss stood to leave on these words. In an instant, Myrkas grabbed his sleeve, stopping the man.


    "What does it mean?" the boy asked, uncertainty in his voice.


    Myrkas recalled all too well his agony and confusion marring the past days.


    "I don''t know;'' Koriss answered. "Some marks are left, scars in your soul. They are hard to detect by now. But there to find if one knows what to look for. The soul remains the least understood of the three planes. Your body is fine though. Few scars in your throat and lungs. Explains why your voice is a little hoarse."


    Koriss paused to think, a faraway look in his eyes. His lips moved silently while his hands made intermittent jerking motions. He looked half-crazed for a minute, a madman.


    "Your Qi plane is fine, Kassa. No change, gates closed. No awakened bloodline I can see. And your soul, with the scars and the elixir, I really can''t say. Your soul is your core, your link to fate, Karma, your sense of self, and your memories. Your soul is the one immortal plane you have, the one piece going through reincarnations. What it means, I do not know. Anything or nothing. Maybe everything. I wish I could tell you, Kassa. It''s beyond me."


    The two kept silent awhile, lost in thoughts. Then, grunting, Koriss stood again to leave.


    "I''ll go get the girl. She should have rested enough. She''ll want to know you''re okay. Scared her half to death again," Koriss murmured as he left.

 6.1 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai’d

    The following weeks saw Myrkas adapting to his¡ªyet unprecised¡ªmagical world. While Qi was not officially deemed "magic'', it definitively was¡ªat least according to Myrkas. The boy had witnessed his uncle light up candles with a flick of his fingers, running water (thank Heavens) was helped by runic enchantments, and the fire oven was regulated by an arcane formation. Qi was used in many ways to improve and supplement life. There was so much to learn, such potential, and excitement!


    Unfortunately, Myrkas'' attempts to confidently determine if he was in a "known" fictive world or not did not bear fruits. His inconspicuous information gathering, under the guise of "playing" with the eight-year-old little terror otherwise known as Martine, had brought clues but no definite proof. The "lore" of the Holy Allrin Empire was eerily similar to an unfinished web novel he had read not long before his transmigration¡ªalthough time was a highly variable concept in his case. If only Myrkas could remember specific names instead of descriptions.


    That would be too easy, he guessed.


    Nonetheless, most of the setting fit: from the mix and match of Middle Eastern and East Asian cultural components to the intimately tangled Imperial and sect politics, including the overall less disruptive attitude of cultivators towards common mortals compared to traditional cultivation stories, it all fit nicely. However, one major issue prevented Myrkas from reaching a satisfying, rock-solid conclusion. The story did not match. At all.


    Usually, a transmigrator should appear either as a main character or around the main cast. Typically, one would become the villainess or the chosen hero''s less talented childhood friend. Myrkas would have been fine being stuck as a worthless background character. But even a background character needed to be in the background. And Myrkas was none of the above! Far from it.


    The web series in question starred a young, handsome and talented Imperial Prince. It detailed his time at war against a Northern Kingdom and the betrayal he suffered from his jealous half-brother, the Imperial Crown Prince. The first arc culminated with the princely protagonist''s fall from grace, and the subsequent arcs related his journey to gain back wealth and power to accomplish his revenge.


    All well and good, except the Allrin Empire was currently at peace. The last skirmishes in the southwestern territories had ended three years ago. The Great Imperial General Jinyingk had made quick work of the island nation of Nihinn, securing the Empire''s sea shores.


    Worse, Myrkas'' current geographic location prevented any interaction with the plot. Piercing Jade Valley was in the northwestern quadrant of the roughly oval-shaped Empire, far away from any potential battlefield. While Myrkas did not know the name of the Allrin Empire''s foe, he acutely recalled the deadly swamp, a cornerstone in the Betrayal, to be located at the northeastern border. As the first arc''s action happened towards the end of the war, there was no way for Myrkas to predict when the war would start and end. With him being so far away, getting on location at the right time was most improbable.


    To add insult to injury, the Imperial Capital, the Holy City of the Purple Sunrise, the physical location where Allrikh himself¡ª The First Emperor¡ªAscended, was situated over three weeks away by caravan. Any hope Myrkas had of "accidentally" meeting the princely main character before the events of the book were crushed. The prince''s residence¡ªthe Imperial Palace, obviously¡ªwas just too damn far away. Disregarding the fact that Myrkas came from a mere commoner family, the physical distance diminished the probability of any interaction between the princeling and Myrkas to near zero. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    What a shame, Myrkas thought, resigned.


    He would have liked to confirm which world he was in. That way, all his memorized lore and plot events should let him gain a tremendous advantage! In his disappointment, Myrkas again almost doubted his own "protagonist status:" almost. He had transmigrated; he had to have a grand destiny awaiting him. And Myrkas did possess the most common protagonist characteristic: a tragic back story. No good fantasy story started without a good old pitiable main character. Myrkas had it all: orphaned from a tragic fire, mysterious soul damage, and a possible grand foe responsible for his family''s death. He could overlook his upper-middle-class status. One did not need to be destitute to be a main character. Emotional and physical trauma had to count for something. Myrkas'' story needed no prince! He was enough. There was no need for any "original" protagonist.


    And so Myrkas'' life went on. The question remained in the background. As his life normalized, the problem of figuring out if his new reality was based on a fictive work or not lost importance. Myrkas had gathered his bearings and lived his life, pretty carefree. He had adapted so well, the question being relegated so far down his priority list, he almost missed the irrefutable proof linking Myrkas'' new universe to the mediocre harem web novel he thought he had transmigrated to.


    The proof came by on accident¡ªat least Myrkas swore the event was completely accidental. On a fateful morning, Myrkas, with his new, carefree attitude, entered Nirrina''s quarters without knocking. Unfortunately¡ªor fortunately, evidence-wise¡ªthe young woman was in the middle of dressing when the boy barged into her room.


    Mortified, Myrkas froze. His twelve-year-old self had no resistance to a near-naked feminine form. As most boys his age would react to such a sight of a close female relative, his brain stopped, unsure how to compute. But not before Myrkas noticed an intricate silver chain circling Nirrina''s hips.


    "Myrkassa, you should have knocked," Nirrina chided him while pinching the boy''s cheek, unaware of his sudden confusion.


    In truth, Myrkas had not seen much. Nirrina had had loose pants on, narrowed at the ankles as was the common fashion. She had been in the process of putting on the vest-like garment she used to reign in her bosom instead of a modern underwired bra when he entered the room.


    Still, the sight of Nirrina''s bared back made him uncomfortable. In his boyish way, Myrkas had almost forgotten his Nirrina was a young woman under her clothes. A young woman who could be naked.


    These thoughts led to feelings far away from the usual sense of peace and comfort she evoked in Myrkas. Better to steer away, he promptly decided. She was his beloved big sister. The woman part would stay hidden away and ignored. Myrkas refused to become a creepy asshole. No weird step-siblings shenanigans in any future. Something Myrkas did not understand why it had been so popular in his past life...


    Proud of his¡ªself-assessed¡ªimpressive display of emotional intelligence and maturity, Myrkas nearly missed what Nirrina said next.


    "Wait outside Myrkassa, I won''t be long. I only have my shirt, outer robe, and bodice left."


    Dismissed, Myrkas waited by the door. Despite his masterful handling of his peri-pubertal feelings, something nagged his mind. Something shiny. He pondered, lost in thoughts for a moment until suddenly, it clicked. The last detail he needed to confirm his hypothesis of now living in a not-that-good harem web series.


    "Nirrina, what''s that chain you wear?"


    "What, my bond? Myrkassa, don''t tell me you forgot about it. Do I need to explain again? Or do you prefer we go to the temple? The priests can explain it better than I."


    "No, it''s okay, I remember now," Myrkas replied in shock.

 6.2 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai’d

    Indeed, he remembered now. All too well. Not many writers would dare include a weird-ass Temple-backed magical chastity belt. And mandatory, to boot. The whole concept was fucked up. Myrkas had thought so when he first read the novel and his opinion had not changed.


    A bond on a key, given by the temple of Allrikh to all women after their first menses¡ªof course. How original. A goddamn chastity belt. Except the "key" was not bestowed to the woman herself. Of course not! The power to unlock her belt was always given to a man. Her supposed protector, her guardian. Her owner. Her key''s keeper. A long-standing tradition.


    When it was merely fiction, Myrkas had not thought much of the whole concept: a vessel for some perverted author''s wish fulfillment most likely. It was a harem-type web series, not a great work of literature. Acceptable entertainment to pass the time. And Myrkas had had a lot of idle time to pass with his repeated hospital visits in his previous life.


    However, the concept''s implications were wholly different now. Myrkas lived here. Nirrina was his heart sister. Women were actually owned by men here, all under the guise of "protection."


    Hells, the original protagonist "collected" keys as he went along his adventures. The princeling had amassed five wives by the time Myrkas stopped reading. Sure, people here called it "divinely ordained protection." It was supposedly all for women''s benefits. No matter, the interested had no say in who took hold of their key. The previous guardian, usually a lady''s father, was the one to choose the next. If they didn''t keep her "in the family" by handing her key to a cousin or, shudders, an uncle.


    The prince often bypassed this requirement by outright killing the previous owner. Vindicated by the horrible state in which he found his future wives in, the princeling quickly proceeded to "liberate" them before adding them to his harem "for their own protection."


    It was twisted, wicked. And the women could be "given" or "gifted" away at any time. Myrkas'' self-appointed big sister, his chosen family, could be taken from him at any time.


    Unacceptable. Nirrina needed to be safe. To be able to choose her fate. Myrkas had to free her, protect her. To be strong enough to be her shield, a true shield. His quest for power had a higher purpose now. A true, honourable goal. Nirrina could not be forced to... Myrkas shivered, refusing to think about it.


    "Nirrina, who has your key?"


    The young woman frowned before she answered.


    "Master Hakhmir of course. Who else?"


    Myrkas was stunned, unsure how to proceed. Was he supposed to save Nirrina from his uncle? His awkward, distant but so far decent uncle? It wasn''t as if Nirrina and himself were suffering, on the contrary. They were living well and nothing untoward had happened.


    Where would they go once Nirrina was freed? How would Myrkas free her? He was too young to hold a key. Any grown man would be able to get her a new belt and keep the key. The only requirement to get a new set was for a man of age, fifteen, to present himself to the temple with any unbound woman past her first menses. The temple didn''t assess if the man had any right to her or if he could adequately protect her. If she was found without a bond, her previous guardian''s claim was automatically voided. A "failure to protect" clause. Hence bonds were never taken off, only unlocked. And keys guarded more preciously than mundane gold.


    "But uncle is so old," Myrkas exclaimed. "He can''t possibly be your husband!"


    Nirrina merely chuckled at his vehemence.


    "Your father wasn''t that much younger, you know. And I prefer to be inherited than to bear the shame of adding another name to mine! Or to be left in the Temple''s care."


    She moved closer to him, to gently ruffle his hair.


    "It''s okay Myrkassa, Master Hakhmir is a good man. Not very talkative but plenty kind. I think. He is a disinterested guardian more than a husband. I am afraid you will not have cute little cousins anytime soon. It almost makes me sad. And bored. I have nothing to do. I have never been so idle. I might have been treated as a servant in your father''s house, but at least I was occupied. Serni and Marta take care of everything here. And I don''t dare mess with your uncle''s things. I laze around all day, exactly like a wealthy sabisa."


    "But... but what if he gives you away? I can''t lose you," Myrkas added.


    The boy did not cry, definitively not. Myrkas had a grain of sand in his eye. Or someone was cutting onions nearby. His rising heartbeat did not spring from anxiety. No cause there. Myrkas only had legitimate, selfless concerns for his big sister and her future. He did not fear being left alone. He did not have. abandonment issues. Nope.


    The system was just so crooked. Women didn''t have rights. This "divinely mandated" protection was filled with loopholes and opportunities for abuse. These were central to so many plot points and minor arcs in the web series. Hells, that was how the princeling gathered most of his harem members. Save the damsel and keep her key. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    It was all wrong, but Myrkas didn''t see a way out. Nirrina''s safety was his first concern. He wasn''t enough now. Didn''t possess enough strength, wealth, and influence. He needed all to keep her safe, to make sure none could send her away.


    Nirrina was his rock, his one constant in this world. She was always there when he needed, whether with a word or a hug. Or an admonishment on some rare occasions. She answered all his stupid questions and repeated as needed, with infinite patience. A big sister straight out of a fairy tale, the type the hero risked all to save from the dragon.


    Tears started to fall on Myrkas'' cheeks. A sniffle or two was heard. Arms embraced him, Nirrina being there, always. She patted his hair, soothing.


    "Don''t worry Myrkassa, I''m not going anywhere. I''ll talk to your uncle, find a way to make myself useful, irreplaceable. Even so, I don''t believe he would give me away. He... cares, in his own way. I''m sure. I think.


    "Anyway, he is way too busy with his work to bother finding me a new guardian. I am not such a hot commodity, I know. Too skinny, too pimply, no special talent. He won''t have to beat suitors away from his doorstep!"


    Nirrina lightly chuckled while hugging Myrkas tighter.


    "See Myrkassa, no need to worry. And stop calling me Nirrina, it is too distant! I am your Nirsa like you are my Myrkassa. People will worry I mistreat you if they hear you calling me without a mark of affection. We are family; it doesn''t matter how it came to be."


    She smiled at Myrkas, drying his tears with her sleeve.


    "There, now what were you barging in my room for? I taught you better manners. It looks like you need some more lessons on politeness and etiquette."


    "I just wanted to see you Nirsa, I swear," Myrkas said as he escaped. "The day is much better when I see you first thing in the morning," he even added, shameless.


    Her bright laughter chased him as he ran, headed to a secluded spot in the gardens. Myrkas went to hide under his favourite tree. Its branches hung over the banks of a pond, with its small, pale blue leaves caressing the water. The tree''s large trunk made for the perfect backrest. Its pale gray, birch-like bark provided just enough cushioning to allow Myrkas to spend hours sitting between its roots.


    The tree was situated across a quasi-island at the border of the estate. A simple stone bridge crossed the stream linking this pond to the rest of the water features on the grounds. It made a natural barrier between the verdant field passed the bridge and the rest of the garden.


    The large patch of tall, emerald grasses made quite a contrast against the varied flowers, bushes, and trees dominating the majority of the estate.


    The field across the bridge was uniform in its composition. The waist-high plants waved in harmony with the breeze. The wind carried their sharp scent, similar to a mix of freshly cut grass and lemongrass oil. It smelled of summer.


    Myrkas didn''t wander too close to the green sea though. The tall spindles hid needle-like protrusions aplenty. Myrkas only needed one extremely painful scratch to decide he''d better stay away, on the tree side of the low bridge.


    He felt safe in his secret spot. Hidden from the world and secure in nature. No one had found him there so far¡ªalthough the search efforts were unlikely to have been very extensive so far, seeing as Myrkas always came back for meals.


    Myrkas settled in his little haven, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. His frantic heart calmed down. This place helped quiet his mind after his unexpected emotional roller coaster.


    However, something great had come out of his eventful morning. Myrkas knew. He was certain, without doubt, that he had, in fact, transmigrated into the world of the terrible web novel. The fact that Myrkas could not remember the name of the book or of its characters was unimportant. He recalled the details¡ªmost of them¡ªthe plot, and the setting. He could start planning. Leverage his literal otherwordly knowledge to rise above all others!


    Despite his growing enthusiasm, Myrkas kept himself in check. He was not dumb. He could not assume everything would be faithful to what he remembered from the web series. He would still need to test and experiment on his path to power.


    In a stroke of wisdom, Myrkas decided to put the concern of the original plot and its princely main character aside. First, Myrkas saw no way to figure out when he was in the timeline until the expansion war began. Even then, he didn''t remember how long it had gone on before the last battle and the Betrayal occurred. Hard to take advantage of "prescient" knowledge when you didn''t know when certain events should happen. Myrkas plainly didn''t want to waste time running all around unless he had a better idea of what to expect from Empire politics.


    Second, the prince lived far from Myrkas. As the saying went "Far from eyes, far from mind!'' Or was it "Far from eyes, far from heart?" Whatever, Myrkas hadn''t liked his royal personality much. The princeling was arrogant, impulsive, and coasted on plot armour, money, and his bloodline. Not a great guy to know. At least, Myrkas wasn''t a girl. He had escaped ever becoming another harem piece.


    Getting embroiled with any of the imperial princes spelled disaster. Succession politics were dangerous. Of course, the supposed main character should prevail in the end. However, Myrkas had no easy way to discern which royal highness was the right one. Thanks to their imperial bloodline, necessary to inherit the throne, they all shared the same description: light-blonde hair, violet eyes, and smooth golden skin.


    It was too dangerous. Better to stay as far away in his little provincial corner for as long as Myrkas could. Who needed royal friends or enemies? Not Myrkas.


    All that was left for the tween was to gain power. Gather strength to protect himself and his loved ones. Myrkas lived in a cultivation world! It meant training sequences, hidden old masters¡ªand monsters¡ªsecret treasures, overconsumption of pills and elixirs, and, most importantly, meditation. The sacred arts of Qi gathering and enlightenment through meditation and worldly reflections were a must, essential to any respectable cultivators.


    The princeling had meditated and reflected so much in the novel that some people thought the author was trying to start a self-help cult. The web series had been filled with profound-sounding yet meaningless idioms and poems.


    But no worries, Myrkas was convinced he would easily get the hang of it. After all, how hard could it be to meditate?

 7.1 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai’d

    Before Myrkas could dedicate his time to perfecting his doubtlessly overpowered self-made Qi-based meditation technique, he needed to come up with a way to secure funds. Cultivation resources were expensive. In this world, the inability to acquire Qi-filled ingredients, advanced Qi-gathering formations, or potent alchemical aids was the most common reason for a failure to advance on the power ladder.


    Luckily for Myrkas, his uncle was well-endowed¡ªjuvenile innuendo incidental. Unfortunately, Master Hakhmir''s wealth was far from the "senselessly pour priceless treasures down his nephew''s throat for a minute increase in strength" level. Only favoured scions from prominent sects and high-level aristocratic families could afford to raise powerful cultivators this way.


    Although, this method¡ªthe pour money down the drain one¡ªwasn''t without risks either. A single mistake in the combination of resources could shatter someone''s foundations and cripple their potential. It made for unbalanced martial arts practitioners. People with force but little knowledge of how to apply it, akin to grand, beautiful machines with little use and no flexibility.


    This type of "training" was usually reserved for moderately talented individuals with a high social status in crafting sects. The narrowed aspect of their final capabilities was less problematic when they were already destined to specialize in a certain aspect of a craft.


    In short, despite his familial advantages, Myrkas could not rely on the power of free cheat pills to easily advance in cultivation. Nope, if Myrkas ever hoped to use the "power of money," he would have to make his own.


    Like all good isekai''d protagonists, Myrkas had his modern technological understanding to leverage in his quest for riches. It was a fool-proof path. A strategy proven by several fictional main characters before him, all with the innate mastery of the inner workings of technology. Who, in the modern world, didn''t know exactly how a smartphone worked?


    Well, Myrkas for one. While the tween did have extensive miscellaneous knowledge, thanks to hours upon hours passed bored in a hospital bed with a working internet connection, the specificities of electronics eluded him. A shame, truly, as inventing processors and building magical computers would have assured his golden future. Even the simple calculator was out of Myrkas'' reach. Old-school abacuses would have to do for the boy''s mathematical needs.


    Myrkas had to go simpler, more fundamental. Electricity! That wasn''t hard to make. All Myrkas needed was a copper wire shaped in a coil and a magnet. Move the magnet around and bam! Electrical power. In a single circuit. As long as you kept the magnet in motion. Great for a tiny incandescent light or to moderately heat a piece of ceramic, but not much else.


    Revolutionary, for sure, but nowhere near ready for mass-market. He would need batteries, power lines, and sources of mechanical power to convert. The whole set-up was complex... and expansive. Hard to convince respectable investors when the "inventor" and lead of the project had not yet gone through puberty... Even more so when Runic Qi already helped power a bunch of appliances.


    Myrkas needed something else, something sure. An indisputable way to generate cash¡ªor coins and taels as it was called here. Nine coins to one tael each of copper, silver, gold, and spirit jade. One hundred taels of copper to make the value of a single silver tael. Myrkas had not yet been made aware of further conversions as the likelihood he saw even a hint of a gold coin was next to non-existent until he reached adulthood.


    Anyway, he needed to start somewhere to get there. the concept of banking and compound interest would have been nice, but Myrkas was more than aware that project would require even more funds. That was if any same person would trust a twelve-year-old boy to safeguard and manage their money. And that was if banks didn''t already exist. The princeling in the story had not used any, but that did not mean banking institutions were not around. The prince''s needs were hardly representative of those of the general population.


    It looked like Myrkas had better keep to the classics. The good old transmigrator weapon in the money-making department: fancy, but accessible, and affordable soap.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    People of Piercing Jade Valkey did not smell awful per se. However, the distinct lack of mass-produced quality soap left the inhabitants of this town smelling muskier than Myrkas'' modern sensibilities were used to. Soap wasn''t hard to make in and of itself, but good, consistent, nice-smelling, and soft-on-skin soap was another story. If Myrkas could nail this, his fortune was made.


    What''s more, Myrkas lived with an alchemist! One specialized in moderately cheap but effective concoctions in larger than usual volumes. With the right ingredients, Myrkas dreamed of making the first¡ªand hopefully only¡ªcheap-ish Qi-infused soap. Skin- care and hygiene in one single product. Jade-like skin left and right. The path¡ªalso called Dao¡ªof Beauty would prevail! Sky was the limit and Myrkas was destined to transcend Heavens!


    All Myrkas needed to execute his flawless plan were lye water, some type of oil, heat and regular water. Easy, peasy, broccolini. And some cheap Qi-filled ingredients his uncle would not miss. And a way to add pleasing scents. And some type of instrument to verify pH¡ªthe logarithmic concentration of hydrogen ions for purists. And a source of lye substitutes if he could, as those were softer on the skin. Myrkas wondered for an instant what exactly "sodium lauryl sulphate" looked like in its pure form. Or how to make it. Whatever, it could not be that complicated to achieve. Myrkas was a main character, an alchemist''s nephew in a cultivation world. If bored hippies could do it in the modern world, he could too.


    His success was guaranteed! Alchemy-level soap was incoming. Strong enough to wash away body odour, dirt, and grease while gentle enough to leave the skin soft as silk and perfectly hydrated. Myrkas would conquer the hygiene market, revolutionize skin care. Meditation could wait. He had money to make.


    ***


    Despite Myrkas'' boundless enthusiasm, the quality soap-making process was not as simple as he had hoped. In this pre-industrialization society, without the complex and standardized chemical processing brought with its development, no ready source of pure, easy-to-measure lye was available. Myrkas could not order a bucket of lye crystals from his favourite online merchant. The undeterred boy had to gather his lye the old-fashioned way: by making lye water with a barrel full of wood ashes and rainwater. And time, lots of it.


    Myrkas'' amazing, revolutionary cheap alchemic soap project had hit another roadblock in the short time since its conception. Namely, Myrkas did not know how to sense or gather Qi¡ªthe mystical energy fuelling cultivation. Neither how to incorporate it into soap. Or anything else for that matter.


    He had ideas, practical ones, such as throwing a bunch of spiritual-looking herbs in a pot and "ahom" very hard at it. Unfortunately, the boy was too pragmatic to put any faith in such a half-assed technique.


    What a letdown. Learning the basics of Qi sense and manipulation needed to come first. Myrkas had to take his first steps on the road towards unimaginable power. Heaven-defying strength was the ultimate goal.


    Myrkas'' first small step could only be one thing then: meditation.


    His money-making scheme debuted¡ªmeaning Myrkas had filled a barrel with wood ashes, put a hole at the bottom, left a collecting tray underneath, and put the whole contraption somewhere outside to be rained on¡ªMyrkas headed back to his little haven under the blue willow-like tree.


    Settled, he immediately adopted the famed lotus position or, more exactly, what Myrkas thought was the lotus position. In reality, he simply sat cross-legged with his wrists resting on his knees. No foot resting on the opposite thigh to ensure maximal pretzel-like posture. Regrettably, Myrkas had no one around to correct his misconception.


    Next, the boy concentrated on... well on... on his breathing: the air going in and out of his lungs. Myrkas breathed. He took deep breaths in and out, "humming" diligently on exhale. Myrkas was insanely happy to be able to breathe easily at the moment or this entire meditation thing would have become quite the ordeal.


    Eyes closed, the aspiring cultivator kept at it for what seemed like an eternity. Myrkas lasted a grand total of seven minutes and almost a half before getting too bored to continue. To be fair, not bad for a first try.


    Already Myrkas could feel it. He was... relaxed. And bored. No immediate transcendent change had come upon his mortal self. Maybe he was missing something?


    Position?¨Ccheck,


    Deep breathing?¨Cvery check,


    Inspiring, Qi-saturated environment?¨Chopefully, check.


    Myrkas'' favourite tree in a successful alchemist''s garden had to be somewhat mystical.


    A profound mantra?¨Ccheck.


    He could not go wrong with a classic like "Hum"'' and he had no desire to risk the dreadful "Qi deviation" so early in his journey.


    Cultivation technique?¨CCultivation technique!


    There was Myrkas'' mistake. For certain! What else? He needed a cultivation manual. An obscure literary work describing some fancy way to circulate his Qi while he meditated. Some profound sentences full of hidden meanings and their accompanying esoteric diagrams. And the appropriate mantra to repeat and reflect on.

 7.2 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai’d

    Sadly, cultivation manuals were jealously guarded by sects and powerful martial families. More often than not, one had to be close to a minor noble to ever hope to glance at one.


    The princely main character had been well into his cultivation journey at the start of the web series. Way past the starting line, where Myrkas currently stood. The Imperial Scion had benefited from tutors and abundant resources at all steps before the Betrayal.


    The lucky not-bastard even possessed the famed Imperial Bloodline, a true cheat in and of itself. All reasons why Myrkas could not just copy his technique. It was enough to make a reasonable person green with envy. Myrkas would have hated the royal brat if not for the fact the princeling would later fall to betrayal.


    Figuratively stabbed in the back by his own brother to boot, so sad. Myrkas could sympathize, similar memories coming to the fore of his mind. Of his grandparents'' rejection, leaving him alone and surrounded by strangers in uniforms. Another of a dismissive father and a cold mother, Cealessly comparing him to his older, more talented half-brother. Of being replaced by a brand-new little brother.


    Myrkas clamped down on his feelings, ruthlessly shoving them away. He had no time to waste on half-remembered sob stories. They were dead anyway, or not in this world.


    He had Nirsa now, that was all that mattered. And his uncle too, if they ever managed to get closer. Myrkas needed to talk to him anyway, feelings or no feelings involved. He had to ask for help with his soap.


    No need to deal with unresolved family drama. Repression worked best, it was known, even in a magical universe.


    Resolved, Myrkas re-centered himself. He reprised his lost "lotus" position and started again. Inhale, exhale: an unending cycle of life. This time, he also visualized energy moving from his lungs to his heart, then through it, pumped along with his blood to every corner of his body. Myrkas strained to feel it, to sense the Qi he knew was there, thrumming along his pulse. He pictured his blood coursing through his vessels, delivering life down to his toes and back to his heart. The boy was so entranced he forgot to "hum." Damn it all.


    Myrkas tried again, this time lasting three full minutes of near-perfect meditation before getting distracted.


    A wayward bee had taken advantage of his quasi-immobility to rest on his hand. Myrkas dared not move. He was not scared, of course not. He deeply respected the bee. A wonderful insect. Only, Myrkas did not fathom himself as a "bee cultivator." The Dao of the Bee was not for him. Black and yellow were decidedly not his colours. A sting would set him back on his meditative journey.


    It was not that Myrkas was afraid of the pain, not at all. He was only concerned about his cultivation, his budding path. To avert any interference, the boy engaged his secret defensive technique: "to be as a statue." He took slow and shallow breaths; the air flowing the slightest breeze. Myrkas concentrated on slowing down his heart rate and his metabolism with mitigated results. Sweat ran down his brow, evidence of his tremendous effort and not of a mere feeling like bug-induced terror.


    Myrkas stayed still for an untold amount of time. Luckily, it worked. The bee flew away ''peacefully''. Of course, this outcome was thanks to his flawless technique. The bee did not just realize Myrkas was not of the floral kind. The bee truly believed the boy was made of stone, and not a tasty snack or an enemy.


    Relief and pride flooded Myrkas. He had overcome his first ordeal. He was not being dramatic for this situation could have ended in blood and tears, for both of them. Bees were not to be underestimated.


    Myrkas had learned a great lesson today: to let "bee" be. More proof he had staunchly embarked on the treacherous Path of Mysticism.


    His future as a revered sage was more or less guaranteed. Myrkas could already see his future self with a long, distinguished white beard. Or maybe he would aim to keep his youthful looks, surprising those seeking his infinite wisdom. A decision for later. He did have to go through puberty first. The "child immortal" trope was not amongst his favoured ones.


    And so Myrkas kept to his meditation. By noon, he could almost feel the changes. A subtle tingling sensation ran along his limbs. Although, it might also be caused by stiff muscles, for the tween had not moved much in the past few hours.


    Myrkas so wished for there to be a convenient, objective way to assess his progress. With numbers and experience points, just like a videogame. It would make everything so much easier. Oh well, he would figure it out eventually. It was no use crying over what-ifs. Especially since Myrkas had a nagging feeling something similar existed in this world. A system-like assessment and training tool anyone could use.


    He remembered the details little by little. Those artifacts were rare and incredibly hard to find. They were monopolized by the powerful, mainly the Imperials and the Empire''s Army, a few noble families, and the most prominent cultivation sects. In addition, those tools were very specialized. One focused on sword arts would be of little use to a cultivator who only used staffs or, even worse, to a musical arts adept.


    It was the same for craft-focused ones. And those limits didn''t even take the differing quality between artifacts. They were not all made the same. Looking for one in this moderate-sized town was a fool''s errand. Myrkas would have more luck with trying to enter a school or a sect as an outer disciple.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    Those two types of training centers were briefly mentioned in the novel. They served as a way to attract and polish new blood for crafting guilds and sects. The web series did not dwell on it though. No school arc as the prince, being a prince, never needed them.


    Another reason to talk to his uncle. There were so many things Myrkas had to learn. Still, he could not help the smile that spread on his lips. Myrkas'' future was choked full of possibilities.


    ***


    Two nonats¡ªthe nine-day span used in the Holy Allrin Empire instead of the seven-day week¡ªpassed as Myrkas dedicated all his free time to advancing his meditation and his soap-making, in no particular order. His results were quite mixed. His soaps were inconsistent, notwithstanding their inadequate curing time due to the boy''s impatience. The resulting misshapen bars were either too strong, leaving the skin red and irritated, or too weak, struggling to remove traces of dirt, and hopeless against tough grease.


    Myrkas longed for simple, accurate measuring instruments such as thermometers and pH strips. The temptation to secretly break into his uncle''s workshop grew day by day, as while Myrkas did not wish to bother the man, the boy did want to take a peek at all Koriss had available. But Myrkas resisted so far. He did fear the consequences of getting caught. No smart dog bit the hand that fed him. Not that Myrkas was a dog... Whatever.


    To add insult to injury, most instruments in this world needed a modicum of Qi to function. And regardless of all his meditation, Myrkas had not an inkling of Qi-sense. His dreams of bending Qi to his will seemed so far away.


    He felt scammed. It was completely unfair. Where were his protagonist''s shortcuts? His lucky power-ups? Myrkas feared he might not be as much of a main character as he had thought. Maybe not even a side character. He felt more like an extra, a side note. Possibly the subject of a random side story.


    Myrkas did miss the usual "important character" traits. On top of his ordinary hair and eye colour, the boy was bereft of a mysterious bloodline or spirit beast ancestry. His meridians were not even crippled!


    Myrkas wallowed in his misery for a bit.


    Woe is me, the poor, unfortunate orphan utterly lacking in free overpowered cheat-like abilities.


    Myrkas sighed heavily and nestled further into his fluffy nest, leaning back on his favourite tree.


    He took comfort in his meagre successes these past nonats. His "return to routine" had not been all smooth sailing. He had ingrained muscle memory to thank for not being in a more battered state. Myrka''s "normal" martial studies had almost killed him a few too many times. Hand-to-hand combat training was no joke.


    Unfortunately, muscle memory did not help as much with his scholarly studies. On the bright side, Myrkas'' permanent dark circles and various stages of bruising had helped illustrate his crucial need for animal therapy to his dear Nirrina.


    This novel concept had been harder to sell than initially planned. In Myrkas'' humble opinion, his recent charred state and transient catatonia should have been enough on their own. Myrkas blamed the cultural deficits regarding animal therapy and its benefits to mental, and soul¡ªmight as well butter the toast thickly¨Crecovery.


    The deal had been sealed when Nirsa herself witnessed the healing power of fluffy cuteness. It had only taken a few minutes of her snuggling with baby animals to drive Myrkas'' points home.


    It all culminated in the boy''s current living fur nest. Three goats and two rabbits happily cuddled with him. Each animal had been specifically chosen for their incredible fluffiness. They were the fluffiest, softest little bundles of cuteness, as it should be.


    In Myrkas'' vast(ish) experience, provided by his two¡ªshort¡ªlives, nothing helped more to soothe him than warm and fluffy cuddles. They were a living balm for his soul. The next-plus-ultra for optimism regeneration. Only liars did not appreciate soft and cuddly critters, and Myrkas was no liar. He might omit a small fact here and there, play with the truth sometimes but he would not utter direct lies. Those were too hard to keep straight. Myrkas'' precious brain power was better used elsewhere.


    Like on problems such as figuring out this Qi and cultivation thing. It was not as simple as it looked. Myrkas'' only visible success was in bonding with his new animal companions. The five of them loved to huddle against him when he meditated. Particularly if Myrkas provided ample grass, vegetables, and fruit snacks during his sessions.


    First a bee, now fluffy goats and bunnies. Myrkas would have been more excited if he was trying to become a beast tamer.


    Regrettably, that was not his goal. Myrkas was still invested in creating his own, amazing, meditation technique. He had tried different approaches since the start of his path. None were a certain triumph, but one felt effective. Myrkas had added intent to his mantra. He had changed it from the ever-classic "hum" to a new, catchier one: "harder, better, faster, stronger." Simple, but evocative.


    As Myrkas repeated his line, a growing rhythm seeped from deep in his being. He felt as if his soul sang with him. It had to work. His goats and rabbits nodded along for Heaven''s sake¡ªa fact he should have found more strange as Myrkas only spoke with his inner voice during his meditations.


    In spite of his probable progress, Myrkas stood at a wall, a metaphorical one of course. While it seemed his meditation technique had improved, Myrkas did not feel any different. Meaning he did not feel stronger in any meaningful way. Something needed to change.


    Of course, Myrkas could ask his uncle for advice. It was a very sensible idea. His uncle was the closest thing to a cultivation expert that Myrkas had access to. But the boy didn''t dare. Myrkas did not want to bother him. As Nirsa had said, they were lucky Koriss had accepted them so readily. Myrkas did not want to jeopardize their position with his inane questions. It was a better plan to figure it out on his lonesome. Much more satisfying, too. Who needed help in life? Myrkas'' ego screamed: "Not him!"


    Which meant Myrkas had to do something drastic, something bold, something grand. A legendary feat, no less. No pain, no gain as they said. To put his everything on the line.


    Martial arts protagonists always made progress when faced with life-or-death events. Myrkas would do the same. He was living too peacefully to advance. He had hoped his routine hand-to-hand combat training would suffice, to no avail, despite them leaving the youth black and blue on the regular. The stakes were not high enough, the fights too meticulously planned for his sake. They brought minimal surprise, seldom the need to think on his feet.


    Similarly, the dreaded weapons training, scheduled to start this winter after Myrkas turned thirteen, should not bring the needed spark. Myrkas could feel the broken bones in advance. Pre-emptive phantom pains cursed him.


    He snuggled his rabbit, Lilac, closer. Her silvery fur caressed his cheek, comforting. Without contest, a harem of fluffy female beasts was the best, Even if some¡ª"cough Margoat cough"¡ªtried to chew his hair.


    Deepening his respiration, Myrkas steeled his will. It was time to put himself to the test. To venture forth and show his mettle. To toe the line, survive pain, and transcend his limits.


    Tomorrow. He would do it tomorrow. Beyond question.

 8.1 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai’d

    It took Myrkas two more days to gather sufficient courage to put his plan in motion. His preparations were done. He was as ready as could be for his not-at-all hare-brained plan. It was time, time to take risks in the name of progress.


    Stealthily, Myrkas exited the estate once night had fallen. Outside the gates, he quickly checked on Snow, his second rabbit, hidden in his darkly coloured outer robes. The sneaky ball of white fluff would provide emotional support as well as a contingency plan in case things turned south. She would be in charge of running and getting help. She was the cleverest of rabbits. Much more resourceful than Lilac, truth be told. And easier to hide than a goat. Myrkas would not risk his life without any failsafe. That would be utterly idiotic, and Myrkas was no idiot. He was taking risks, yes, but in a smart, calculated way.


    First, Myrkas headed to the seedier part of town, where the lanterns were¡ªpurposefully?¡ªmore sparse. The alleys narrowed, and most buildings were in a mild state of disrepair. Myrkas should hence have no issue finding an appropriately risky problem to fix. He expected to easily find someone to save or a robbery to interrupt, perfect as a first feat or his budding legend. All the boy needed was a little fight, a small altercation to start his heroic journey.


    Myrkas was hopeful to attain enlightenment tonight: the mythical achievement of becoming one with the universe after a profound realization. The ultimate way to progress up the steps of cultivation, or so stories said.


    Myrkas did not expect a big enlightenment, just a tiny one. No need to prove his innate main character superiority so early. Actually, after reconsideration, saving a cat stuck up a tree should suffice as a first exploit. A tall tree, of course, with small branches at the top. Anything to ensure maximum fright and danger. Myrkas even planned to look down and face the height. It would get his sympathetic system flowing, his fight or flight reflex¡ªor freeze, the often forgotten defence mechanism¡ªengaged. His body would then be flooded with norepinephrine (also known as adrenaline), and help the boy reach previously unattainable strength. Myrkas'' opportunity awaited around the corner, the secret to unlocking his tremendous potential.


    Myrkas moved from shadow to shadow, furtive mode on. As he looked for his opportunity, he practiced his silent-step technique¡ªself-taught, evidently. The shadows were long and deep, the light from the few lanterns and the two moons visible in the sky not managing to penetrate the darkest corners.


    On his way to adventure, Myrkas passed through his old neighbourhood, in front of the temple where he awoke nonats ago. The boy avoided the site of his old house and its burned remains, not ready to confront that sight. The plan was to risk his life tonight, not to have an emotional breakdown.


    The cement-like walls bordering the streets soon gave way to wooden ones and then to unguarded communal courtyards. Brick, stone and mortar were replaced by wood and clay in the make of the more modest abodes. No longer could they be called estates or domains. Houses, cabins, and shacks were more appropriate terms. The people wandering the streets wore well-used garments. Their clothes were simpler, with fewer layers and minimal embellishments. The walkers kept to themselves, looking straight ahead, as if unwilling to become embroiled in any happenings.


    From the shadows, Myrkas looked for his challenge. No cat in distress had been found so far. Then, a muffled bang followed by a strangled noise gave him hope for his heroic endeavour. Myrkas quietly made his way to its origin. He ended up behind a tavern, as evidenced by the ambient noise, strong smoke, and alcohol smell. Myrkas brushed the alley''s wall, careful to stay hidden, stealthy, ninja-like. Twin white and blue-tinted moonlight revealed the scene. Myrkas instantly froze. The boy had expected a patron being thrown out or a young thief breaking in. Not this...If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    The scarred, intimidating man leaning on the back wall of the establishment was being serviced, in a very literal way. The woman part of the noisy duo was on her knees, directly in front of him. Myrkas had an unobstructed view of their profile, to his great discomfort.


    The lady held her robes so as not to dirty them¡ªthe cobbles were indeed dusty. The man''s hand was twisted in her hair, moving along with her head. Wet noises and groans reached Myrkas, who stood immobile, still transfixed by the sight.


    The youth was unclear on what he should do. Should he save her? Would he be saving her? Myrkas was not sure. Her level of "distress" could be debated. This situation was not something Myrkas was familiar with. He had no real-life experience in either of his lives to reference. Nor was it something often described in the works of fiction he had read. He simply did not know how to differentiate abuse from consensual acts in the moment.


    The little amount of experience he had in the sexual subject was theoretical at best. Few memories of literary descriptions and blurry videos were all he had access to. Useless in his current decisional predicament,


    Myrkas indecision snapped when he saw the woman gag and choke. This was definitely wrong. Choking was never acceptable. Air was primordial. Breathing the first instinct. No one could ever willingly accept to be choked.


    Mind made, Myrkas surged forward, planning to surprise tackle the man''s knees. Snow jumped out of his robes, smartly getting out of the way of the coming brawl.


    A few steps and Myrkas was in range. Startled, the woman reared back. The man though, barely glanced at the rushing boy. He looked mostly annoyed. With minimal effort, the tall man caught Myrkas by his hair and yanked him aside. He slammed the boy once on the alley wall and turned back towards the lady.


    Dazed, Myrkas felt his knees give under his weight. It was difficult to support himself. His legs were trembling like a newborn fawn. The man''s steel grip on his hair was the only thing keeping him from crumbling to the grand. Worse, Myrkas had failed to even touch the man before being completely defeated.


    Myrkas watched as the scarred man flipped a few coins to the lady.


    "Here darling, for your trouble. You know the kid? Any reason he''s so stupid?"


    "No Master Ranil," she answered readily. "Never seen him. But do let me know if he wants a turn. You know I don''t discriminate."


    "That''s what I thought. Doesn''t belong here. Bored kid doing dumb things where he shouldn''t be. Well, today is your lucky day kid, you get free advice from the Great Master Suna Ranil himself! Don''t thank me, it''s from the very bottom of my oh-so-generous heart."


    The burly man then proceeded to drag the well-intentioned boy through the streets. He continued to berate the boy and his brilliant initiative along the way.


    Master Ranil pointed out exactly how much Myrkas stood out in that neighbourhood. The kid''s clothes were too fancy, too new. His posture was too straight, too secure. Not to mention Myrkas'' attempt at stealth: laughable. Myrkas had been begging to be mugged or kidnapped.


    Again and again, the brute reminded Myrkas how lucky the boy was to have been caught by his awesome self. Anyone else and Myrkas would have had better odds of waking up naked in a ditch. Or not at all. Or, worst of all, chained in some unknown cellar, never to be found.


    "What were you doing running down the alley like a rabid dog anyway?" the man finally asked.


    Myrkas spat, then answered: "I was saving that girl, from you. She was choking. She needed help."


    The youth''s voice broke on the last words. Myrkas felt his face flush, aware of how foolish he sounded. The muscular man stopped in his tract to look at the boy with a puzzled look on his face. He one-handedly raised Myrkas higher, taking advantage of the moonlight to get a better look at his visage.


    Myrkas stared back at him, gritting his teeth not to flinch away despite the pressure he felt. Myrkas had convictions. His intentions were good even if not entirely selfless. All the boy needed was to improve his execution part of the plan. Maybe to choose his battles a little better too. This was only his first hurdle, a poor opponent match-up. Myrkas would not let this thug bring him down.


    Seeing something on his face, perhaps, the man took a sharp turn while still holding the youth by his hair. Dragging him, he brought Myrkas along through side alleys and shadowed streets until they arrived in front of an old stone building on the outskirts of town.

 8.2 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai’d

    Large rats scattered at their approach. Snow bit a too-curious one, marring her pristine white fur with a hint of red. She was quite aggressive for a fluffy, emotional support bunny. Reminded of her presence, Ranil took her in his free hand. She stayed still, unusually calm for the situation.


    Ranil''s steel-gray eyes slowly observed the two of them. His gaze was weighted, heavy, as if their fates hanged on Ranil''s sole judgement. The air was thick with unseen tension. Then, rising laughter cleared it, mercilessly.


    Bending over, the Great Master Suna Ranil could hold it no longer. The large man was defeated by a bought of unhinged, thunderous laughter.


    "You even brought your pet rabbit you stupid, stupid brat! Is it a special guard rabbit? A hidden spirit beast trained to attack your enemies? A bunny guardian! Next, he''ll get a sneaky assassin cow!"


    Ranil''s roaring laughter resounded into the quiet night. Not long after, three men exited the building to investigate the unexpected noise. They looked, perplexed, at the scene. A solidly built man, plainly dressed, laughing freely in the middle of the street, all the while effortlessly holding a rabbit and a frazzled boy. For no apparent reason. They dared not interfere.


    A good while later, Ranil was able to calm down. He finally released Myrkas but kept Snow in his arms. The man distractedly petted her henceforth. Snow visibly enjoyed the attention, the unfaithful hare. Stuck, as he was unwilling to abandon his beloved pet, Myrkas stood at attention, awaiting his fate.


    "You''ve got guts kid, I''ll give you that. Come, let''s see how long it''ll last."


    On that note, the group entered the building. The three potential henchmen followed closely behind. Inside, dim lights revealed a run-down tavern. The few customers seated were oddly sober for the late hour. The barman nodded upon their entry. He turned around and opened a trap door hidden in the floor. No words were exchanged.


    A rough but worn stone staircase was found behind the trap, headed downwards. Ranil descended, expecting Myrkas to follow. Which the boy did, the three lackeys blocking any other way.


    Once Myrkas passed a certain threshold, he was hit by a wall of sounds. Screams and shouts, hits and whistles deafened him. Names were chanted as feet pounded the floor in rhythm. The newcomers turned a corner and the view opened at once. The underground space in sight was much larger than the above establishment. A large cave¡ªhalf-natural, half man-made¡ªlay before them, filled with people. Men made up the great majority of them, standing, drinking, and chanting.


    They surrounded a sunken, circular arena with straw mats buried under sand as its floor. In the circle, two stout men were fighting, one wearing red pants and the other black ones. Blood flew abundantly though stayed within the arena''s bounds, as if by magic¡ªlikely by magic, upon consideration.


    The fighter in red was breathing heavily. He was half-blinded, his blood dripping from a cut below his right eyebrow. The one in black was not in a much better shape. He favoured his left leg, his ankle red and swollen. Bruises bloomed on their naked chests.


    The two ignored the pain, focused on their adversary. They circled each other, waiting for an opportunity to deliver the final blow. As if spurned by a silent bell, they both lunged. The red''s fist collided with the black one''s jaw. Rolling with the hit, Black Pants repositioned himself to the side of the red fighter. The man in red had overextended, putting too much weight on his right leg. The counterattack arrived, a black-clad leg meeting with an unprotected head. Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    The red fighter fell, slamming the floor. He stayed down, barely twitching, mouth opened and eyes unfocused. The crowd went wild. Primal roars rose from over a thousand throats. Through the noise, faint wind chimes could be heard, activated by the rising thrum.


    The standing fighter raised both arms in celebration and fell to his knees, exhausted. He soaked in his glory for a moment then joined the crowd with his own roar, a bestial cry from the core of his being.


    Young Myrkas was transfixed, taken in by the intensity. He stood immobile, mid-stairs, breathing fast in his shocked state. As if hit by stray lightning. Myrkas'' blood pounded in his ears. A raw, pulsing violence surrounded him. It stroked the boy''s skin, enticing but not insistent; the surrounding energy somewhat sated for now.


    Myrkas was caught by the wave. He pulsed with it, entranced by its lurking promises. He felt on the edge of something. The sheer power running through the room had put the youth on the brink, waiting for him to jump, either to ascend or to crash down.


    Myrkas did not understand it with his mind though. The feeling resonated with his core being, with a pulsing sensation in his lower belly. The boy could see this mirrored all around him, most powerful in the winner''s eyes.


    A large hand slapping his shoulder cut his trance-like state. Myrkas'' face must have been an open book, for Ranil was looking down at him with a bright, crooked smile on his hard, scarred face.


    "This, my young friend, is Piercing Jade Valley''s very own Underground fighting ring. Open only to a select few. A place where the rich and the future destitute mingle. Where fortunes change hands through the flows of blood. Where names are made and broken. A temple to the Glory of the Mortal Realm!


    "All in the age-old tradition of ruthless unarmed combat. With very few rules. Low-blows allowed. Tricks encouraged. With carved formations and enchantments to keep it from the populace. And the imperial tax men. At least, those we didn''t bribe," Ranil explained.


    "Only one judge and arbiter matter here," the man continued, smiling throughout with a mix of affected nonchalance and badly hidden excitement. "You see the old man in white robes and a black kaftan? With the simple light-gray belt. Yes, that one. That''s Old Man Chafu, the Boss, the one in whose hands all decisions rest.


    "He''s supposed to be two-hundreds-and-fifty-year old. They say he has trained the best fighters in this city.


    "Anyway, matches are to surrender, knock-out or death. We try to avoid death or permanent injuries. It''s bad business: a waste of good fighters. Unless the crowd is extra bloodthirsty, like tonight. Also, you know, accidents happen. It''s why we got a doctor. See there? The guy in faded blue and green, the one with cranes on his robes and frayed edges. He''s pretty good for a drunkard."


    Master Ranil paused as they arrived at the end of the stairs, on the highest platform surrounding the arena. Despite his diminutive stature, Myrkas could clearly see the combat circle. The two fighters had exited and were back with their respective team. The medicine man gave the fighters only a cursory exam, as if the man in blue could not bother with the inconvenience of having patients. A lanky teenager was raking the sand. The surface had to be evened before the next bout began. Meanwhile, a few waitresses hurried between levels and platforms, selling as much food and drinks as they could in the temporarily subdued cacophony.


    Looking closer, Myrkas examined this old Man Chafu. The bent, wrinkled elder was half-hidden by staff members, easily recognizable by their dark gray uniform and bored expression amongst the general enthusiasm.


    The old man fitted the stereotypical image of an old master to a T. His balding white hair was tied neatly at the top of his head with a simple wooden ornament. Old Man Chafu even had the long, classic goatee associated with hidden martial masters.


    Myrkas'' anticipation grew as he looked at the old man. This was undoubtedly his chance to secure his key to unfathomable power: the tutelage of a hidden monster¡ªie old Man Chafu. Myrkas was ready to brave whatever quirky demands the old master had to test his prospective disciples. This was his chance, his opportunity. With a clear path to power in sight, Myrkas could not help but smile widely.


    But before the boy could plan how to approach the old man, Ranil started to speak again.


    "So, you like it, kid? Feeling excited?"


    "Yes!" answered Myrkas, still envisioning his soon-to-be training sequence with the guidance of the Underground Master.


    "Great! ''Cause it''s your turn!"

 9.1 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai’d

    As he finished his sentence, Master Ranil grabbed Myrkas by his collar and lifted him off his feet. Then, feet dangling in the air, Ranil brought the tween down to the arena, to the circle''s edge.


    Brokers were already taking fresh bets, the audience eyeing the boy as he was unceremoniously carried to his doom.


    Ranil dropped him on the rock floor, right at the sandy edge. Overwhelmed, Myrkas stood frozen, too stunned to even try to escape. He was handed a pair of red pants and ordered to change. Still in shock, Myrkas complied silently.


    "What''s your name, kid?" a gruff voice asked.


    " ... Kas?"


    "What?"


    "Myrkas''"


    "Kas? Okay, we''ll say it''s Kassim then. We don''t have one of those yet," the announcer said before turning back to the crowd.


    The burly master of ceremonies then put on a short necklace. The simple appearing ornament rested directly on his throat, a choker of some sort. The next time the man talked, his voice boomed across the space, piercing through the cacophony.


    "Gentlemen and not-so-gentle ones, I present to you our next fighters! In the black pants, a young horse trained by famed Master Back-Hand, here for the third time only and currently undefeated. Here he is, the one and only Aran Strike-Hand! Will he make his illustrious Master proud or will he tuck tail home? Will he show us the might of a stallion or the meekness of a gelding?"


    A communal roar rose from the audience. It seemed the mere mention of Master Chafu''s Dao name was enough to put the crowd on fire. They expected a good fight from the old man''s protege. The lithe young man, Aran, saluted the crowd with a martial bow at each of the four cardinal points, before taking his place on one side of the ring.


    "In the red pants, a brand new face! Here to test his mettle, his blood infused with the recklessness of youth. Will he survive his first trial? Will he rise above the odds and secure his first victory? Will he come into glory or exit on his knees? The one and only, The Rookie Kassim!"


    The announcer took a short pause, letting the audience welcome a stunned Myrkas to the ring. As if on automatic mode, Myrkas mimicked that Aran guy and bowed to the four corners. He stopped then, frozen in place, his heart beating wild. He felt like a puppet with its strings suddenly cut, unable to keep the show going.


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    "Odds are currently 8:1 in favour of black, gentlemen. Place your bets. Who will prevail? Who will dear Fortune favour? Whose face will rise and fall? Fighters! In position."


    Myrkas stood in front of his opponent, still taken aback. This was not how his evening had been supposed to progress. His simple plan of achieving a "moderately dangerous good deed" had gone to hell in a handbasket. His self-appointed hidden quest to acquire a renowned Old Martial Master was similarly getting off-track. Myrkas had expected to merely meet the old man, charm him with his... cuteness? endearing incompetence? vast hidden isekai potential? Maybe, hopefully?


    Myrkas had hoped for a classic "acquire mentor quest-line" with items collection, quirky aptitude tests, and some signs of fate. He had not expected to be sent straight to the slaughter without even meeting the elderly Master. How was Myrkas supposed to impress Old Man Chafu, the famed Back-Hand, while being pitted against the Master''s dear disciple? Myrkas didn''t even get the chance to let his desire to come under Master Chafu''s tutelage be known before the bout. This was a disaster: catastrophic circumstances.


    Dread filled him. His breath quickened, He was going to die, Myrkas knew it. Sure, the young boy had some experience with fighting. Myrkas had had hand-to-hand combat training as part of his mandatory education. However, he had enough self-awareness to acknowledge that he wasn''t a particularly talented martial artist. All to say, he wasn''t anywhere near ready to participate in any kind of underground¨C quite literally¨Cfighting ring. Worse, his opponent had several years, centimetres, and kilos over him. In no universe was this a fair fight.


    Myrkas had thought he would acquire magic powers before he had to defeat an obviously stronger opponent. This underdog setting needed more balance. Less underdog and more protagonist''s cheats. Myrkas should at least get a hidden trump card or an ultimate weapon in compensation for his lacking talents. It was beyond unfair. He wanted a "transmigration refund!"


    But it was too late now. No more time to reflect on the ill-advised plan that brought him there. Myrkas had to fight. There was no escape. He refused to surrender. Didn''t even think of it as a possibility.


    He could see the silver lining. This was a great opportunity to improve. Myrkas only needed to survive... To toe the line in a bloodthirsty arena against a slightly taller and, barely, older fighter. Aran was just a tiny bit more muscular than Myrkas, and better trained, and more experienced...


    Myrkas had gained a precarious sense of calm when he heard some jackass betting against the "red pants" survival. Not just for the boy''s defeat but for his straight-up death. And with good odds too! The gambler would not make that much money in the advent of Myrkas'' demise. Barbaric. The whole thing was simply barbaric.


    Myrkas restrained his rising panic. No good would come from losing his senses. He breathed deeply and centred himself with meditation, and his mantra. Harder, better, faster, stronger. He focused on the feeling of the sand between his toes, and he let the ruckus vanish into the background. The smell of sweat, beer, and blood stopped bothering him. Myrkas could do this. After all, he was¨Calmost¨Ca cultivator. His situation could be worse. He could have been pitted against the brute who caught him and dragged him here. At least he had a chance, small as it may be.


    Myrkas did not detect the same overwhelming pressure from his adversary as the boy had from Suna Ranil. Earlier, in the alley, Myrkas had felt as if he stood at the edge of an enraged volcano. A volcano ready to erupt at a moment''s notice to devastating results. Myrkas had been powerless, only able to wait to be burned to ashes. With no effort needed from the volcano. The boy would have been collateral damage to the eruption, nothing more.


    In contrast, Aran seemed like a mere tiger stalking his prey. Deadly, sure, but with a higher possibility to fight back on the victim''s side. As Myrkas would.


    Keep calm and fight on.


    Resolute, he tried to loosen his limbs a little. Made small jumps, some shadowboxing. The twelve-year-old tried to come up with a strategy. Keep moving, and try not to get hit summarized it quite well. Myrkas ought to work on better battle plans whenever he found the leisure...


    The atmosphere changed all of a sudden. The center ring cleared, leaving only three people standing on the sand: Myrkas, Aran, and Old Man Chafu. The announcer had retreated behind a carved line. The runes and small flags forming it shimmered with power. It created a slight haze above the circle''s limit, akin to the disruption caused by heat.


    Once everyone was in place, the venerable Master looked at each young man in turn. They were face to face, staring at one another with determined expressions. Satisfied, Chafu raised his hand, and the match began.

 9.2 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai’d

    Myrkas kept light on his feet, his guard up. He easily settled into a basic stance. He moved as he had been taught, with instruction and muscle memory as his guides in lieu of fighting experience. The two opponents circled each other, waiting for an opening to strike. Aran seemed more relaxed than Myrkas as he lazily gauged his young opponent. Myrkas did not see the first hit coming. A quick jab struck his guard, almost passing through. He dodged the following right by a hair''s breadth, and a high kick made Myrkas roll away. In retaliation, Myrkas attempted to swipe Aran''s legs before standing back up, only to suffer a hard kick to his side for his effort.


    Reeling from the hit, Myrkas still managed to stay upright. His breath short, he shuffled to the side while he gathered himself. Then, his anxiety lost and forgotten, the boy went on the offensive. He punched, and kicked, and struck at Aran, taking three hits for any one he connected to his foe. Myrkas shuffled away again and again, trying to make space between them, to be able to catch his breath and dodge at least some blows. He was being played with. It was obvious. Aran was chasing him slowly, like a leopard playing with his food.


    Bruises started to accumulate on Myrkas'' skin as the fight went on. Aran kept throwing Myrkas to the ground. Clad in the black pants, he didn''t even bother to follow up with wrestling moves, preferring to wait for Myrkas to stand back up, and letting go of the presented opportunities. It was as if Aran preferred to keep from dirtying himself than to secure a fast victory. As if he was more afraid of sand getting stuck in "places" than of Myrkas himself. As soon as Myrkas was on his feet, the beating resumed, injuring the younger boy further. The ending was unavoidable, for no mouse stood to the cat for very long.


    The sounds coming from the crowd were mixed. Half cheered every time Myrkas stood up, and half wished for Aran to quickly finish the fight, with some even screaming for the red fighter''s permanent end. He was an easy prey to kill. Myrkas had no known backing, no protective Master to anger. No one had anything to lose from his death. No wasted investment to lament. Myrkas was alone, subject to the ambient, unrestrained blood thirst. He could feel it like a tingling haze on his skin, making his guts clench with trepidation.


    For a heartbeat, Aran''s eyes shifted, lingering on the side. Immediately, Myrkas tried to take advantage of his foe''s brief distraction. He took a risk, putting his full weight in a devastating right hook to Aran''s spleen. It partially worked. Myrkas connected his punch but was hit with a counter to his face. Myrkas fell back, dazed, and landed on his butt. As he regained focus, he heard Aran speak for the first time in their match.


    "Sorry kid, but you are not walking out of here. Try your best to survive or your body will finish in a ditch somewhere. No one here will pay for your funeral."


    Taunting done, Aran pounced. He rained hits on Myrkas, leaving him no opportunity to escape the onslaught. The training wheels were off and buried. Aran had unleashed. He was breaking ribs left and right. Pummeling Myrkas'' internal organs as if the boy''s inner flesh had personally offended Aran''s dear mother. All the while, Aran smiled: a vicious expression worthy of any ruthless villain.


    A brutal kick landed Myrkas on his back. His entire self was in pain, each nerve screaming from accumulated damage. Breathing hurt. Blood and sweat blinded Myrkas, the drops too numerous to be kept away from his eyes. His mind was blank. Pain and adrenaline had made him forget why he was there. Any thoughts of Qi or mystical revelation had fled his brain. The fight had become his all: his foe the only barrier to his ongoing survival.


    In the background, Myrkas was vaguely aware he could have taken the easy way out. Surrender and rest, defeated, hoping for mercy from his adversary. His mousy self could have tried to bargain with the figurative feline. But Myrkas refused. Without knowing why, he instinctively chose to fight on. He did not know if it stemmed from foolishness, recklessness, or if Myrkas was just plain stubborn, but the boy was unable to give up, to surrender to his fate. A blaze raged within him, burning away any hints of surrender. Myrkas would win, prevail, and crush his opponent. He would stand back up as many times as needed. He would survive and stride onwards, one agonizing breath at a time, as always.


    Myrkas'' reach was shorter than Aran''s. He needed to close the distance between them to have a chance at winning. He aimed to destabilize the taller boy by entering his guard. It was all or nothing. This time, when Aran attacked, Myrkas lunged towards him. As he did, Myrkas rotated a little, changing Aran''s devastating blow into a grazing one. Surprised, the more experienced fighter hesitated, taken aback by the change in Myrkas'' behaviour. With resolve suffused into his body, Myrkas punched in turn, landing a straight in Aran''s solar plexus.


    All air exited Aran''s lungs in the immediate aftermath. And Myrkas kept on hitting, connecting punch after punch with some kicks in between. He gave back the hurt he had received, reaching deep inside his core being, to this bundled-up rage lying in his belly, for added strength. He was almost mindless in his frenzy. His entire being was solely focused on his foe, on inflicting as much damage as he could. Myrkas'' will was set. It was fusing with his body, using his flesh to deliver his intent. Violence and rage were mixed with his stubborn desire to survive, to thrive.


    Myrkas felt Aran weakening a little. More of the black pants fighter''s moves missed. His jabs weren''t as lightning fast, his kicks veered on unsteady. The sand was wet with their blood and sweat, with some of the coarse grains sticking to their skin and cuts. The cheers had risen to unprecedented levels along with Myrkas'' renewed aggressivity. The deafening ruckus ebbed and flowed with the battle. It formed a primal pulse that resonated throughout the hidden cave.


    Myrkas danced to the violent beat. It pulsed along in his lower belly. All had been reduced to blows, and giving more than he received. Something was pushing inside the boy, fed by the air of the Underground. Then, the world flipped. Myrkas suddenly saw the ceiling, with its colorful banners and lights. He had slipped, stumbled in the sand. He did not even have time to fall to the floor before Aran pounced on the opportunity.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    With fury in his eyes, the three-time winner lept on Myrkas and released his frustration on the smaller boy. Hits after hit landed. Myrkas was on the back foot, barely holding on, suffering from the raining blows. Still, he resisted. The smaller boy fought back like a wounded beast, not caring about blood spat or spilled. Myrkas held on, managing to cut his opponent''s right eyebrow with a well-placed punch. Aran shortly paused after being half-blinded. It lasted a fraction of a second, just enough for Myrkas to catch a breath. Until Aran resumed his fury, with total disregard for the blood flowing into his eye. Myrkas moved until his vision swam and his body went numb, willing but unable to keep up.


    Myrkas believed nonetheless. He hungered for victory. This was his moment, the point where he changed his fate. The start of his story. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the injuries he had sustained. Persevering through exhaustion. As was the way of Champions: peak cultivators and martial artists from fantastic stories. A faint smile tugged at Myrkas'' lips despite his sorry state. This was the beginning of greatness.


    The young boy used that trickle of bubbling power in his belly to last and retaliate. Few of his hits connected, but some did. The rush and satisfying "thump" was enough to keep Myrkas going. They fought. Again and again, they fought, with Myrkas revelling in each new bruise and cut he caused. A mouse he may be, but a mouse with teeth and claws.


    One more second, then another, the boy fought. One more second, then everything went black as Myrkas'' body fell forward, listless as a chiffon doll.


    Silence dropped with his fall. It did not last long. The underground stadium soon erupted in cheers, Aran''s name being chanted across the room.


    It was done, and Myrkas had lost.


    ***


    Suna Ranil examined the boy lying at his feet. The runt had lasted much longer than he had expected. Myrkas had surprised him. And his adversary. Aran had received a lot more hits than anyone would have wagered. Even now, post-battle, Chafu''s latest pupil kept glancing at Myrkas'' unconscious form. And every time, the bout''s victor frowned a little, a feint change in expression from his usual stoic face. Undoubtedly, Aran had grown some grudging respect for the skinny but tenacious kid.


    The youngling had shown he had guts, unlike his useless, late father. Myrkas had fought well, considering. Especially that last part. Suna had thought the kid would give up when Aran stopped holding back so much. Get hit for a few seconds then surrender on his knees, utterly humiliated. After all, the son of a coward was usually a coward, despite said progenitor being of the cunning type. Suna had even bet on the battle taking half the time it actually did. Though he wasn''t so mad he had lost that bet. This outcome was vastly more entertaining.


    It did, however, put Suna''s plans sideways. Initially, all Suna had intended was to scare Myrkas, make him pee his pants a little, and drag him home to his uncle. Even better if the kid was crying and sporting a fresh black eye. A good lesson to save the boy from future foolish, ill-planned endeavours. To keep the baby snake corralled, less Suna needed to cull it. The scarred man hoped he would not have to shorten the kid''s life. Myrkas could still turn into a useful serpent instead of a venomous one. Maybe even turn into a mythical winged snake, rising from his mud-filled bloodline, as unlikely as it was. His uncle, while definitely another cowardly one, was still a great alchemist.


    But Myrkas had had a glint in his eyes in that damned alley. Something more than youth''s stupidity guided his path, Suna was sure of it. That sense¡ªand Suna''s untamable desire to continue to hold and pet this incredibly soft and cuddly fur ball¡ªhad made him bring the kid here. Just to see if Suna might have a possible baby dragon in his hands. Barely hatched, of course, but a potential dragon nonetheless... And with the right guidance...


    Suna shook his head on his musings. He should not get involved. The smart thing to do was to bring Myrkas home and walk away. Stay in Koriss'' goodish graces. To not antagonize his main supplier and kind of friend. Suna did not need the headache. He was busy enough. Had responsibilities he somewhat cared about. Better not to rock the boat, even if he might leave this city to seek new adventures.


    The kid was entertaining though... And Myrkas'' rabbit was a delight. The way it wiggled its nose was so darn adorable. It did something to Suna''s soul. Brought a peace he had seldom experienced in his thirty-seven years of life.


    It would be a shame to let Myrkas waste his willpower on subpar techniques and Masters. The kid obviously needed a little bit of pushing to achieve greatness. The right kind of ordeals. Just enough to toe the line between grit and despair. With great discipline and a strong foundation, Suna sensed the kid could soar above The Heavens. Ascent to Godhood even. And bring his beloved Martial Master along. Not that Suna truly thought Myrkas could make it. The man was bored, that was all. With Kalor Hakhmir''s death, town politics had quieted down. Suna missed the constant challenges and schemes to thwart. It was too peaceful. He had no excuse not to cultivate in his courtyard. What a boring state his life was in.


    But the idea kept nagging Suna''s mind. How delightfully ironic would it be if the Great Suna Ranil turned that piece of shit Kalor Hakhmir''s "talentless" second son into a cultivator legend? The most amazing "fuck you," that''s what. The tree growing from Kalor''s ashes in the temple''s garden would rot with resentment. It would be the decisive proof Suna was the superior man and cultivator. Add on father figure on top, why not?


    Old Koriss would not mind much. The alchemist did not seem particularly attached to his orphaned nephew. Koriss hadn''t taught Myrkas any alchemy or cultivation so far, from what Suna could gather. The old hermit was a careful sort, but even he would try something if he considered the boy his heir. Start his apprenticeship sooner than later. And if Koriss did want to teach Myrkas, Suna could still find ways around it. Lure the kid out at night with promises of unfathomable strength. A fire blade always did wonders on impressionable children...


    The more Suna thought about it, the more the idea of taking his first disciple ever¡ªthe son of his late rival to boot¡ªpleased him. A fresh pupil, spared from erroneous ideas about cultivation. Clay to mould to Suna''s liking and likeness. Not one of his lazy-ass city guards, doing the bare minimum for their coins and to keep out of the Imperial military.


    Suna would turn the kid into a killer. A vicious beast like his father, but brave and crafty¨Clike Suna himself. And the man would enjoy torturing the young Hakhmir through the process. Not enough to maim or kill him, of course, Koriss would not let that pass. Just enough suffering to temper the forming steel and sharpen the blade.


    Silently, Suna Ranil smiled an unusually wide and wicked grin. Its ominous air was not helped by its crookedness, brought on by the vertical scar on Suna''s left cheek and jawline. Suna''s right fang-like canine glinted in the low light of the cave. The white rabbit in his arms froze momentarily, triggered by her prey instinct. Minutes passed and Snow shivered in Suna''s hold. Nevertheless, she stayed put.

 10.1 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai’d

    A foul smell attacked Myrkas'' nostrils. It was akin to a perfume made of sock-infused vinegar and potent ginger. The offalctive assault awoke him instantly. The scent caught in his throat, choking him a little. Myrkas coughed and squeaked as he tried to sit up. It was then that the pain slammed into the boy. He hurt everywhere. Every single cell of his body was screaming in pain. His skin, his bones, his muscles, his organs were suffering. Myrkas had become a living bruise: a sack of blood on the edge of rupture.


    Myrkas could not move. He felt a kinship with tenderized steak like never before. He had been turned to mush, transformed into ground beef. The pain was overwhelming. He dared not concern himself with the possibility of permanent damage. Myrkas could only hope that Qi-infused medicine was as effective as he had read in his past life. Pop a pill and go back to fight. Magical healing on demand. Seeing no such remedy in his immediate vicinity, he fell back on meditation. It always helped in cultivation stories. However, before Myrkas chanted his first full mantra, a bored voice broke his concentration:


    "This will hurt kid. Don''t bother screaming."


    Ice flooded down on Myrkas. Thousands upon thousands of fine, frozen needles assaulted his senses. In their wake, they left a torturous numbness. The feeling was nowhere near pleasant. A sidestep from his previous throbbing pain. His muscles seized at the change until he forced them to relax, wary of the next ordeal awaiting him.


    As soon as Myrkas felt his body beginning to thaw, the youth was roughly turned over. Now lying on his belly, Myrkas suffered a second wave of ice. It was as bad as the first. His skin tingled, stuck in between the pulsing, burning pain from his wounds and the freezing numbness brought on by whatever the man with the bored voice was doing to him. The boy had transitioned from shredded meat to churned, chunky ice cream.


    Myrkas'' mind was similarly stretched. Too much had happened in too little time to process. His limbs didn''t feel like his own. Powerless, he let himself be turned again. Despair was closing in on him, hovering near the door. Everything Myrkas had done these past months to improve, to grow stronger and take his destiny in hands were for naught. He still ended up like a pig to the slaughter. Worst, his own plan had led him straight there, right into the tiger''s den. Myrkas had run head-first into danger, mingling with players way above his league.


    He berated himself. His uncle was an alchemist for Allrikh''s sake. Instead of heading into the night, alone, in a world he vaguely understood, Myrkas should have just talked with his uncle. Asked about cultivation and meditation. Surely, Koriss had some knowledge of the arts. Qi manipulation was a primordial component of alchemical studies. Magic medicine-making needed magic after all; it only made sense.


    But no, of course not. Myrkas had preferred to "follow his own path." To re-invent the wheel of cultivation like a chosen "Hero" destined to save to world from oppression and evil beings. It would have been much too simple to ask his uncle for advice instead.


    But social anxiety had gotten in the way. Myrkas could not even say why he was afraid to talk with his uncle. The man had done nothing to warrant this weariness. Koriss Hakhmir was not very warm or welcoming, true. However, his distant attitude should not have elicited this visceral fear in Myrkas'' belly when he thought about going to bother his uncle in his laboratory.


    Myrkas was lying to himself, he knew. In his weakened state, he could finally acknowledge the reason for his hesitation. The underlying cause of his uneasiness when interacting with his only living blood relative. Myrkas was afraid to be rejected. To be discarded as worthless and untalented, relegated to hide in the shadows less he brought shame to the Hakhmir name.


    His father in this life, Kalor, had not been kind. The few memories he still had of him were quite clear. His older brother had been the favoured one, the heir apparent, the family''s hope for the future of house Hakhmir.


    The glimpses from his past life were similar. He''d been left all alone after his parents'' accidental death. No one wanted to take in a sick teenager, not even his own grandparents. Loneliness had scarred his soul. Only Nirsa''s presence and care had dulled the ache. She had become his anchor, especially since Myrka''s soul had cracked and his memories had been scrambled. She was his lighthouse in the tempest.


    Myrkas took a deep breath in, ignoring the sharp burst of pain from his mending ribs. He would have to face his uncle now, no way around it. There was no hope to hide his sorry state until he recovered. Healing, as magical as it was here, still took time. His body would show the marks of this night for the coming days, if not nonats. Myrkas needed to face his potential rejection when home, with the proof of his stupidity and incompetence displayed on his battered face. While Myrkas reflected, the blue-robed man finished his ministrations. He gave the youth a last, bitter pill and urged the boy to his feet.


    "There kid, you should live. Aran went easy on you. Now get out, I got more customers on their way in."


    Brought out of his dazed state, Myrkas took note of his surroundings. He recognized the thin, frazzled-looking man standing at his bedside as the drunk doctor Suma Ranil had pointed at earlier. The man was ignoring his patient, too busy storing flasks, pills, and bandages in his shoulder bag. Unknown substances stained his faded robes.This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Blood, Myrkas deduced. Let''s hope he didn''t poison me... Myrkas thought, his heart full of trust in his impromptu saviour¡ªnot.


    "Out now kid!" the doctor barked. "I don''t have all night."


    "I have seen syringes with better bedside manners," Myrkas muttered under his breath.


    Bracing himself, Myrkas sat on the cot. The action required all of his grit and determination. His ribs protested through the icy numbness that had descended upon his body. The room spun around. A large hand stopped him from falling back.


    "I''ll take him off your hands doc."


    Fear shot through Myrka''s spine. He recognized the voice. Its owner had brought him to this forsaken place after all. Chills raked the boy in response, unleashing a wave of pain. Too weak to resist, Myrkas was lifted and carried outside, back into the late spring night.


    Draped over Ranil''s shoulder, Myrkas watched the pavement pass by. He was exhausted, too tired to dread his fate. Whether Ranil brought him back home or actually left him to rot in a ditch. Myrkas could not bring himself to care. The boy could only blame his sorry self. By now, Myrkas more than suspected he was not the main character of this story. His first defeat had shown him so. Protagonists defeated such odds, won against all expectations. They didn''t get mercilessly pummeled by the very first challenge they faced. It had been pure hubris for Myrkas to hope plot armour would save him. Pure and naive hubris.


    At least Snow was fine. Whatever happened to Myrkas, this new guy had officially taken a liking to her. The white rabbit was nestled in the muscled man''s arm, calm and quiet, looking unduly peaceful despite Myrkas'' compromised state. At that moment, Myrkas considered if he had overestimated her capacity to get help in an emergency. Snow was a rabbit, even if she was the cleverest of them all. He shouldn''t have expected so much from the cute and fluffy rodent. Hindsight was a cold, cruel, and brutally honest mistress.


    They continued in silence, walking deeper into the city. Arrived at destination, the boy was dropped unceremoniously to the ground. Ranil took advantage of his freed hand to resume his gentle petting of the white bunny.


    To Myrkas'' surprise, he immediately recognized their surroundings. He was not fated to die in a ditch tonight after all. Instead, they had reached his uncle''s estate.


    The imposing man knocked on the gate, without any concern for the late hour. A moment passed before Serni Kroush, the groundkeeper, appeared. The lithe man looked frazzled, as if still half-asleep.


    "Young Master! What the... At this hour?" Serni said, obviously confused.


    "Get Master Hakhmir. We need to talk," replied Ranil, with a devilish grin on his face. His crooked smile was downright predatorial in the glim moonlight.


    "Of course! Master Ranil, Young Master please follow me. I''ll wake up Master Hakhmir and come back with refreshments. I''m afraid, Master Ranil, they may not be up to the usual standards as I dare not wake up my Martasa."


    The two¡ªplus a rabbit, not to forget¡ªfollowed him to a seldom-used sitting room. Myrkas had to drag himself there, his feet noisily shuffling on the wooden floor. His body was crashing, running on fumes and willpower alone. The nearby plush carpet beckoned him. All the boy wanted was to lie down and sleep like the dead. A blissful and restorative rest, so far denied to his exhausted self. He forced himself to stare straight at the oil lamps lighting the way to stay awake.


    Ranil and Myrkas settled into padded chairs. The finely carved wood and silk furniture were as gloriously comfortable as they appeared. Unfortunately, they were just small enough to prevent Myrkas from curling up and falling asleep. The headrest''s design similarly prevented any attempt at resting one''s eyes, and Myrkas did not dare put his feet up on the low table in the middle of the setting to alleviate his fatigue. He feared to worsen the coming reckoning.


    Refreshments appeared as promised: fragrant tea in a silver pot, delicate pastries filled with nuts, honey, and bean paste presented on fine porcelain, and freshwater flavoured with lemon and mint were provided. One meaningful look from Ranil, and Serni opened a high cupboard in the corner. From there, Serni Kroush took out a glass decanter filled with swirls of red and amber. The liquids danced around one another, never mixing fully. The butler poured a measure into a single tulip-shaped glass before presenting both the bottle and the glass to Suna Ranil.


    "Ah! Serni, you spoil me. Scarlet-Star Ardent Pear Spirit, always a treat."


    Suna Ranil took a sip. His oh-so self-satisfied smirk grew wider if it was possible. The man liberally partook of the offered fare while waiting for the Master of the house. With the way everything had been set, one could be fooled into believing this meeting was a planned affair instead of an impromptu late night¡ªor early morning¡ªintrusion.


    They did not need to wait long. Myrkas'' uncle soon entered the room. His large form, taller though less muscled than Ranil''s, filled the doorway. The frown his brows made was the only hint of Koriss'' current emotional state.


    Shadows flickered in the corners. The lighted oil lamps bathed the room in a dim but warm glow, as if too much light upon this night might break a sacred rule: the underlying tenets of chastisement


    Silence stretched, as was customary in the presence of Koriss Hakhmir. Myrkas swallowed and sat straighter, his tired state momentarily pushed back. With deliberate steps, his uncle took a seat, right in front of Ranil. The visibly older man had barely granted a glance at his nephew.


    "Koriss!" Ranil exclaimed. "How good to see you. It''s been too long, much too long."


    "Why is my nephew black and blue Suna? What did you do to him," Koriss replied in an even tone.


    "So suspicious from the get-go! Come on now, old friend, the boy will think me the villain, when all I did was to selflessly come to his rescue."


    "His rescue Suna, really? Out of the infinite goodness of your dried-out heart? Next, you''ll tell me Myrkas happened to fall down a set of stairs just in front of your eyes in the middle of the night? And going by the smell and his shivers, you, Suna Ranil, happened to carry enough Ice-Relief potions to almost drown the boy? Potions I haven''t sold to you or the city guard in over a year. But which just so happens to be the favoured treatment of one Jade Healing Stream, that drunk-ass wannabe doctor. What a drole and fortunate coincidence."


    Contrary to what his even voice might suggest, Koriss Hakhmir was seething. One could tell easily by his narrowed eyes, tight fists, and red-tinged neck. Myrkas had never seen the man angry before, but angry he was. A controlled, focused type of anger. The likes of which one reserved for their greatest Nemesis.

 10.2 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai’d

    Myrkas was surprised. He did not think his uncle would get angry on his behalf. Not a little bit but furious. It warmed Myrkas'' insides. It reassured him a touch. He might not be such a burden to his last blood relative after all was said and done. Maybe, hopefully, Myrkas was only a small one.


    "Of course not Koriss. I''ll tell you what I saved your cute little nephew from himself!" Ranil answered without missing a beat. The large, raging man directly facing him did not faze Suna Ranil one iota.


    "Saved him from his own idiocy. Your nephew here, was down in the Walnut Borough, trying to "save" an honest working girl from some well-earned coins. And well after sunset. Trying to sneak in and out of shadows like a two-bit thief.


    "See, Myrkas here was damn lucky I was the one who caught him. Allrikh knows where he would have ended up. Could have been much, much worse. I''m sure you can imagine Koriss."


    Koriss'' anger visibly dimmed, banked but still present in the embers. The graying man kept his frown though, and his fists remained tight.


    "Doesn''t explain how Myrkas ended up fighting in the Underground, Suna. Don''t you dare try to deny, we both know that''s where you are coming from."


    Cheerful, Suna Ranil continued.


    "Well, you see Koriss, dear, dear old friend of mine, I thought little Myrkas needed to learn his lesson. To truly understand how foolish he was being.


    "Thing is, the kid''s got guts. Not like either you or his dumbass father, no offence. The usual wouldn''t have worked, I guarantee. The kid would have gotten in trouble again, endangering this cute little rabbit. My conscience did not let me leave it be. I had to do something more.


    "So I brought young Myrkas to the Underground. And low and behold, the kid resonated. Now, who am I to get in the way of talent? He did not need to ask, I took it upon myself to make sure he experienced the ring, the core of the Underground.


    "Kid did good too! Great fight. Got a few good hits in. Lasted way longer than I expected. Made me some cash on some bets. Amazing night overall. Greatly recommend. A tremendous start."


    Fury rekindled in Koriss'' eyes. The man rose from his seat and bent over his "guest''s" seat, bringing them face-to-face.


    "Are you telling me you almost killed my only nephew, the last of the Hakhmir line for your sick entertainment?" Koriss spat in anger, his face tight, his voice raised only slightly but with an undeniably threatening growl underlying.


    Myrkas shook in his chair, so glad to not be the one being addressed.


    "Not only for my entertainment. To teach him the consequences of fucking around at night too!" replied Ranil, still cheerful and unperturbed.


    The two men stared at each other for a while. Then Koriss sighed and went back to his seat, seemingly defeated.


    "So what do you want, Suna? A thank you? A discount? Recognition for bringing him back mostly in one piece?"


    "Oh no, no no no. That stuff''s boring. I have a much better thing in mind. So fun! Look Koriss, the kid brought a rabbit with him."


    As Ranil said so, the man grabbed the half-hidden rabbit by the nape and settled her in his lap. His smile grew as wide as it could, hindered by the scar running down his right cheekbone to his jaw, which gave him his characteristic, perpetual smirk.


    "A rabbit for Allrikh''s sake. In case something went wrong. That''s gold! Pure comedy right there," Suna said, laughing. "No, no I want to train him, to take the kid under my graceful wing. Make him my little prot¨¦g¨¦. Maybe get him to really compete."


    Madness, this was pure madness. Myrkas had caught the eye of a psychopath! Who wanted to "train" him. Myrkas could imagine all too well the Great Master Suna Ranil''s version of "appropriate training." A frame show of torturous beatings and convoluted exercises that barely made sense spun in the boy''s brain. All for his so-called Martial Master''s amusement.


    Dread spread through Myrkas, a too-familiar feeling by now. His uncle would refuse. Koriss was a sensible man. An upstanding citizen. While Myrkas didn''t know how his uncle knew the mad thug, the boy was pretty certain the older man would protect him.


    Myrkas had reflected greatly on his experience. Pain was not fun. Sure, the adrenaline rush was nice in the moment, but the aftermath made it not worth it. Meditation was not that boring. Myrkas would get stronger the slow, steady way. He resolved himself to question his uncle about cultivation. He did not need an unhinged Master. Slow and steady all the way. The journey to power was a marathon, not a sprint.Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Myrkas metaphorically straightened¡ªhe was too sore to actually do it, as the act of sitting in the chair and not falling asleep was already taking all his energy. He was readying his protests. Preparing to support his uncle''s denial of Ranil''s request.


    "You would train him? Kalor''s only living son? For what? To sabotage him?" Koriss said.


    "Of course not! You know me better than that Koriss. I may be an asshole, but I''m an honest asshole. I''ll make him great. Much better than that dead sucker ever was. Prove I can train his son better than he could have. Better than his "genius" firstborn your brother was so proud of. The ultimate face slap. The best way to get that coward to roll in his grave. It''ll be such fun! We''ll have a great time the kid and I."


    Ranil was quite enthusiastic, to say the least. A manic glint shone in his hard gray eyes. Nothing to reassure Myrkas of the man''s true intentions. The boy''s future looked grim. This was not the training montage he had envisioned...


    His uncle finally looked at Myrkas, amber eyes to amber eyes. With a flex of will, Myrkas kept his gaze steady. His intuition screamed at him to not let any weakness show in the vicinity of Suna Ranil. The stakes at play kept the boy fully awake at this ungodly hour.


    "Kassa, you have a choice. You clearly were not busy enough if you had the time to get in such trouble," Koriss started. "I should have watched you better. Should have known a boy couldn''t stay so quiet, would get up to no good. We''ll up your studies and I''ll start you on alchemy. If you really want to learn how to fight though, not the tame, tournament-style but true fighting, I''m sorry to say but Master Ranil is the best around. It''ll have to be in addition to your regular studies. You are not getting around a proper education, boy."


    Koriss settled deeper into his cushioned chair, rubbing his short beard as he continued.


    "Suna is one of the strongest cultivators in this town. And I have seen him shape up his fair share of fearsome fighters. They all get poached by nobles though, don''t they?


    "It''s your choice, Kassa. I won''t force you. It''s true your father would disapprove, but he is no longer here, is he? Not like he was doing such a great job anyway, from what I heard recently.


    "Still, might be better if you learn how to survive, in case there''s a draft, not that one is in sight but you never know. The Empire has a knack for sudden expansions."


    Myrkas gulped. He did not want to choose. He would have preferred for his uncle to straight up refuse. To take any responsibility away from him. To reassure Myrkas he did not need the madman''s guidance to get stronger faster.


    The guy was obviously crazy, a maniac. Nothing good could come from this. No way was Ranil some great, beloved mentor looking for a new pupil to sate his thirst for teaching. His type did not get fulfilled by seeing others grow.


    The brute enjoyed seeing twelve-year-olds get beat up; he acknowledged it himself! But Koriss thought the man could teach Myrkas how to fight proper, how to reach true martial strength. Power to protect, to stir his fate. And Ranil was a confirmed cultivator, or so said his uncle, even if he didn''t exactly look like one.


    This universe wasn''t all Qi-rainbows and butterflies. Myrkas did not want to shelter inside walls for the rest of his life. He wanted, needed, to explore, to discover. In a safe and well-planned manner, of course. He wasn''t that stupid.


    "Uncle, what did you mean by draft?" Myrkas asked in the middle of his musings.


    Apprehension rose inside the boy. He so wished he had misheard. Myrkas did not like the concept of a "draft" in a state with a strong military focus and expansionist tendencies. It sounded like bad news. Like terrible, terrible news. Like a good way to die a pitiful death surrounded by colourless, unnamed soldiers.


    Koriss looked at his nephew for a moment, pensive.


    "Don''t worry too much Kassa. The Empire is at peace for now. The last war ended three years ago and the last draft was a year before that. The Empire is strong. General Jinyingk prevented any major losses. We would need a great conflict indeed to warrant another military draft in the near future. You''ll likely be safe and grown by then."


    What foreboding words! Myrkas did not like that, he did not like it one bit. His quest for power had acquired added urgency. There was no way Myrkas was going into the army while weak. He would not be bullied! Bad things happened to weak ones in testosterone-filled environments. Strength was essential to survive and to have a better chance of finding brothers-at-arms instead of attracting bullies. Respected people did not get sent on suicide missions. Weaklings did.


    Worst, if Myrkas ever met the princely original main character, he would need every advantage to survive the shit-show surrounding His Highness. The boy raged just thinking about it. Stupid Imperial Harem and complicated succession politics. Couldn''t half-brothers get along? Scheming murder was so distasteful.


    Mind made, Myrkas turned to face Suna Ranil.


    "Teach me well, Martial Master."


    Then the boy stood and bowed as per martial tradition.


    "Excellent! Such a polite pupil. I''m so lenient, I''ll let you rest a nonat before we start."


    On those words, Ranil stood and made to leave. Using strength he did not know he had in reserve, Myrkas blocked his new Master''s way.


    "Hum, Master Ranil, Sir, you can give me back Snow, my bunny, now."


    "Ah! Look at that. It was so comfy I did not notice. I almost inadvertently left with it. I''ll go now, see you in a nonat."


    Suna Ranil headed to the exit again, a white ball of fluff with light-pink eyes still in the man''s arms. Relentless, Myrkas stood in his way yet again.


    "If you leave Snow here, I''ll bring the other one too when I train. Two cuddly rabbits are better than one, believe me," Myrkas offered.


    "Deal!" replied Ranil, leaving for real, without "bunny napping" this time.


    If Myrkas purposefully ignored Snow''s subsequent murderous glare, well who would blame him? He wasn''t selling her sister, he only meant to ensure Snow''s safety at the moment.


    "Go straight to bed, Kassa," Koriss declared. "We will talk further tomorrow."


    "Yes, uncle!"


    A chill went down Myrkas'' spine, a mix of trepidation and the late hour. He hoped the morrow''s discussion did not bring further unpleasant surprises.

 11.1 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai’d (Last chapter of Arc 1)

    The next day started as usual, if Myrkas could ignore his sore body and repeated lectures by both his worried older sister figure, and his patronizingly smug little one. Something was definitely wrong with that devil-child. Martine Kroush acted way too joyful in front of Myrkas'' moans of pain and suffered reprimands. He would have to keep her far away from Master Ranil lest the man taught her his wicked ways.


    Soon after breakfast¡ªa satisfying spread of simmered tomatoes and poached eggs over steamed rice¡ªMyrkas was summoned to his uncle''s alchemy workshop. It was by far the largest building on the compound. Situated towards the back of the central courtyard, the stone edifice stood tall over the verdant grounds. Vines rose on its walls and flowering bushes guarded the massive hardwood doors. Narrow windows with closed, striated shutters were placed high on the walls. They seemed to be used more for ventilation than anything else.


    A cylindrical tower with a domed ceiling climbed at the back of the imposing building. The glass windows over there were made to let light enter, and if Myrkas squinted, he could glimpse some rich fabrics hanging over some of them.


    The alchemy workshop was, without a doubt, the jewel of Koriss Hakhmir''s estate. No other edifice looked half as grand on the grounds. Although, a case could be made that the actual stars were the gardens themselves, so meticulously cared for by Serni as they were. But by now, Myrkas knew better. The most valuable equipment and ingredients¡ªliteral treasures¡ªwere all hidden away in his uncle''s workshop. Which Koriss guarded as fiercely as a bear did his favoured winter cave.


    Myrkas had begun to notice the runes and formation flags hidden in plain sight throughout the grounds. He had not yet asked Koriss for specific details, but Serni had been nice enough to inform the boy of the use of some of them. Most sets served to help the many plants grow, the gardens providing a constant source of reagents for his uncle''s work. Runes engraved on walls and the few statues to be found usually pertained to protection and defence against those with malevolent intent, like thieves and conmen.


    When he heard that, Myrkas had issues believing they actually did their job. If so, how had Master Ranil entered the grounds without any adverse event? The man oozed wickedness and malevolence. Myrkas had said so to Serni, hinting they should get their protective system checked, only for the gentle and serviceable man to laugh in the boy''s face.


    A little insulting, even if done without malice. Serni had then proclaimed that Suna Ranil was not as bad a sort as he appeared, a statement Myrkas was not inclined to believe.


    Crossing the threshold, Myrkas entered for the first time in his uncle''s workshop. Large counters, shelves, and tables divided the otherwise opened space. Some workspace bordered the walls, with a high window and a visibly enchanted chimney directly above. Most others were arrayed in little island clusters, making up L-shaped and opened-square stations.


    Various instruments and plants littered the majority of available flat surfaces. The shelves were overflowing. The bare stone floor was stained and burned in more spots than Myrkas was comfortable with. Paper notes, half-opened scrolls, and dented books were scattered all over. One could only hope some kind of organization underlined the ambient chaos. All softly illuminated by darkened skylights, as if a light too intense would destroy the work done here. Which it might, for all Myrkas knew.


    Serni carefully led Myrkas through this labyrinth of a workshop towards the back. Over there, a few well-used armchairs, a coffee table, and an unmade bed¡ªof all things¡ªcould be found. They were set in the middle of the circular space at the bottom of the rising tower. A tower whose walls were covered with books. Shelves upon shelves of engraved leather covers, ornate scrolls, and even the rare jade slips. The priceless little jade tablets functioned on Qi and acted more as magical data sticks than the more common paper repositories of knowledge.


    High above, the dome stood. Its monochromatic mosaics and pale stained-glass openings made for a wonderful sight. Lightly coloured sun rays touched upon the even-spaced mezzanines, reachable through the winding staircase along the wall. Predictably, orchid-like plants and drape-leaved ones were growing throughout, suspended on shelves, rail guards, or complex ropes and pulleys apparatus.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.


    It was a marvel. A library rat''s wild fantasy come true. Myrkas finally understood exactly why his uncle spent almost all his time here. It was a sanctuary. A sacred ground for the artful science of alchemy.


    "Kassa, come sit. Serni, thank you, you can take your leave," a gruff voice ordered.


    Woken from his daydreams, Myrkas shifted his focus to Koriss. The middle-aged man was seated in a high-backed, plush armchair. The burgundy silk of the armrests was a little worn, in need of replacement. Next to him, a side table held the remains of Koriss'' breakfast, half-eaten. A large silver samovar was placed in the middle of the wooden coffee table, with a double set of rounded, glass, and silver teacups next to it.


    Seeing no other option, Myrkas obeyed. He sat kitty-corner to his uncle, in a faded sage-green sofa. The boy successfully maintained a calm demeanor, despite his rising heart rate and trepidation. He was a guilty convict awaiting his judgment.


    Koriss looked at his young nephew for a while. The silence surrounding the man was sharper than usual. It prickled at Myrkas'' skin, needling the boy''s guilty conscience. The moment stretched, heavy with disappointment and regrets.


    Myrkas stared at his hands, restraining himself from fiddling with his nails and cuticles. He kept his body tense to prevent his limbs from shaking. Myrkas had had more than enough time to realize how dumb his plan to "toe the line between life and death in order to gain the ability to sense Qi" was. Shame reddened his dusky cheeks. Gathering his courage, Myrkas took a deep breath and did the only thing he had to: he apologized.


    "I''m sorry Master Hakhmir. I was foolish. I did not know how dangerous the city could become at night. I had thought I would be able to learn to sense Qi by taking risks, by testing my skills. I realize how stupid and ill-advised that was. I just wished to progress. To get stronger, better, faster.


    "Again, I am very sorry for the trouble I caused. I will not bother you further. I''ll stay quiet, I promise. It''ll be as if I am not there. I won''t disrupt your work."


    The boy''s vis-a-vis sighed deeply in response. An air of sadness hung around the tall man.


    "I should be the one to apologize, Kassa. I didn''t even notice you wanted to start cultivating. Didn''t think you cared. I thought... since you kept to yourself, did your things, didn''t complain, that you were doing fine. Nothing for me to worry about.


    "I should have known, should have asked. Made sure you were okay. But with the girl, I thought... thought you didn''t need me. The funeral wasn''t that long ago. Your soul was mended recently. I should have guessed you''d need my help, at least a little."


    Myrkas squirmed in his seat a touch. He did not like deep conversations about feelings. More so with "family" he remembered only in bits and pieces from his scrambled memories. Myrkas could count on his hand¡ªjust one¡ªthe number of times he had talked for longer than five minutes with Koriss in the past nonats. The boy didn''t know him, his supposed father figure. As such, Myrkas had had no expectations. He just felt uncomfortable about the whole thing.


    "Master Hakhmir, I... It''s okay, you don''t, I mean... didn''t have to. I''m fine, just made a mistake is all. To be honest, I''m not really sad. I don''t really remember my life before, you know. It''s quite vague. Mostly feelings and impressions.


    "All I want is to get stronger, strong enough to protect Nirsa. To keep her with me. To gain the power to decide my fate. To be someone, be useful, and worthy. Not to have to rely on strangers," Myrkas said with a determined air.


    His uncle sighed yet again, louder, his shoulders dropping. The two let the silence grow for a time. Koriss rubbed his face before filling a teacup for each of them. Both took the time to sip the fragrant brew. This small action worked to recenter them a little, the two finding comfort in the common gesture.


    They drank their tea in silence. Neither knew how to move on from their discussion.


    "Come," finally said Koriss as he stood. "I''m not good at... whatever this is. Parenting and feelings. But cultivation, alchemy¡ªthat¡ªI know. I''ll teach you both. And stop with the ''Master Hakhmir'' thing. I''m your uncle, call me so.


    "Understood, Kassa?"


    Myrkas smiled, a genuine one, wide and open. On an impulse, he hugged the only uncle he ever had. Awkward in many ways, but warm nonetheless.


    "Yes, Uncle."


    Tiny grains of sand appeared in all four eyes present in the room. Some sniffles were heard. The sudden sniffle-causing, indoor environmental changes did not last long. A few minutes at most for the bizarre climate phenomenon to resolve. The man and the boy stepped away from one another when it did. Koriss warmly squeezed Mynkas'' shoulder as his last comment on the subject.


    "Come now, boy, I have something to lend you. And we''ll discuss cultivation. It''s a good thing. Suna might be a great fighter, but a Master Qi cultivator, he is not. He is too focused on body. Too blessed by his bloodline. His techniques are primitive and risky. Better to follow other, safer ways to grow."

 11.2 End of Arc 1

    Koriss motioned for Myrkas to follow him up the spiralling stairs. They climbed to the top level, bathed in gentle sunlight. The few windows below the dome revealed an unobstructed view of the city. In the lower districts, temple domes were the only peaks to see. Opposite, towers similar to the one they stood in rose, increasing in number closer to the city center. This center was easily identified by the City Palace it comprised. There, the Mayor lived and administered the city and its immediate surroundings under the joined authority of the Noble Provincial Lord and his Administrative Governor.


    However, the pair had not climbed all those stairs to look at the view, regardless of how arresting it looked. Koriss brought them to a stop in front of a large bookcase. Its dark wood shelves and subtle carvings did not differentiate it from its adjacent cousins. It sported the same number of cases, and the three drawers at knee height as all the others in the library. The bottom-most part was comprised of a locked cupboard, identical to its neighbours.


    Myrkas'' uncle crouched in front of the tall piece of furniture. Slowly, meticulously, Koriss slid two square carvings to opposite sides. Then he turned them at 135¡ã, both in the counter-clockwise direction. Next, he completely removed the left-sided drawer, carefully putting it on the floor, its heavy-looking contents making near a sound. His hand then reached into the liberated space and pressed on something, letting a single click be heard. Finally, he reached for a small set of keys loosely strung around his neck and unlocked the cupboard.


    The sight when the doors opened was underwhelming. A pile of books at the far end, a metallic locked box, a few glass instruments, and a pouch of what looked like dried herbs summarised its contents. Myrkas held back a disappointed sigh. Hopefully, the box held promises.


    Surely, his uncle would not hide a mere treatise on cultivation behind all these steps. Especially since Myrkas was convinced the omnipresent carvings hid protective Qi formations. Who knew? A wayward thief might get burned if he tried his hand at Koriss Hakhmir''s secrets. Or maybe get frozen solid. Fire in a library was a bad idea, all things considered.


    Taking the box, Koriss unexpectedly put it to the side. He reached inside, letting his hand feel the wooden bottom as he went further. When he reached a specific spot¡ªutterly unremarkable to his nephew''s eyes¡ªKoriss tapped a rhythmic sequence around, bringing a hidden compartment into view. He opened it and delicately took out the hidden treasure.


    The mysterious object was encased in velvet. Koriss unwrapped it and gave it to Myrkas to examine. The revealed trinket was pretty, but not awe-inducing. It was comprised of a rounded piece, made of wood or antler, with golden detailing. It fitted just so in Myrkas'' small hands¡ªthe boy was still waiting on puberty. A simple, braided leather string looped through the hole in its middle, allowing it to hang securely from anyone''s neck. The ensemble made for a long pendant, not overly ostentatious.


    Myrkas shifted the probably precious object in his hands. As the boy did so, faint runes glimmered in the late morning light. Myrkas observed them for an instant, mesmerized. This finally smelled like power!


    "Don''t put it on yet Kassa," his uncle warned. "Let''s get back downstairs, I''ll explain some things first. And I need more tea."


    They proceeded, settling back in their previous seats. Myrkas had trouble keeping his excitement from exploding. The time had come, greatness awaited onwards! The tween''s entire being was focused on his uncle, waiting for the man''s cultivation wisdom.


    "I''ll start at the beginning, I guess," Koriss said. "Don''t want to skip over any important matter, it could be disastrous. Don''t hesitate to stop me if you have any questions, Kassa. The proper understanding of cultivation''s basic principles is primordial for the success of any true practitioner,


    "As you know, Qi is all around us. It is energy with metaphysical properties. It can also cross planes under certain conditions. Cultivators gather and store Qi through meditation, mostly, and use it to enhance themselves. At higher levels, they can even use it to perform feats, or techniques, such as sparking fire, moving water, help with healing, etc.


    "Most people can''t see or sense Qi, or at least not very well. It''s still there. Some places have more, some less. We don''t really know why. We don''t really know where Qi comes from or exactly what it is. How it interacts with matter, and Yin/Yang soul energies.


    "A subset of people with tell you otherwise. Don''t believe them for they are either arrogant fools or conmen. We do have a few hypotheses but nothing proven. Most popular ones say it is produced from planets and astral entities like the sun and the moons. Some say it comes from the Heavens themselves, and trickle down to our lower Realm. Others believe Qi just exists, a part of the makeup of the universe, like water or stone, with a finite quantity. I, myself, prefer the theory which deems Qi originates from the interactions between Yin and Yang, both inside and outside souls. Following this premise, Qi should be generated from the friction between those two opposite, and fundamental soul energies. Qi''s main role would be to stabilize and help to maintain equilibrium in the planes of reality. It basically solidifies the link between souls and physical matter. Carries intent, soul power, into tangible effects... This makes the most sense to me."


    Koriss paused, lost in his thoughts for a moment. His explanation made more sense than the one Myrkas half-remembered from the novel. Actually, there had not been much of an explanation on what Qi was or where it came from in the web series, now that he thought about it. Qi existed, one only had to believe and witness its feats. The prince had not been one to ponder much about the whys and hows of the world. He had put all his focus on accumulating power for his revenge, crushing anything in his way. Nothing else had mattered to the Imperial scion but the Betrayal.


    Upon learning of those possible understandings of the laws underlying this universe, Myrkas immediately planned to correlate this information with what he understood of the atomic theory from the "modern world." With dedication, he might gather new insights, and with luck, he might even achieve enlightenment!


    "To cultivate, in essence," his uncle continued, "is to gather and store Qi in one''s self, allowing one to modify and improve their mortal being. At the highest heights, one can become functionally immortal and hope to ascend to a higher Realm of Existence, a different physical dimension. But that''s not for now.


    "At the Mortal Cultivation Realm, the first state of being, the starting point of all mortals whether humans, beasts or plants, one''s self is divided into three parts: the body, the Qi plane, and the soul. Your body is your physical body, the one you can touch, feel, and bleed from. The soul is your immortal self, the piece of you which gets reincarnated, the undying part that makes you, you. Certain scholars theorize that cultivation is a fool''s errand to bypass the Heavens¡¯ planned ascension through subsequent reincarnations. Truthfully, I''m not sure where I stand on that subject. we will have to discuss it further down the line. It is a supremely interesting philosophical debate." This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    Before Koriss could loose himself in reflections on the subject, Myrkas interrupted with his first question: "what is the Qi plane then, Uncle?"


    "Ah! The Qi plane. It is harder to visualize. See, your body is your body. It is there, solid. Now imagine your soul as overlapping your physical self. Tied to it in a way you cannot see or feel. Like a blanket that is secured to you in three places: your head, your chest, and your center of gravity. Those are your dantians, or gates. Where cores can form. Humans and beasts all have three. Plants are another story I will not get into today. The Qi plane is the space between your soul and your body. It is infinitively narrow and infinitively wide at the same time. It doesn''t make much sense, I agree, but that is our current understanding.


    "To cultivate is to accumulate Qi in each of the three planes. Body is easiest. You don''t need any extra steps to access it, although having strong spiritual roots help tremendously. Remind me to get back to roots later Kassa.


    "To cultivate in your Qi plane, you first need to open one of your surface dantian gate. It allows Qi to traverse your body and enter your Qi plane. In a similar manner, one needs to open a deeper dantian gate to access their soul plane. It is harder and more dangerous the deeper one goes. Once a set of surface and deep gates are opened, a proto-core forms. It is an unavoidable goal to reach before one can attempt to pass from the Mortal Realm to the Earthen one. Those Realm are Self ones, not to be confused with the Greater Existential Realms. They are similar but different in scale.


    "But the first step is usually body cultivation. It''s easier, as I mentionned. There are many ways one can incorporate Qi into their body. Medicinal baths, advancement pills, elixirs, and meditation are the most used. Qi improves one''s body inherently. Expert body cultivators can refine their mortal flesh enough to improve and change their constitution. Strengthen their muscles, quicken their reflexes, recover faster... Some focus more on an element, enabling them to meld with shadows or become impervious to fire.


    "If one can manipulate Qi well-enough, it becomes possible to do amazing things. Enhance crafting up to spiritual levels, regrow limbs, change shapes, anything really. It is said that powerful soul cultivators can see glimpses of the future, track karma links or access past incarnations. Supposedly.


    "Are you still with me Kassa? Any question so far?"


    Myrkas was indeed attentive. This dump of information was what he had been anxiously waiting for. A real glimpse of everthing Myrkas dreamed of becoming through cultivation. All the possibilities laid bare before his eyes. It was too much and not enough knowledge simutaneously. There was so much to integrate that Myrkas had no time for details.


    "Yes! Uncle, I think I understand how to get stronger better. But how does one defy Heavens exactly? How can we ascend?"


    "Good, straight to the heart of the matter. One must first ascend through the nine Cultivation Realms of the Self before Ascending to the next Realm of Existence. Each Cultivation Realm is divided into nine stages, with every stage further divided into nine steps. You, Kassa, at the start of your journey, should be in the Mortal Realm, first stage: Qi gathering, on the first step for body, Qi, and soul planes. A cultivator needs to reach the ninth stage, ninth step in at least one of the three planes to attempt Integration and step into the Earthen Realm of Cultivation. Not many make it. The process is deadly in itself. Then one has to survive a Heavenly Tribulation to complete the process. The more pinnacle planes a cultivator achieves first, the less risky it becomes. Same for proto-cores. You need at least one, but having all six gates opened is a definite advantage for survival.


    "Then a cultivator has to repeat the process of accumulating and developing Qi and their planes through all next eight Self Realms. There are near infinite paths to reach the goal. Different techniques, elemental Qi, supplements, it all depends on the Dao one follows."


    Koriss was getting more and more enthused as he talked. The alchemist dived deeply into long lectures about complex meridians schematics, the pros and cons of different Qi types, elemental Qi versus conceptual Qi, and everything else in between.


    When the man started on soul theory and integration strategies, Myrkas knew he had to stop his uncle. The boy was loosing it. This cultivation business was much more intricate than the novel had made it look. The princeling only ever needed to gather random Qi by meditating really hard, and his innate talent and Imperial Bloodline had done the rest. The original main character did not have to "build his own meridians" or even work to open his first gate. He was born with awesome meridians and a proto-core thanks to his imperial bloodline. It was so unfair!


    Stupid overpowered protagonist. Myrkas was starting to hate the guy. Never met him, likely never would but it didn''t matter. It felt so good to direct his anger at something. To purge some of his unwanted feelings at a faceless icon. The prince acted as the perfect scapegoat, the ultimate metaphorical punching-bag!


    From his recent experiences and his uncle''s lectures, Myrkas better understood how risky and difficult cultivation truly was. The boy had a long, long road ahead. One trife with traps and steep cliffs. The mountain rose in all its splendor, the peak showing now that the clouds had lessened.


    Myrkas was at its base. He needed to climb, one step at a time. The way littered with rocks to cut himself on and slopes to fall from. No matter, for Myrkas had decided to rise. He was commited. To grow strong. strong enough to safeguard himself and his loved ones, no matter what the future brought. Myrkas would transcend his potential. He would prove once and for all how much better he was compared to that over priviledged princely main character. The goal was in sight, the path at Myrkas'' feet. All he had left was to climb and prevail.


    "Uncle, sorry to interrupt but aren''t those concepts a little advanced? Shouldn''t I start with the basics? Such as meditation and Qi gathering?" Myrkas asked.


    Taken aback, Koriss stared at his nephew. It was as if the man had forgotten the primary purpose of his talk, so taken was he by the subject.


    "Yes, yes. Indeed. We will elaborate later on, when you are more familiar with the practice. You can put on the artefact now, but don''t let it touch your skin yet. Hide it. Most would kill to get their hands on it. Do not bring it outside the estate and give it back to me between uses. Do not tell anyone about it, especially not Suna Ranil. Heaven knows what he would do if he knew. Then again, Suna should aim not to incure my wrath too too much.


    "As you may have guessed, Kassa, this is an Assessor, and a pretty good one. Very, very valuable. A rare one, unusually versatile. While I know not who made it, or their cultivation level, I would not be surprised if they had already been an Immortal for a long time before they fashioned this particular Assessor. I learned a great deal from it. More than from the Sagace Glass Cauldron Sect''s Academy I attended.


    "I have to warn you, however, it can be a little reckless in its advice. Take the proferred paths with a grain of salt. It may have agreed or even encouraged you in your recent risk-taking behaviours, as ill-advised as they were.


    "It remains a tool, not a Master. I am here if you need. Don''t cripple yourself. Don''t take risks. There is no rush. I have seen too many die in the pursuit of blind power. Same goes for Master Ranil, I will reign him in if needed."


    At the end of his speech, Koriss took on a pensive air again, the older man easily lost in memories. Myrkas waited politely. And waited. Until shadows moved with the waning sun. When his uncle started to read in his face, the boy concluded he could take his leave. Teaching was over, time to start with practise!


    At last, his training arc could debut!

 12.1 Start Arc 2: A Wild Training Arc Appeared!

    Back in his favourite spot below his favourite tree, surrounded by his favourite fluffy harem, Myrkas took out the secret amulet: The Assessor. He could scarcely believe his uncle had such an artifact hidden away in his cupboard. It seemed way too grand for a provincial alchemist, never mind how talented he was.


    How his uncle had procured the object was a mystery. A mystery Myrkas was happy to put to the side if it meant he had unlimited access to the tool.


    Assessors were usually reserved for the powerful, the influential. For common mortals, their only hope to ever access one was to join the Imperial Military. Every soldier was assessed a least once by the army''s standard, basic artifact. Those, however, were not of the portable kind. They were made to standard, by middling artisans. The large stele-like tools were exclusively found in military training camps and specific, central barracks.


    No one would think to steal those. Not only were they unwieldy, they were also fairly restricted. They merely assessed a cultivator''s basic characteristics such as their Realm, stage, step, and number of spiritual roots. A subject his uncle had skipped over, now that Myrkas had a minute to think. No matter, the boy had enough to start.


    The Assessor in Myrkas'' hands was different, unique. If he were to believe his uncle, the subdued pendant might be one of the mythical Assessors created by a Master right before they Ascended to the next Realm of Existence. A tool not only to assess but to guide. A repository of cultivation techniques, possibly of martial and crafting theory. The truly exemplary Assessors were said to be able to imprint guidance into the mind of the assessed one.


    This, this little marvel could be it. The ultimate cultivation cheat code. A boon worthy of an isekai protagonist. An old master in a box! If it was as amazing as Myrkas hoped, this object alone could let someone found an unparalleled cultivation sect. A temple to cultivation, martial arts, and potentially crafting, depending on the amulet''s actual content.


    A brilliant smile split Myrkas'' face. Enough that both Snow and Lilac edged closer to him, intrigued by his uncharacteristically jovial demeanour, Even Margoat came next to him, although the ivory goat was soon distracted by Myrkas'' unruly hair. Hair she immediately started to munch on. Thankfully, the quadruped never ripped the boy''s hair out¡ªor he would have been bald already. She was content to chew on his curls while they were still attached to his head. Myrkas had learned soon enough to quickly distract the animal with plant-based snacks unless the boy wanted to become soaked in slobber.


    Hairy crisis averted, young Myrkas readied himself to activate the treasure. His uncle had mentioned being careful to let the amulet touch his bare skin. As merely fiddling with it in his hands didn''t do anything, Myrkas concluded the wood-like pendant needed full contact to work. And on his chest, most likely, seeing as it had been made into a necklace. Myrkas never ceased to impress himself with his indisputable deductive prowesses.


    Hence why Myrkas, hidden away in the back gardens, took off his outer robe and his inner shirt. The advancing spring weather was too warm by now to warrant a set of inner robes or an overlying sleeveless kaftan unless Myrkas participated in a fancy-ish kind of event. That left the tween bare-chested, wearing only his ankle-length royal blue underpants, and matching silk and leather slippers.


    The boy had filled out substantially since the fateful funeral. His ribs were no longer showing, and though his abdominal muscles still showed when Myrkas flexed, his physiognomy could no longer be used as an anatomy lesson. A healthy layer of fat now lay under Myrkas'' skin, a sure sign of Marta di Kroush''s competence in the kitchen.


    Myrkas had gained muscle mass too. While undeniably lean, he felt more solid overall. Less at risk of suddenly transforming into a hungry ghoul after one missed meal. On the other hand, the youth had yet to experience any manly hair growth. It would come, he knew, with some trepidation. He only vaguely remembered the whole "becoming a man" process from his past life. Surely, testosterone should not change him that much?


    Anyway, now was not the time. This day was meant for grander things, for an Assessment! Eagerly, Myrkas put on the artifact, letting its weight rest on his bare skin. It hung low on him, reaching his upper belly. Carefully, barely daring to breathe, he waited. And waited. And... nothing happened. No "system" box magically appeared into thin air. Myrkas heard no ethereal voice in his head. No lights and fanfare to announce his level. Not even a drum roll or a tiny firework, like those used on birthday cakes. Fairly anticlimactic. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    Of course his uncle had forgotten to give Myrkas instructions on how to use the so-called priceless artifact. If only things went as he had expected for once. Myrkas wasn''t asking for much either. A few transmigrator privileges, that was all. He didn''t even wish to mess with the main story. The boy was perfectly fine staying in his provincial corner, doing his things. Maybe build a hygiene and alchemy commercial empire, Totally reasonable, easily achievable ambitions. Just a fair serving of money and power, most preferably delivered now, at his¡ªwell, his uncle''s, to be accurate¡ªdoorstep, ready to grasp without any cooking required.


    Myrkas sighed in exasperation. Nothing was that simple, especially not life, even if he had indeed become one of the protagonists of this world''s current era. But the boy did not want to go straight back to his uncle for an explanation. It felt like defeat, as if Myrkas would fail untold expectations by not succeeding in activating the Assessor on his own. He did not want to disturb and disappoint his uncle so soon after his lengthy teaching session. Myrkas wasn''t an idiot, he could figure it out. As long as he did not break anything...


    Before attempting anything riskier, such as the true and tried "bang the object until it works" method, Myrkas settled on meditating a little. It would help clear his head, to plan the best way to go at it. As always, Snow jumped on him as soon as she sensed he was about to start his self-made cultivation technique. She sat in his lap this time, in her own meditative position.


    Her sister Lilac did not move from her spot laying lazily next to Myrkas'' thigh. She was happy there in the dappled sunshine, with her eponym eyes closed. His goats kept with their grazing of the nearby mix of clover and grass. Thank Heavens Serni was happy with the new supply of quality fertilizer or Myrkas feared his furry, horned friends might have ended up as dinner after they ate a few flowers too many. The goats knew better now. They strictly stuck to the allowed flora. And the snacks Myrkas sneaked them.


    Myrkas closed his eyes and started his meditation. His breathing deepened. His Qi flowed, following the rhythm of his reliable mantra: "Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger." After two breathing cycles, something odd happened. Myrkas felt the braided leather of his necklace shortened. The artifact moved on his skin before stopping at the bottom of his sternum, directly over his xiphoid process. The circular pendant was warming against his skin, filling Myrkas with excitement.


    Hopeful, the youth opened his eyes. Snow was looking at him intently, head turned on its side, nose wiggling in question. Myrkas had to stop himself from explaining everything. She was a rabbit, a smart rabbit for sure, but nowhere smart enough to understand the intricacies of cultivation and Assessments. He felt foolish for a second there, Her cute face and wide pink eyes had almost convinced him she possessed human-level sapience. Almost. Myrkas silently laughed as he started to pet her.


    Gazing at his chest, Myrkas noticed the artifact had changed. The faint runes glowed brighter, in a warm orange and gold light. The runes were moving, changing, arraying themselves in mystic patterns. Myrkas again wished it had come with an instruction booklet, a runic dictionary, or even better, for his uncle to supervise his nephew instead of once again forgetting his existence to concentrate on alchemic research and production.


    Myrkas was convinced the princeling was carefully watched over and counselled when he was using the Imperial Assessor. Not just given a perfunctory "Good Luck" after being handed over an¡ªassumed¡ªone-of-a-kind, priceless artifact. An object his uncle had not bothered to explain how it had ended up in his possession. It was frustrating. A welcome boon, but still frustrating.


    Myrkas anxiously waited for the assessor to proceed. If he thought he looked a little silly, bare-chested and waiting immobile on a slightly chilly spring day, he refrained from acknowledging it out loud. So he waited. And waited. A little redundant to say the least.


    At his fifth full-body shiver, Myrkas lost patience. Sure, the runes were shinier, but nothing else was happening. Myrkas had tried to meditate again. For at least a full hour. He was quite certain of it, as the shadows had moved a good 30¡ã since he had started.


    Lilac had had time to wake up and bother him for snacks and the delicate task of brushing her luxurious fur. A task the boy had only gotten away from by promising an extended fur maintenance session¡ªcomplete with a soft water bath and essential oils treatment¡ªin addition to regular brushing in the evening. And extra cabbage. Carrots were overrated. Cabbage and fale were the true rabbit favourites. And pansies for some reason.


    Back to the Assessor, Myrkas grabbed his courage and, gingerly, examined the object more closely. Apart from the aforementioned runes, nothing else had changed. It was a little warm, a little glowing, but otherwise unremarkable in its apparent mundanity.


    Sighing, Myrkas turned it around. He had missed something, that much was obvious. With great care, he tried to turn and press on anything he could convince himself was a hidden "power button". Without success. Undeterred, Myrkas persevered.


    The boy was so taken by his task, that he failed to notice the horned monster lurking next to him. When she suddenly struck, he was too taken aback to prevent anything. Myrkas could only watch, helpless, as Satine¡ªhis black and white angora goat¡ªviciously sunk her flat teeth into the priceless artifact.

 12.2 Arc 2: A Wild Training Arc Appeared!

    Horror flooded the tween. He should have known. Satine was named so since her black horns and orange-red eyes made her look devilish. As to why "Satine" sounded demonic to Myrkas¡ªand only to him¡ªthe boy did not know. Likely something to do with his past life. Regardless, Satine invoked badass images of tall, bipedal red goats with fire powers and forked tails to Myrkas'' mind. That was the main reason why he chose her at the market.


    In short, as awesome as she may be, Satine was destined to have an evil side. A self-fulfilling prophecy. And Myrkas was now paying the consequences.


    Panic sprouted and grew upon Myrkas'' spirit. His key to great power, his one "probably a protagonist-level cheat" was stuck in the maws of his damned goat. It was covered in slobber. Worse, Satine was actively trying to chew it. After all of Myrkas'' careful handling, the Assessor was fated to break under the unending hunger of a non-spiritual ruminant, a totally mundane animal.


    A critical match ensued, quickly won by Myrkas. He had succeeded in recovering the mystical wet disk. Unapologetic, Satine huffed and left for a patch of clover, nudging Margoat to the side. Both her sisters gave her looks, as if to reprimand her for her antics, but were nonetheless too occupied with their own curd to intervene. The bicolored goat was shameless. Completely so. She even seemed proud of herself, if she was looked at from an angle.


    However, Satine remained a goat. Myrkas couldn''t really blame her. She could not know, Anything could be food or something fun to chew on. At least that one didn''t like his hair. Small blessing. It left Myrkas with only one option: re-direct his rising anger at the useless prince.


    It did not matter if Myrkas failed to explain how these happenings could ever be the princeling''s fault. That was not the point. The point was to feel better, and blaming a privileged main character did that. Myrkas needed an outlet¡ªor he would go insane¡ªand the prince was it. Sucked for the royal¡ªbut not really as he was so far away.


    Hesitant, Myrkas wiped the pendant with his shirt. The details still glowed but had stopped their motions. To Myrkas'' horror, two parts-vis-a-vis one another had been pushed in.


    Shocked, Myrkas let go of the wood-like circle, which pressed back to his chest. Before the boy could process the amount of trouble he was undoubtedly in, a shimmering, orange and gold light escaped from the depressions.


    Without a word, Myrkas watched as the powder-like shimmer gathered and formed an... a "blob" would be the most apt descriptor. It was almost identical to those slimes sold in a cup at cheap corner stores. Or a slime monster, as those were a thing here, apparently. Myrkas had yet to see one, but they existed or so his uncle said. Anyway, he doubted "regular" slime monsters floated or were this sparkly and magical looking.


    Relief warred with ongoing anxiety. This development looked like progress. Or an irreparable mistake if the "blob" represented all the Qi, and whatever else the Assessor needed to work, escaping its confine. A major screw-up or a success, no in-between.


    Taking a calming breath, Myrkas still flinched when the sparkling blob moved. The pendant warmed further on his skin with an added sensation of spreading tingles. Not painful but definitely an unnerving sensation. When Myrkas dared to look back, the shimmer had reshaped itself into a single word: "Assessing."


    Pure excitement blossomed within Myrkas. And relief, much relief. A tremendous amount of relief. A whole pile, a mountain. So much so that his limbs now felt like jelly. Myrkas could almost forgive Satine and the prince for making him live this rollercoaster of emotions. Who was he kidding? Satine was already forgiven. She was too fluffy to stay mad at. The prince, however, Myrkas could resent for as long as he wanted. Take that imperial not-bastard.


    The tingling and some warmth spread throughout every nook and cranny of Myrkas'' body before the assessment completed. For its entire duration, Myrkas could have sworn his stomach hosted not just a butterfly party but a butterfly rave, with full-on bass and laser lights. The anticipation was killing him. At last, the words changed to a proper Assessment display.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    [Assessment Complete]


    [Report]


    Name: Myrkas Hakhmir


    Age standard: 12


    Race: Human


    Constitution: None


    Bloodline: None


    Spirit Roots: 2


    <ul>


    <li> Water at Copper level,</li>


    <li> Air at Wood level, </li>


    <ul>


    <li>no other root above Mortal level </li>


    </ul>


    </ul>


    Meridians: Trivial


    Dantians:


    <ul>


    <li>Upper: near gate closed, far gate closed </li>


    <li>Middle: near gate closed, far gate closed </li>


    <li>Lower: near gate closed, far gate closed </li>


    </ul>


    Soul composition: 63% Yang 37% Yin


    Qi types detected: 1¡ªUndefined


    Warning, soul damage detected. Dual fused reparation detected.


    Realm: Mortal


    Stages:


    <ul>


    <li> Body plane: Qi gathering Step 2</li>


    <li>Qi-plane: Qi gathering Step 0</li>


    <li> Soul plane: Qi gathering Step 3</li>


    </ul>


    Detected techniques:


    <ul>


    <li>Meditation, self-made, Breath centred¨CCopper level</li>


    </ul>


    Skills:


    <ol>


    <li>Martial: </li>


    <ul>


    <li>Unarmed combat¨CNovice </li>


    <li>Evasion¨CBeginner </li>


    </ul>


    <li>crafting: None </li>


    <li>Social: None </li>


    <li>Artistic: None </li>


    </ol>


    [Report Complete]


    A status sheet. Myrkas finally had a mythic status sheet¡ªor Assessment report, whatever. He suddenly felt like a video game character, ready to take on his first monster. Or save the world from a magic zombie apocalypse. Okay, maybe not a zombie plague. Undeads were gross. And scary as all hells. Better to hope for a dark sorcerer or vampires. Or, even better, a "catch them all" type monster hunter. Build a team and become the best of the best. Myrkas already had a super rabbit. Nothing beat the overpowered starter, it was a well-known fact.


    Back to serious business, Myrkas could not help but be a little disappointed by his results. While it was amazing, beyond useful, to objectively witness his progress¡ªthe proof he wasn''t a fool sitting around for nothing¡ªhe had hoped to have progressed more. Sure, it had not been a full season yet¡ªless than three months, with each month containing four nonats here¡ªsince Myrkas had awoken in the Allrin Empire, and even less since he had actively started to cultivate. He had to keep his expectations in check. It was unreasonable to expect to fly through Realms as if he was an unopposed genius prodigy not seen in a million years.


    Still, Myrkas had thought, foolishly wished perhaps, that his constant efforts would have bore more fruits, many more. To be closer to the next stage in cultivation in at least one of his three planes, not barely passed the starting line. Nothing in his status screamed "protagonist potential" apart from the broken soul comment.


    Worse, the Assessor had not acknowledged his effort with soap making whatsoever. His crafting section was one big "nada," better luck next time. It was disheartening. The boy could see his soaps were not quite there yet. They might be a bit too crude to revolutionize the hygiene market, but he was trying. That mattered! He did not need a trophy, but a participation ribbon would have been nice. A little encouragement cost nothing and helped a lot with perseverance. He even had plans to add goat milk as soon as possible to his soap recipe.


    The Assessor clearly should have seen his progress and plans and made a mention of it. It would have been a nice thing to do. The polite thing. The artifact''s creator could have done better. Myrkas was convinced the damned prince received congratulations for farting right. Unfair, life was simply unfair.


    Sighing, Myrkas reluctantly agreed with the rest of the assessment. He had enough self-awareness to acknowledge his wanting artistic inclinations, and his social discomfort with any people who were not his Nirsa or an eight-year-old, curly-haired devil with grass-green eyes and freckles.


    His recent bout in the ring had thoroughly disillusioned the boy concerning his current martial prowess. He had a lot to learn, hence his coming discipleship with his hopefully not-too-sadistic Martial Arts Master. One could dream, in colours with full surround sound.


    Evidently, Myrkas'' future as an undefeatable powerhouse was not due for the next morning. Nor the one after. Maybe in a year, if he was really really lucky or so the boy secretly wished. With plans in place to learn alchemy and improve martially, standard cultivation was all that was left.


    As his uncle had mentioned, this Assessor should act as a teacher of sorts and be able to guide Myrkas in the next steps on the progress ladder. Once again, the boy only needed to figure out how. No way would he go back to beg for help without trying a few things first. He figured it out once¡ª *cough* Satine did *cough*¡ªhe would do it anew. Without any ruminant saliva needed.


    "Help," the boy first tried, without success. Same went for "Assessor, guide me," "Oh great one, bestow your wisdom upon this fool searching for light," and "What''s up next, dude?"


    That would have been too easy, of course.


    With some reluctance, Myrkas decided to follow Satine''s example, not by biting the pendant but by trying to press on the edge. Perpendicular to the first two, two new parts depressed inside. A soft click sounded, runes twirled again, and the shining words changed to Myrkas'' delight.


    [Guiding mode initiated, please indicate preferred focus.]


    Myrkas let out a very manly, high-pitched "squeak" in his excitement. Thankfully, only fluffy beings were close enough to hear him, and none of them would ever be able to tell the tale.


    It was time. On to the next step in defying the Heavens!

 13.1 Arc 2: A Wild Training Arc Appeared

    At last, some proper guidance befitting a cultivator protagonist! Myrkas could not help the wide smile bisecting his youthful face. His cheeks were round and red with happiness. If a kind grandma had been around, she would not have been able to resist taking a bite of those apple cheeks. The new letters shimmered in front of Myrkas, their gold and orange glow melding with the afternoon light. Their glimmer evoked the untold possibilities the artifact hid, waiting to be uncovered. Without further ado, Myrkas read on.


    <hr>


    Available focus for Assessed [Myrkas Hakhmir]


    Suggested, in order of priority


    Spiritual skills:


    <ul>


    <li>Qi sense (Beginner) </li>


    <li>Meditation (Novice) </li>


    <li>Internal Qi manipulation (Beginner) </li>


    <li>External Qi manipulation (Beginner) </li>


    <li>Dantian Gate opening (Beginner) </li>


    </ul>


    Martial Skills:


    <ul>


    <li>Unarmed combat </li>


    <li>   -General (Intermediate) </li>


    <li>   -Other styles (Novice) </li>


    </ul>


    ? Expand?


    <ul>


    <li>Evasion (Novice) </li>


    <li>Acrobatics (Beginner) </li>


    <li>Body Meditation (Beginner)</li>


    </ul>


    Available, however, not immediately recommended for Assessed [Myrkas Hahkmir]


    Crafting skills:


    <ul>


    <li>Basics of Alchemy (Beginner)</li>


    <li>Beast Medicine (Beginner)</li>


    <li>Thread spinning (Beginner)</li>


    </ul>


    Social skills:


    <ul>


    <li>Beast communion (Beginner) </li>


    <li>Intimidation (Beginner) </li>


    <li>Unreadable face (Beginner)</li>


    <li>Torture Basics (Beginner)</li>


    </ul>


    Artistic skills:


    <ul>


    <li>None unlocked </li>


    </ul>


    Strengthening spiritual roots: Looked, prerequisites missing


    Bloodline progression: Not available


    Constitution formation: Locked, prerequisites missing


    Meridians formation: Locked, need to open a minimum of one (1) near dantian gate to access.


    All other functions currently locked for Assessed [Myrkas Hakhmir].


    End of Guiding Assessment


    Please indicate choice of focus for additional guidance


    <hr>


    So many choices!


    It was a great start. Even better than Myrkas had dared hope for. So many disciplines were covered, at least at basic levels. A tremendous boon! Unbelievably so. His uncle must have sacrificed his future firstborn, and the second, and the third, to a Supreme Devil from the seventh Hell to acquire such an artifact, and keep it secret. Actually, that would explain why Koriss Hakhmir had never taken a wife before. Myrkas could inquire, although, it seemed safer not to know too much. In case the boy found himself mysteriously included in whatever repayment was expected. A last heir sounded conveniently interchangeable with firstborn when devils were concerned. Or potentially demonic cultivators.


    Myrkas squashed his rising worry before it overwhelmed him. He was getting anxious about unfounded conjectures. His uncle was a nice, respectable man, not someone who made deals with evil entities for unfathomable power. There had to be a good explanation for Koriss possessing such an artifact and keeping it secret. One excluding any nefarious exchange. Again, Myrkas could ask, but the boy preferred not to. People were allowed to have secrets. It was not because Myrkas wished to avoid any further awkward conversations with his uncle. Of course not, Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    The different options presented made sense, thankfully. The Assessor had obviously taken Myrkas'' progression and aptitudes when making its list of suggestions. However, one option made a stark contrast next to all the others. Its mere presence presented a great puzzle.


    What did I do to get "Torture Basics" as an option?


    A true mystery. It made the boy put into question every single act he had done¡ªwell, those he remembered¡ªin both of his lives. Was he a secretly budding psychopath? Myrkas quickly looked at his surrounding menagerie. Relief grew within him when no hidden impulse to hurt his furry friends was revealed. He did not think aggressive cuddles counted as torture. And with the amount of brushing their fur required, Myrkas would think he was the one doomed to repeated forced labour more than any other living on the estate.


    Nope, the reason was elsewhere. It quite bothered him. Myrkas could not progress further without finding a reasonable explanation as to why the Assessor had deemed him fit to walk on the path of an expert torturer. It made no logical sense. He had never wished to hurt anyone, and the princeling did not count. Myrkas might direct his envy towards the over-privileged original protagonist, but he did not actually wish him any harm whatsoever. Myrkas was very happy for the both of them to live in parallel, without ever influencing the other. Nope, Myrkas'' completely benign defence mechanism of finding fault with a rich stranger was not the reason for his newly found potential as an apprentice torturer.


    The only person he may have wished some harm to did not count. Eight-year-old little girls were notoriously annoying. They deserved to be tickled to breathlessness. Especially when they kept interrupting Myrkas when he tried to read, write, train, or, really, do anything remotely productive.


    Myrkas'' acts were justified. Tickling someone who deserved it did not count as torture, even if the other person may have peed themselves a little and cried afterward. All of it would have never happened if Martine had just left him alone when Myrkas did not have time to play with her. He was busy. Gaining power required time and discipline, and distracting children had to learn their lesson, notwithstanding whatever Nirsa said.


    Myrkas was convinced Marta, the girl''s mother, would agree with him if he ever told her. Not that he planned to, as the matronly lady may forbid Martine from ever playing with him again. Apparently, servants and Young Masters weren''t supposed to chase each other around or climb trees together. Marta could be too strict. It was better to keep Martine''s playful excesses and his retaliatory ticklings to themselves.


    Myrkas refused to agree with the Assessor. Having some malicious glee while causing some mild discomfort to someone who clearly deserved it did not mark one as a potential torturer. He was not a sadist and that was that.


    Myrkas reminded himself that, despite their dry delivery, advanced Assessors were known to oftentimes develop quirks and personalities reminiscent of their creator. Maybe this one liked to make bad jokes aimed at putting the Assessed in a never-ending loop of self-doubt. Something to temper their Dao Heart and knowledge of themselves. To test their Path. Who knew?


    Anyway, mystery solved. It was time to choose a focus. While most options had definite benefits and attractive features, only one was consistent with Myrkas'' current plans. It was the one skill he had courageously risked his life for the day before. The one key to unlock a myriad of paths. The one way to truly feel like a cultivator: the ability to sense Qi. To accurately perceive the mystical energy empowering the world to magical heights. Like being able to sense and/or see electromagnetic forces; if Myrkas compared it to the good old atomic theory of the "modern universe."


    Qi-sense would help with everything. His meditation would improve if he could witness the Qi entering him. Alchemy and soap-making¡ªyes, it counted¡ªwould become easy if Myrkas knew what contained Qi or not, how much, and what type. How could Myrkas ever improve if Qi stayed invisible and intangible to his senses, physical and metaphysical ones included¡ªwhatever those last ones were?


    In addition, the Assessor had put Qi-sensing as its top-most suggestion. A sure sign of its importance on the journey of Qi-Cultivation.


    It made the choice beyond easy. Myrkas'' next step to build a solid foundation could not have been any more clear. As if life had installed a few giant neon arrow signs with a helpful "turn here to progress" on the boy''s path to power. If only all of life''s choices could be identified with so little ambiguity.


    With resolve and excitement mixing in his abdomen, Myrkas loudly announced his preference.


    "Focus chosen: Qi sensing"


    Thankfully, no complex shenanigans were required by the Assessor to confirm this selection. The shining letters immediately responded to Myrkas'' voice.


    <hr>


    [Acknowledged. Initiating Qi sensing guide, Beginner stage.]


    Methods available to unlock General Qi-sense¡ªrecommended over specific Qi-senses for Assessed [Myrkas Hakhmir]


    <ul>


    <li>Qi-Leeches sensitization </li>


    <li>Meditation in a high Qi environment </li>


    <li>Noxious Qi exposure </li>


    <li>Foreign Qi wound </li>


    <li>Physical sensory deprivation</li>


    </ul>


    <hr>


    A little barebone in terms of assistance, but welcomed nonetheless. Although, further details would have been appreciated. The basic statements did not provide much practical information for a beginning cultivator. They implied some preceding knowledge of Qi-Cultivation''s general concepts. While the meaning was somewhat intuitive, Myrkas would have liked a nice set of clear definitions. This world obviously lacked in the area of random lawsuits to allow for suck laxness. They expected people to know the contents could be hot without the appropriate warning. As if common sense abounded!

 13.2 Arc 2: A Wild Training Arc Appeared

    This Assessor thing wasn''t the best in terms of foolproof user interface design. The failings of diminished competition, for sure. The creator was lucky there were no design awards in this universe. Well, not yet. Who knew what the Craft Arts future looked like?


    "Can you expand on the various methods?" Myrkas asked.


    <hr>


    [Acknowledged. Providing descriptions]


    <ul>


    <li>Qi Leeches Sensitization</li>


    </ul>


    Enhances Qi sensitivity by active and near complete removal of a cultivator''s Vital Qi. Can be achieved through common exsanguination, although the use of Qi Leeches is recommended for added efficacy. Other Blood and Vital Qi Vampire species, siphoning techniques, or draining artifacts are acceptable alternatives if no Qi leeches are readily available to achieve a similar result.


    Warning: May damage body cultivation, cause irreversible weakness or death if an inappropriate amount of Qi is drained or if this method is used too often. Species, techniques, or artifacts which concurrently drain other Qi types, soul energy, and/or stored Qi reserves are contraindicated.


    <ul>


    <li>Meditation in a high Qi concentration environment (external)</li>


    </ul>


    Method aimed to ease the initial sensing of Qi by flooding the cultivator''s metaphysical senses with an overabundance of ambient Qi. While such an environment can be found naturally, optimal settings can be artificially made with neutral Qi gathering formations, specially made Qi-rich incense, and the use of particular natural treasures.


    Warning: May cause Qi deviation, Qi overload, and/or excessive impurity accumulation with excessive usage or improper Qi sources and potency. Death can occur secondary to high ambient Qi concentration for inadequate cultivators with subpar meditation techniques.


    ? Exposure to noxious Qi (external)


    Increases Qi-sense by stimulating Qi sensitivity with external exposure to a noxious and invading source of Qi. Similar technique to the above Meditation in a high Qi concentration environment with the major difference being the quality of the Qi used. Instead of generally neutral ambient Qi, here the source of Qi has to be actively nocive and invasive to the cultivator. Most commonly used are Ice Qi (or Deadly Ice Qi), Fire Qi (or Inferno Qi), Poison Qi, Death Qi, or Madness Qi (or Chaos Qi). As before, such environments can be found naturally or artificially created with cultivation resources.


    Warning: Higher risk of Qi deviation, Qi overload and/or death compared to the use of highly concentrated neutral Qi. However, this method tends to impart a lesser amount of impurities if the noxious Qi type chosen is in line with the cultivator''s preferred Dao. May cause permanent damage or crippling injuries to inadequately prepare individuals.


    <ul>


    <li>Exposure to foreign Qi (Internal)</li>


    </ul>


    Increases Qi sensitivity by directly infusing foreign Qi in the cultivator''s body, and their subsequent need to identify and purge or assimilate it before a Qi deviation, or other adverse events occur. In accordance with external types of exposures, noxious types of Qi tend to be more effective than neutral ones, with the minor consequence of carrying more risk of adverse events. Small quantities are preferred at first exposure.


    Foreign Qi is usually inserted in the cultivator''s body by either a Qi-filled injury (for example a sword wound infused with Qi), ingestion of a specially prepared concoction or natural treasure, delivery of a venom or poison (needles, injection, or through a spirit beasts'' bite preferred), or through the use of an appropriately weak spirit parasite.


    Warning: As expected, may cause Qi deviation, Qi overload, increased impurity accumulation, crippling conditions, and/or death. Unprepared fools, and weak-willed cowards should abstain.


    <ul>


    <li>Physical sensory deprivation (adjunct)</li>


    </ul>


    Encourages the development of Qi-senses by minimizing physical feedback, giving space to properly notice any Qi surrounding the cultivator in question. The cultivator needs to neutralize his senses of taste, smell, touch, hearing, and sight concurrently. Then, through concentration and meditation, they can increase their sensitivity to Qi.


    This deprivation is generally achieved with the use of a salted, body-temperature water bath into which the cultivator will submerge themselves. This bath should be placed in a dark and silent room, previously neutralized from any scents and smells. This particular technique is often used in adjunct to one of the previously mentioned ones. It is usually insufficient alone unless the cultivator is extremely talented.


    Warning: Complete physical sensory deprivation may cause insanity with prolonged and uninterrupted use. Inferior minds better abstain. Some drownings may have occurred with its use.


    [End of Beginner guide]


    <hr>


    While details and actual warnings were welcome, they sounded a little too ominous for the boy''s liking. Just a bit. Oh well. The path to power couldn''t be all sunshine and rainbows or everyone would eventually become a powerhouse. The rainbow road of cultivation had no guardrail despite its many twists and turns. Only a steep fall awaited any who misjudged their own ability.


    Myrkas should have seen it coming. The good old trope of higher risks for higher rewards had to be maintained. Power wasn''t found in accessible, but rare, candies, complete with pretty packaging, and a selection of artificial fruit flavours. If only gaining a level was as simple as eating candy¡ªnotwithstanding alchemical pills.Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    Also, Myrkas could not help but notice the Assessor turning up the snark and condescension as it went on. Maybe Myrkas had misjudged it and the old relic did have a remnant of personality. Indeed, the thing did seem to lack empathy towards every kind of failure. It almost sounded like a dolphin laughing at a swimming human. It wasn''t nice to make fun of less talented people, not that Myrkas felt in any way singled out. Of course not.


    Myrkas refused to be disappointed. Risks had to be a part of the equation or advanced types of cultivation techniques would be more readily found. For all the boy knew, not even every member of a sect or of the Imperial Family went past simple Body Cultivation. Body Cultivation at its most basic could be achieved without the practitioner having any developed Qi-Sense. They merely strengthened their bodies with specific exercises, medicinal baths, and alchemical concoctions.


    The next steps, including the ability to precisely sense and manipulate Qi, were a fanciful extra, a mere dream for most. They basked in their mediocrity, relying on the general sense of Qi they acquired as their body improved. Their use of Qi was instinctual, not rational, more akin to muscle memory than anything else. Seldom did they use any advanced techniques, fighting more like superhuman athletes than mages and spellswords.


    Almost none of those types of Body cultivators ever ascended to a higher Physical Realm, staying mere Mortals for their entire lives. Most serious factions did not consider pure Body cultivators as actual cultivators. It did not matter to those leading organizations that most so-called cultivators found in the wilds of civilization were of the Body kind. Only absolute power conferred any importance to individuals and organizations alike. And if only the established nobility, sects, and crafting guilds had enough resources to spend on idle meditations, well, such was fate. Practitioners of Qi arts would rise while the common people lost their time finding food, seeking shelter, and enjoying the iota of leisure they had left.


    That was without taking into account the fact that most cultivation knowledge was jealously guarded by the powerful. Finding a guiding artifact such as the one Myrkas had in his hands was truly a gift from the Heavens. The boy would not need to sell his body or soul to progress. Or to fumble blindly on his Path, at risk or deviating from his goals.


    The limited numbers of higher Realms Qi-practitioners also diminished the probability of catastrophic incidents compared to the cultivation universes described in most stories from Myrkas'' past life. It made for safer restaurants and tea shops, less subject to unavoidable complete destruction for the slight of having housed an easily insulted passing rogue cultivator. While devastating petty disputes still happened, they were minimized by the common knowledge that government officials and law enforcement were in general higher on the power ladder than any independent practitioner. Few could disturb the peace without immediate reprisal by the people in charge.


    High matters of honour and face¡ªthe amalgamation of social standing, skill, reputation, and perceived power¡ªwere better dealt with by proxies. Better to fight wars through mostly mortal armies, ruining a few fields and farms, maybe burning a city or two, than to pit Kings against each other, with each of their blows razing mountains and carving new valleys.


    It just made a lot more sense. Hard to harvest new, Qi-filled resources when the Ancestral whatever Forest had been uprooted for a misunderstanding between nations the preceding season. The whole point of having a subordinate nation was to ease the gathering of such resources. No point in destroying them willy--nilly. Resources had to be gathered and flowing, less the true Hidden Monsters begin to crawl out of their dens.


    From what Myrkas had gathered, a good quarter of all high-grade cultivation resources in the Allrin Empire ended in the hands not of the current Emperor, but of his Honored Grandfather. The Immortal kept in seclusion, in isolation, trying to Ascend to the next Existential Realm, the next Heaven. Fuelled by the blood and sweat of the Empire''s citizens. To be replaced by his Granson upon his Ascension, and thus the cycle turned.


    Reflections over, Myrkas was deeply impressed by himself. Self-proclaimed he might be, but he was a genius. His insight into general politics was wise beyond his years. And he had yet to reach his first official teenage year! However, all of Myrkas'' thorough analysis of the world''s state of affairs did not help the boy with his current dilemma: choosing the most appropriate method to obtain the ability to sense Qi.


    After a few more minutes spent basking in his own intellectual glory, Myrkas forced his attention back to the shiny Assessor writings. He had to make a decision, to choose the best option. He refused to limit himself to basic Body cultivation, even if it seemed a safer option. Myrkas had not transmigrated in this web novel to be mediocre. He had a main character''s destiny waiting for him. He needed to be prepared. If his uncle was able to sense Qi¡ªa requirement for any proper alchemist, apparently¡ªMyrkas should be able to do it too. So what if the process carried risk? Hadn''t he risked his life the day before? The boy had resolve and courage. He wasn''t a wimp or a fool. No, Mister Assessor! Myrkas only had to improve his risk calculations, a totally doable task.


    As any self-respecting protagonist and budding cultivation genius, Myrkas decided on the only path matching his potential; he would combine all methods. Maximum calculated risk for maximum benefits. He was sure to unlock an uber-special- never-seen-before type of Qi-sensing ability with that. Something so precise and awe-inspiring that his uncle would fall on his butt, flabbergasted. It didn''t look difficult to achieve. Start with Qi-Leeches¡ªundoubtedly a breeze to acquire¡ªthen make a concentrated medicinal bath with a mildly aggressive Qi type, add two or three shallow razor cuts, and finish with a dark room and earplugs and voila! An all-in-one foolproof Qi-sense development session, graciously designed by Myrkas, the upmost-cultivator-to-be.


    This new method would go down in history as the best to efficiently develop Qi-sense. Not for cowards or fools. For the deserving, the willing, the chosen ones. Myrkas only had to gather the materials left. So easy. A mere formality. He lived in an alchemist''s abode. The boy could "borrow" anything. Invent his own bath. And incense too, why not?


    Or maybe, just maybe, as an idea, I could ask Uncle for help. That might be smart. And a touch safer. Only to make sure I don''t waste any expensive ingredients. To show I learned from my errant ways. Accept to rely on professionals. No need to try to reinvent the wheel on my lonesome.


    Yeah, that was a smart move. Myrkas was again proud of himself, of his personal progress. If he wanted to become the very best, he had to use all of his available resources, including his¡ªassumed reliable¡ªUncle. Knowledge was power, and power was power. So deep, so thoughtful. Determined, Myrkas immediately ran to look for his current father figure, not letting his furry friends'' puzzled eyes slow him down.

 14.1 Arc 2: A Wild Training Arc Appeared

    The following conversation with his uncle did not go exactly as Myrkas had hoped for. At first, everything seemed great, amazing even. Koriss Hakhmir congratulated his young nephew on his judicious choice of focusing on acquiring Qi-sensing abilities instead of diving head-first into martial arts, and body cultivation. Koriss agreed that while the latter would make Myrkas stronger faster, only a deep understanding of Qi itself¨Cstarting with being able to perceive it¨Cwould allow Myrkas to ever reach the skill threshold the boy envisioned. Koriss praised Myrkas for his thoughtful approach. The man was quite glad his nephew was to embark on the more academic path of cultivation. The older man had feared his nephew would be disproportionately influenced by Suna Ramil, and chose to concentrate all his efforts on violence and mayhem.


    Unfortunately for Myrkas'' preemptive plan, his uncle did not agree at all with the boy''s "risky and reckless" idea of mixing all available techniques. The skilled Alchemist Koriss Hakhmir was a fervent proponent of the "safety first and foremost" approach. The older man insisted on going slow, steady, and safely for the entire process. Hence why Myrkas found himself limited to using one puny Qi-leech only twice a nonat. For the other methods, any noxious or internal insemination of foreign Qi had been strictly vetoed as too dangerous to try. The "high Qi concentration" one was then deemed too expensive for the potential benefits compared to the freely available gardens filled with Qi-rich plant life.


    "A waste of resources, Kassa," Koriss had declared when pressed any further.


    Finally, Myrkas had convinced his surprisingly opinionated uncle to allow for a two-hour session of sensory deprivation in a very weak, almost homeopathic, medicinal bath each day after his "leech therapy."


    In the end, Koriss was exceedingly happy with their plan. If everything went as planned, young Myrkas should acquire Qi-sense within the next five years, much faster than Koriss'' eight years from start to achievement when he was himself a teenager. Of course, Koriss had also been delayed by a paucity of available resources in his own youth. The now forty-seven-year-old man had not benefited from a generous crafter or an established cultivator relative. The alchemist had only had access to what resources his own father¡ªa lowly corporal within the Imperial Army¡ªcould do without. The man had truly started to progress when he entered the Sagace Glass Cauldron Sect''s Academy of Alchemy in his late teens.


    Myrkas was on the fast track, according to Koriss. Well on his way to becoming a respectable cultivator and alchemist by his late twenties. A remarkably mundane achievement, cultivation-wise. Impressive for a non-noble, a simple member of the Common people, for sure. But not anywhere near good enough to satisfy Myrkas'' inner ambition. He wanted more. Thirsted for greatness and no less.


    Myrkas nonetheless held his tongue with tremendous restraint. This was the start, a good start. There was more than enough time to persuade his uncle to alter the regimen in the future. No need to stick to this very plan for the next five years. At worst, his brand new Martial Master would let him take more risks, Myrkas was pretty darn sure of it. A slow start was still a new beginning. That was all that mattered. To finally take a significant step past the starting line and keep at it.


    It has to do for now, Myrkas reflected, unable to completely dismiss the mild disappointment within at the much-delayed gratification in his vision.


    On a more optimistic note, the uncle and nephew duo had readily agreed on a schedule for Myrkas to begin helping and learning in the Hakhmir Alchemy Laboratory, as Myrkas vehemently insisted "laboratory" sounded better than "workshop. Not that it changed much as this information was not written or used anywhere. Yet


    For Myrkas had a secret plan. A plan for "Jade HAL Industries" to revolutionize the hygiene market in the near future. Branding started at home. A professional mindset set the tone to walk on wannabes. Success started with the mindset. Or something. A future proverb to be worked on.


    Of course, Myrkas'' first foray into the alchemical field would be equal to a toe dip, a foot bath at most. His ever-worried uncle would not allow the youth to do more than handle ingredient and material preparation before Myrkas was at least a Novice in Qi-sense. Even then, Myrkas would need to learn some Qi manipulation before being allowed to touch any truly potent reagent. Hard to stay enthusiastic when Myrkas'' view was filled with an unending amount of glassware to clean, water to distill, and grasses to cut and mash. It sounded much like mundane chores, to Myrkas'' dismay. Again, a start was better than nothing and Myrkas couldn''t really complain. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    And so three nonats passed. To the surprise of none but young Myrkas, Suna Ranil did not show his face as he had promised. The combat training Myrkas had in alternation feared and hoped for was hence deferred indefinitely. Myrkas was a touch disappointed, to his own surprise. As he had dreaded further interactions with Master Ranil, the boy could not deny he had anxiously anticipated the opportunity to grow his martial abilities. While his current martial instructor wasn''t exactly bad, he was no true cultivator. Myrkas had never felt much pressure while facing the man hired by his uncle. The techniques he taught were basic and uninspired, evident even to Myrkas'' novice eyes. On the other hand, Master Ranil''s tutelage promised a real power-up, a bonafide training montage! With bamboo poles and headstands at sunset.


    In the meantime, Myrkas'' time had devolved into a boring routine. A minute amount of his vital Qi¨Cbarely perceptible to his senses¨Cwas drained once every four days by one lesser spirit beast leech. The very next day, Myrkas spent time in a "basically water" medicinal bath, situated in a dark and silent room, for never more than two hours at a time, as prescribed, to preserve his "fragile psyche." And while his alchemical studies brought a welcome break from his more mundane ones, Myrkas had a hard time staying interested as his uncle slowed any practical progress to an injured snail''s pace.


    Alchemical theory was interesting to Myrkas, as was learning about all the different plants and reagents. The boy''s main problem was that his uncle refused to diversify his tasks and responsibilities. One task in particular took over three-quarters of Myrkas'' precious time in the laboratory: namely, the processing of the hateful Piercing Jade Grass.


    That son of a weed plant had grown to be the bane of Myrkas'' existence. That damn stabby grass grew everywhere, as the name Piercing Jade Valley implied. One would think the herb the city was named after would be amazing right? Except not! Its only positive points were its abundance and cheapness. And the reason it was so cheap was that no one else wanted it, and for good reasons. Sure, it naturally had a good amount of Qi, the grass being able to gather the precious energy with minimal human intervention required. It was great in theory. Except that this particular green devil''s Qi was so harsh, so innately aggressive, that all alchemists apart from his uncle avoided it like the plague. Its purifying Qi didn''t just purify, it scraped raw everything on its path that wasn''t itself. Used inappropriately, it could remove years of cultivation progress along with impurities. It was simply too much of a hassle to work with. Its effects too crude and unpleasant to warrant a high enough price to get interesting profit margins. To all but his uncle, the only alchemist catering to the lower strata of the population.


    That herb had become Myrkas'' most hated nemesis, well beyond any undue animosity he held towards the original main character. Every day, he poked his fingers on green spikes. Woke up with red rashes where inadvertent droplets had touched his tender skin. Had to rush to the bathroom to avoid staining his pants, a side-effect Myrkas was convinced was caused by that damned grass. Indeed, no one else was experiencing inconvenient, blackish bowel movements, not that the boy had explicitly asked.


    As carefully as Myrkas handled the task, he was never able to completely avoid any contact with the Piercing Jade Grass oil, its most potent component. So potent in fact, they threw it out, keeping only the water infused with residual light-green energy after cleaning, cutting, lightly mashing, and boiling the plant. Everything else was disposed of. Worst of all, all that matter could only be used as fertilizer to grow more stabby grass. The compost it made rendered whatever soil it was mixed in inhospitable to any plants other than the Piercing Jade Grass, one of the main reasons the almost weed dominated the countryside around the city. Such a selfish vegetal!


    Still, the resulting Piercing Jade Grass infused water, much diluted, remained the principal component of Koriss Hakkmir''s affordable healing and purifying concoctions. A terrible thing, according to Myrkas, as it meant the boy was doomed to forever process a gigantic amount of the hateful plant. A secretly demonic plant, Myrkas had convinced himself.


    Green had become the boy''s most hated colour. He had nightmares of fields of stabby grass transpiercing his flesh throughout the night. The youth was unable to escape even in his dreams. Doomed to repeat his day''s ordeal in his sleep. Myrkas could not even enjoy seeing his newfound enemy being eaten ruthlessly as the thorns could hurt the grazing ruminant, and any amount ingested induced a violent gastrointestinal "purification," leading to dehydration, and often death, in the poor animals unfortunate enough to have tasted it.


    In conclusion, a horrible vegetal, period. No wonder other alchemists upgraded to nicer, more expensive ingredients as soon as they could. Not only were they easier to work with, they also mixed more easily with other reagents, allowing for fancier, more refined mixtures. Their effects were similarly more gentle and palatable, warranting a higher price tag. In addition, an increase in diversity, rarity, and potency of used reagents generally led to alchemical breakthroughs and epiphanies, advancing the crafter''s cultivation level.


    Myrkas'' uncle must be possessed by a bleeding heart to continue to use the stuff with his established reputation. No other ingredient would allow him to sell so cheap. Although, even with the large quantities he made, Koriss¡¯ profits were not that substantial. Enough to live very well, but nowhere near the Empire''s upper crust. That was the lack of industrialization for you. Without it, it was impossible to mass-produce cheap medicine. A true downside of artisan-based production.

 14.2 Arc 2: A Wild Training Arc Appeared

    As the nonats passed by, Myrkas became increasingly bored and restless. He was stagnating. The not-bastard princeling wasn''t stagnating, Myrkas knew. There was no way his Imperial Highness was stuck handling grass, unable to advance because his well-meaning but overly cautious uncle refused to let him take any amount of risk.


    The situation had to change. Myrkas felt no closer to sensing Qi than at the start of his training, nonats ago. Unacceptable. Simply unacceptable. Once again, Myrkas felt the urge, the need to do something drastic, to take risks and reap the rewards. How was he ever going to gain strength otherwise? The boy refused to see his potential limited by his uncle. He was a Heavens¡¯ chosen protagonist, however self-declared. His status had to come with some plot armour in the welcome package. It only made sense. It must have been written somewhere.


    Following this logic, Myrkas could clearly see his next step. He refused to wait any longer for Koriss'' permission to increase the intensity of his training. It was Myrkas'' own responsibility to take matters in hands. Time to do what he had wanted since the beginning: mix and match all training methods. That was the surest way to get results. No need for years and years of slow progress. Myrkas only needed a few intense sessions to achieve legendary greatness. His patience was gone. The time for decisive action had arrived!


    Myrkas had planned and prepared, making sure everything was in place. He had successfully applied an extra Leech that very morning, leaving his vital Qi reserves emptier than ever before. The boy felt weak and dizzy standing up, a touch short of breath, with an edge of anxiety that kept him awake and alert. It was an odd sensation, to be depleted of vital Qi as he was. It made him strangely "hungry," but unable to say for what type of food. As if his body knew mere rice could not fill the hole in his core. Uncomfortable, disturbing, but necessary to gain the ability to sense Qi quickly. His path to power demanded so.


    Myrkas entered the scene. He kept a single, plain candle lit for the moment, ensuring one last time everything was ready. The room was dark and silent, a simple shed in a corner of the property. Myrkas had covered its single window with heavy cloth for maximal sensory deprivation once the flame was blown. His bath was prepared, at body temperature, the water salted heavily and high enough to almost submerge him when he would lay in the large tub.


    In a streak of self-proclaimed genius, MyrKas had added the entire amount of Piercing Jade Grass oil from the same morning''s chores to his usual weak medicinal bath. Not like he intended to drink it. "Purifying Qi" should be good. Not much would get through his skin. That measly plant''s Qi shouldn''t be that dangerous. Myrkas had already developed a tolerance, his skin no longer reacting to mere drops, and his bowels much calmer despite his ongoing exposure. And the oil was diluted in the bath, it was a big bath. It was just enough to increase the concentration of Qi and surround himself with less neutral, more aggressive Qi. And "purify" his body at the same time, possibly, maybe. Removing impurities through alchemy was a thing cultivators did, indeed.


    At the last minute, Myrkas had decided not to directly inject any Qi inside his body. It sounded a little too dangerous upon further reflection. The small wound from the leech was still bleeding a tad. That portal of entry would have to be enough for this last method for Qi sensitization. There were limits to tempting the green devil.


    In position, Myrkas killed the flickering light. The moment of verity had arrived. With some trepidation¨Cbut courage aplenty¨CMyrkas breathed deeply, taking his time before diving, figuratively, into the Qi-filled water. A sense of calm filled the young boy. He felt good, proud despite the possible danger. Myrkas was making changes, owning his destiny, deciding on his fate. No need to rely on his uncle''s mercy or a flaky Master.


    With deep, slow breaths, and chanting his mantra in his mind, Myrkas plunged into the water, one limb at a time. His mind was open. His senses were stretched to their limits, sensing any minute variation in the air, temperature, sounds, or light. As his body sunk into the warm bath, Myrkas noticed a prickling sensation on his skin. The feeling was subtle, at the edge of his awareness, making him doubt if it might come from his imagination. Whether a hallucination or a true sensation Myrkas could not tell. He feared he was making up signs of progress in his enthusiasm and impatience.Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    Myrkas then tried to relax. Only his mouth and nose poked out of the fresh-smelling water. He tried to open his spirit to Qi, anxiously waiting for a real change in his perception. Any slight vibration made him flinch. After a few minutes, the boy shook himself. This was not the proper mindset, he instinctively knew. He needed to fall into a meditative state, the same one he reached when under his favourite tree, surrounded by his animal friends.


    He submerged his head for a moment, letting the medicinal water cover his entire body. Once Myrkas surfaced, he slowed down his breathing, focusing again on his mantra and his senses. He let go of his immediate urge for progress and instead concentrated on simply being, on perceiving his body and his environment.


    As his mind calmed, Myrkas gradually lost track of time, too attuned to the repeating rhythm of air flowing in and out of his lungs with his heart beating along. Some time passed. It happened insidiously at first. The faint prickling sensation increased in intensity. Then discomfort and mild pain started, located mainly at the site of the wound left by the Qi-leech earlier that morning. Similar to a few ants biting and walking around, invading the tiny breach in Myrkas'' skin. The phantom insects spread from there. They grew in numbers and aggressivity, as if set to conquer every exposed area. They went places better left unsaid. Then they transformed. What had felt like small, weak, and bothersome became hard, strong, and painful. Instead of ants, Myrkas felt assailed by needles. Like the boy had been encircled and attacked by the angriest porcupines in history.


    The pain evolved as well. Slowly, foreign energies made their way through the boy''s skin. They pierced ever deeper, scorching his insides through their passage. The previously uncomfortable sensations had given way to pure, unaltered suffering. Myrkas'' meditative state became harder to maintain. Myrkas had to grit his teeth and tighten his fists to prevent himself from bolting out of the tub. Because the pain wasn''t the only thing he felt. All along the needle-like tracks, the boy noticed a shiver of something. Impressions of a foreign will mixed with a residual tingle. He was almost there; his goal at the tip of his fingers.


    And so Myrkas endured. He persevered, submerged in the bath as the pain worsened, drilling deep into his insides, transpiercing his immature bones. Hidden by the darkness, blood seeped into the water, only noticeable by the faint metallic scent it carried. Myrkas'' agony crested higher. It reached a point where metaphors were unable to help. Unable to describe his torment, Myrkas was suffering. His psyche had become pure pain. All thoughts reduced to smithereens in the face of agony.


    Myrkas'' breathing accelerated against his will. It became ragged and hard, too fast and shallow. His heart stampeded. The boy was losing, his state worsened by his building panic. In a brief moment of lucidity, Myrkas realized the probability of his death kept rising with each second that passed. The risk of his demise increased as whatever had invaded his body was let free to wreak havoc on his insides. In that instant, Myrkas pinpointed the sole culprit he could think of: that accursed Piercing Jade Grass and its overaggressive purifying Qi. He had underestimated the stabby grass, too familiar with it was he by now. But he refused to let it win, refused to give up. That motherfucking herb would eat his dust. With a tremendous effort of will, Myrkas put the pain aside and focused back on his breathing.


    Inhale. Hold.


    Exhale. Hold.


    And again.


    Inhale, hold. Exhale, hold.


    And again.


    Bit by bit, second by second, purposefully, Myrkas gained back control of what he could. His breath, in and out, his tensed muscles, which he unclenched. He shelved his pain as best he could, acknowledging the hurt, the signal his body sent that something needed to change sooner rather than later. He pushed it to the side, trying to mute it, to keep its alarm, the information it expressed, but remove its distracting character. Myrkas had understood the message well enough. His self was under attack, his innate physical and spiritual defences crumbling. That stupid stabby grass oil was tearing him apart!


    He had to fight back, to muster some type of additional defences. No time to worry about sensing Qi, his survival was at stake! Myrkas had to follow his pain, let it guide him to the foreign Qi invading him, and somehow, neutralize it. The boy had no time to spend on being overwhelmed. He was a goddamned self-proclaimed protagonist. Enduring and overcoming all obstacles to his greatness; pursuing his Dao to the end was his chosen Destiny.


    With newfound resolve and the same stubborn will to survive that burned in his belly ever since his rebirth, Myrkas gave a pained smirk. He had a task to do and a green devil''s butt to kick.

 15.1 Arc 2: A Wild Training Arc Appeared

    Myrkas inhaled, then exhaled again. He had managed to steady himself somewhat, to not let the pain become his all. In the process, the boy had become aware of his body, of his flesh like never before. He perceived each pull, each tear of the foreign energies in his muscles, his bones, and every single one of his softer organs. Qi was running rampant all over, thoughtlessly destroying, "purifying" Myrkas'' body of everything not akin to the Piercing Jade Grass.


    To Myrkas'' surprise, the rampaging Qi had a harder time advancing to his lungs. It was as if a wall or some other obstacle prevented it from boring its tendrils any further. The phenomenon bore the first hint of a solution to Myrkas'' mortal issue. A potential way for him to fight back.


    For Myrkas instinctively knew it would be futile to simply get out of the bath. The Qi had penetrated too far to resolve on its own. Even if Myrkas had had the strength to stand, the steam had carried enough Piercing Jade Grass'' Qi into the air to render the effort near pointless. If Myrkas was to survive, he needed to tame the green beast in its current state. No external miracle would save him. His own recklessness would be solely responsible for his untimely death.


    Myrkas steered his consciousness deeper inside himself. He concentrated on the different sensations in his chest, where the needles stopped. The outside world ceased to be, so focused on his insides was he. He followed his breath, the quality of the air moving through his lungs. And so an eternity seemed to pass.


    A some point, something shifted. Subtle motions emerged. Patterns could be discerned. Flows could be perceived. Myrkas could sense a new type of weight. It was hard to describe properly. As the feeling became more detailed, Myrkas realized he could "see" though his eyes remained closed. Tiny, colourful particles moved inside him. Most same colours moved in sync with each other. Some vibrated, more floated, and others moved around in waves. Myrkas was entranced, mesmerized. He forgot his life-threatening predicament for a second and a half.


    The sight was beautiful, but not serene. Myrkas was able to discern the vibrant, jade-green energy attacking his innards. It was spreading, forcefully converting, and expulsing any other type it touched. It tore apart anything found on its warpath. The displaced energy added onto the damage as it searched for ways to escape Myrkas'' tissues.


    Everywhere, injuries accumulated. The Jade Qi was still gaining speed all over but in Myrkas'' lungs. There, the destroying force met a wall, a silvery-white wall. It shimmered in its intangibility as if the air inside Myrkas was suffused with powdered diamonds and pearls.


    My own Qi, Myrkas thought, elated.


    He had done it! He could feel Qi. In his joy, he lost his inner focus. His pain came back to the forefront of his mind in a wave, no, a tsunami. It nearly drowned him. Myrkas stopped breathing for a moment, overcome by his screaming cells, his raw nerves. His entire self was hurting, on both physical and metaphysical levels.


    If light had been present, Myrkas would have been able to see the bloodied bath water. Blood escaped the boy''s pores. Drop by drop Myrkas was weakening. Fighting through his pain, he aimed to regain his meditative state. Harder, better, faster, stronger. He repeated his mantra again and again until the words resonated with his entire being. Myrkas refused to be defeated. He refused to be killed by a piece-of-shit stabby plant and his own failure. No. He had a life to live, people who loved him, he could not allow himself to stay down, to die. He had to fight, to resist the invasion and take back his body.


    Using his anger as fuel, Myrkas stabilized his breathing. He was back on track, able to visualize Qi and its flows anew. He saw the different particles moving in and out of his lungs, following the air. A small amount, almost imperceptible, however, stayed within the boy. Caught by an unseen current, they moved in between Myrkas'' heart and lungs until they mixed with a tiny puddle of Myrkas'' own silvery-white Qi. The small pool¡ªand pool was a big word, it was a birdbath at most¡ªswirled to the beat of Myrkas'' mantra, swallowing the external Qi in its ripples. Once mixed in, the foreign dust-like particles soon assimilated, becoming indistinguishable from Myrkas'' Qi. Over time, Myrkas assumed the pool¡ªhis middle dantian¡ªwould grow, granting him strength. But the whole process was nowhere fast enough. Whatever protective effect his own Qi gave Myrkas, it was too small. The grass'' aggressively purifying energies would destroy him before he could make any significant leeway by regular meditation.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    Briefly, Myrkas surmised he should have listened to his uncle. Mixing techniques was indeed a dangerous endeavour. Quite effective, as his new ability proved, but nonetheless stupidly dangerous. The boy had no one else to blame but himself. He had acted in secret, ignoring sound advice.


    Hopelessness tried to set in. It tried, but failed. The strife against himself churned in Myrkas'' belly, strengthening his resolve. His Qi was the key. As slow as the conversion process was, it remained his best bet to subdue the energies of the Piercing Jade Grass. Myrkas went back to his dantian, narrowing his view to his Qi and his mantra. He had to accelerate the process, to find a way to improve his efficiency. To drag in more Qi to convert. Maybe even convert the green devil''s own.


    The foreign Qi followed his breath. Anything Myrkas attempted to directly catch it and push it further inside failed. He lacked metaphysical hands or a tool able to grasp the wispy energy. He was able to nudge his silvery Qi a touch but not much else. He tried again, his mind straining without success. The pain was too great even in his meditative state. The task too hard to accomplish with the enemy in his midst, and misery clouding his brain.


    Simple, he had to aim for an easier solution. If grabbing the Qi didn''t work, he would try to "suck" it in. Myrkas focused on his dantian, nudging his Qi, creating a whirlpool, a vortex. The ripples changed, following the created current. The flow accelerated, trying to spill out, but Myrkas did not let it. He pushed back with his will, keeping the swirling energies tight within his dantian. The rotation continued to gain speed, with more and more motes of foreign Qi attracted by the vortex.


    Myrkas'' effort had an effect, though small. As more and more Qi joined his dantian, the protective aura around his lungs and part of his heart increased. It was too little though. At this rate, his flesh would be rendered to bloody rags before he could convert enough Qi to protect his entire body. He needed to spread the effect, to fight the Jade Grass'' Qi everywhere, not only in his chest.


    In a desperate gamble, Myrkas pushed some of his silvery Qi towards his heart. He hoped to create a cycle, a returning flow through his vasculature. For his Qi to travel with his blood and protect him as it moved. The boy focused, isolating a thin thread of Qi from the center of the whirlpool. It was hard, incredibly so. His mind threatened to stray more than once, setting back his progress. Myrkas felt as if he was attempting to thread flimsy wool through the eye of the smallest needle ever made. All while under the sadistic care of an incompetent acupuncturist, assisted by an army of relentless wasps.


    He persevered, unable to give up, to let himself die. To stop was to fail, and to fail meant death. Finally, after untold attempts, Myrkas succeeded. The faintest thread of silvery-white Qi entered his heart. It readily mixed with his blood and pulsed along, remaining visible through the carmine liquid. Myrkas felt a pull in his dantian. For a brief moment, he feared his meagre pool of Qi would empty before any Qi could cycle back. He dared not imagine the consequences an empty dantian would bring. Nothing good, for sure.


    With relief, Myrkas saw his Qi come back through his veins. It was much easier this time to grab the silvery thread and hook it back from the right side of his heart to his middle dantian. It had been close. His small pool had decreased by two-thirds in the time it took for his blood to come back to his heart. But it had been worth it. Already, Myrkas witnessed the change. The grass-green energy was stopped in its track in the vicinity of the boy''s blood vessels. At last, the damage had stopped progressing. The piercing part of the ordeal had ceased. Instead, the needle-like energy seemed to mellow. It lost some of its sharpness and started to diffuse in Myrkas'' flesh. Some even joined with his bloodstream, guided back to his middle dantian to be assimilated.


    Myrkas very nearly cried at the sight. Progress. He had made progress. His survival was in range. Until a burn like never before arose from his insides. Everywhere the jade-green Qi had penetrated hurt. It was like the bath water had been suddenly transformed into bleach. Blood and Qi leaked anew from the tracks left by the invading energy. With it, a new viscous substance was expelled, similar to rance, contaminated oil. This new phenomenon used up some of his precious silvery Qi, somehow. The trickle of energy coming into his heart was drying up, with his dantian''s level still decreasing.


    It looked like Myrkas was not out of the woods yet. He had celebrated too early. Grinding his teeth, Myrkas meditated evermore. His mantra became his all. Harder, better, faster, stronger. With each word, he put the full weight of his intent into his Qi. The boy visualized his ideal self: a tall, muscular warrior certain of his power, with the scars to prove his worth. The boy''s image was also meditating, concretizing Myrkas'' Will.


    He stirred the whirlpool, again and again, straining to maximize its suction effect as well as to keep it contained where it belonged. It was slow-going and excruciating work. All the while, energies were still running amok in his body, the Jade Grass'' Qi bucking under Myrkas'' taming.

 15.2 Arc 2: A Wild Training Arc Appeared

    In the chaos, more and more murk was excreted out. The sticky, nasty substance clung to Myrkas'' skin. Its smell pervaded the air, a foul mixture of rot, smoke, and pus swirled with the acrid scent of blood already in the room.


    Myrkas fought on. He did not let his mind devolve into panic. His mantra was his rock. Pain was information. Disruptive, yes, but useful in its own way. As time passed, his meditation became easier and he gained confidence. For a second, Myrkas thought he glimpsed his three inner gates, each one hidden behind a dantian. Or through them, it was hard to tell. The one at his glabella, in his forehead, was dark and inactive. The gate in Myrkas'' chest reflected his new, bright whirlpool. The silvery light cast shadowy ripples on the boulder-like obstacle keeping it closed. And the last one in his pelvis pulsed a dark red. Myrkas heard the primal beat coming from it for a few seconds at most, but it was enough to convey the rage hidden within its depths. The vision didn''t last. It went away without Myrkas being able to bring it back.


    At long last, Myrkas achieved some sort of balance. The pain had started to diminish a little with the borring and burning decreasing. His middle dantian only contained a fifth of his starting amount of Qi, the rest leaked through his skin and lost in the air. But the level had stabilized. The sum of new Qi brought by his breathing, and the pacified and converted Jade-Qi was compensating his losses. Myrkas'' blood even seemed to move more freely, as if hidden pathways had been unclogged.


    This time, however, Myrkas waited before letting his mind jubilate. Not all grass-Qi had yet been tamed. The boy pursued his meditation until no more foreign energy could be found in any corner of his young body. He had been scrubbed raw, more thoroughly than Myrkas had ever thought possible. And he still felt dirty, thanks to the nauseating oil clinging to his battered skin. The smell alone was horrendous. It stank enough to convince Myrkas he had somehow travelled to one of hells'' dumpster dimensions during his meditation.


    With an audible gulp, Myrkas slowly stood up. He feared the sight that awaited light to be revealed. The boy needed three tries before being able to stand in a stable manner. His hands grabbed nearby surfaces for additional help with balance. Myrkas felt so, so weak. His knees kept on shaking and buckling against his will. The slippery floor did not help in any way.


    A few steps was all Myrkas managed before he slipped and fell on his buttocks. The hit shook him, awaking momentarily residual soreness through all his tissues: bones and marrow included. A wave of weakness rammed into Myrkas, leaving him a little short of breath. He was drained. Utterly and completely drained.


    The boy had expected to feel a tad under the weather, but this seemed disproportionate. After all, Myrkas had managed to somewhat replenish his dantian in the calmer part of his "medicinal bath." Once he had reached equilibrium, he had been able to gather, accumulate, and convert most of the Jade-Qi left in his body, losing very little along with the substance that came out of his skin; a substance Myrkas did not want to contemplate yet. His middle Qi pool was currently filled at three-quarter capacity, miraculously. All while he still had Qi flowing through his vascular system. That new cycle had been promoted to a permanent fixture of Myrkas'' cultivation path. And not because Myrkas thought it was too much trouble to reverse the change, of course not. It only seemed to make sense to have Qi flow through his entire body at all times. So why not? Myrkas quite liked the added protection against nocive Qi. No need to tempt the green devil again so soon.


    Unable to do much else, Myrkas waited for the weakness to subside. He had to brace himself not to fall asleep. He needed to minimize the risk of being found here, with the room in this yet unrevealed state, with his experiment and its near-dire consequences on obvious display. Thankfully, it did not take too long before Myrkas was strong enough to stand unassisted. From there, the boy easily found his singular candle and quickly brought light to the scene.


    The darkness retreated to corners and stray shadows at once. What met Myrkas was horrifying. Enough to make any low-budget horror movie''s artistic director proud. Myrkas must have trashed around more than he thought while in his bath. The previously simple, austere room was half-flooded, red waters and blackish sludge marring its floor and part of the walls. What was left in the tub was better not described. The smell alone sufficient to haunt Myrkas for nonats, no need to dwell on what he had been submerged in. On what had come out of his skin, and other orifices best not mentioned.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    It was gross. By extension, Myrkas was gross. Biological matter was disgusting, end of discussion.


    With some residual anxiety, Myrkas looked down at himself. Of course, the boy was also covered with a mixture of bloody water and whatever that dark, stinky, slimy thing was. He needed another bath, several more likely. To Myrkas'' growing horror, all his recent muscular progress had melted¡ªthe boy was back to skin and bones, with bony protrusions poking everywhere. He could way too easily count his ribs with one finger. His knees looked more like brittle weapons than articulations. At least his hair had not fallen out. Thank Heavens.


    Myrkas sighed. He had succeeded. Even now, he could somewhat feel the leftover Qi in the air. The distinction was nowhere near as precise as it had been while he meditated, but he had gained a general sense of the ambient Qi present. Furthermore, his own Qi''s existence and motions remained present at the back of his mind. Like a comforting blanket always there to be wrapped around if needed.


    Myrkas sighed again. He had succeeded, yes, but he had once more been too reckless. He had almost died. He should have listened to his uncle. Tried to convince him more. Mix methods one at a time, perhaps, or experiment under supervision. The danger had left a bitter taste in Myrkas'' mouth. The danger and the cleaning he had to do. He had a lot of work to get himself, the room, and the tub back to pristine condition.


    The fruits of his unsanctioned training were much less attractive in front of the "glamourous" task ahead. The books from his previous life had completely glossed over the necessary maintenance and repairs to facilities post intense training sessions. Training grounds always seem to magically reset, blood wiped clean and resources refilled.


    That was without mentioning that goddamned prince. Of course, the Imperial brat never had to clean after himself. He had servants for that. He could cultivate in peace, focused only on his progress. With all the best resources at his disposition. The princeling would never need to debase himself to use discarded Piercing Jade Grass oil in an attempt to accelerate his "slow as an injured snail" training pace. His imperial mentors weren''t scaredy uncles, but renowned Masters with experience. No need for novel experiments there.


    Yes, now that Myrkas had had time to reflect, this endeavour had gone quite well. He had succeeded. He wasn''t dead or maimed. One had to take risks to gain power. It was the name of the game. He could not let one small passing greeting with Death stop him. He needed to grow to fulfill his protagonist''s destiny. Who knew what lurked around corners? Better to strive for ever more magical strength.


    But cleaning came first. A good dose of elbow grease coming right up. However, learning a cleaning technique had bumped up Myrkas'' priority list by a great amount post ordeal. After learning how to directly manipulate Qi, evidently. Hard to cast a spell without a way to bend magical energies to one''s will. A concern for later.


    And so Myrkas scrubbed. He attacked the labour with renewed fervour, bolstered by his achievement. His body was weak, inordinately so, but Myrkas persevered. He could not afford to leave such flagrant proof of his secret experiments for long. The boy had to take breaks often, finding meditation useful to quicken his recuperation.


    His growling stomach too soon put a pause in his efforts. He was only halfway done. Too afraid his illicit training would be discovered, Myrkas perdured. At some point, he managed to continue his meditations while he cleaned. The new flow of Qi boosted his energies, making Myrkas feel light-headed and giddy in his post-adrenaline rush state. It mixed with his sense of accomplishment, forming quite an addictive feeling. It made his previous pain seem worth it, ready to be relegated to necessary obstacles in his pursuit for power and independence.


    This fugue-like state lasted him until the end of his work. The room was not sparkling but it was good enough for the day. Myrkas would pass again the next day to ensure any evidence of his activities was erased.


    Pangs of hunger prevented the boy from indulging in any perfectionist tendency. A quick but thorough, cold bath later, Myrkas went on a hunt. Crawling, for he was so weak and hungry, he prowled the estate for sustenance. Myrkas did not stop until he found his prey, the single most important desire of any self-respecting male almost teenager: an unreasonably large amount of food ready to be devoured.

 16.1 Arc 2: A Wild Training Arc Appeared

    It took three entire days for young Myrkas to recover from his water-based endeavours. Three days in which the youth came very close to emptying every single cold box and food storage in the Hakhmir estate. Myrkas had been ravenous. His shape had visibly changed as the days progressed, his still skinny frame quickly gaining back his lost muscle mass. By a miraculous stroke of luck, the boy''s sudden physiognomical changes had passed unnoticed. The extensive preparations for the coming summer solstice festival had kept the household so busy as to allow Myrkas to remain under their radars. The moderate chaos brought by the imminent festivities was the only reason the eagle-eyed Nirrina had not noticed anything amiss.


    Myrkas smiled fondly while thinking of her. Nirrina had started to change as well. The young woman had capitalized on the various adjustments to everyone''s routines brought on by Myrkas'' new activities. After months of uncertainty and indecision, Nirrina had begun to step into her nominal role as the lady of the house, and de facto in charge of general management. A task long neglected, as it turned out.


    To no one''s surprise, Koriss Hakhmir did not reveal himself to be particularly gifted in the organizational department. His working "organized chaos" erred more on the chaotic side of the scale than the organized one. Once Nirrina had dared to cross the threshold of the laboratory, the young lady had nearly fainted from sheer shock. Her ordered and practical self had been sent into an unstoppable frenzy. Lists had materialized. Boxes and specialized storage containers had appeared. Gigantic, wall-spanning cabinets had been installed, with each square drawer sporting a hand-written sign denoting its contents.


    The clutter vanished. Most stains disappeared, with the help of actual magic. Mysterious barrels of unused and forgotten reagents were discovered, as well as numerous containers of "past due-date" alchemical products. In short, the workshop had been transformed, the library dusted, and the alchemist put back in his place: doing research and production while far away from any administrative task.


    The extent of the waste revealed had shocked both Myrkas and Nirrina. The psychological hit had instantly pushed Nirrina passed her usual weakness, letting her step onto the path of takeover and restructuration. Thankfully, she had had very few issues in convincing Kariss to delegate the dull tasks of tally and storage, only requiring a bit of gentle prodding and pushing. As soon as the man understood the advantages of relegating orders and what-not to a trusted partner, Nirrina had received carte blanche. A card she used with parsimony, as she was not secure enough in her station to risk larger purchases or costly innovations.


    Marta di Kroush had jumped with joy at the improvements. At last, the matronly woman had someone to answer her supply questions. The older woman had enough chores to care for to welcome with open arms a gentle and competent Young Mistress, and Nirrina Chen di Hakhmir was shaping up to be one exceptional Mistress.


    The gardens remained the one area that stayed outside of Nirrina''s self-imposed purview. The extensive vegetal populace living on the grounds would continue to prosper under Serni Kroush''s diligent care. The motives behind Master Hakhmir''s hiring of the man all those years ago were still valid. Serm''s instinctual knowledge of plants, even Qi-filled ones, and their needs helped to provide a steady stream of fresh alchemical ingredients for Koriss'' work and experiments. No acute change was needed under the gardener''s experienced supervision.


    In sum, many benefits had emerged since Myrkas'' first foray into daring risks. The youth hoped his more recent bath experiment, from which he had successfully recovered, would provide him with similar advancements in his path of cultivation. It was time to assess.


    With the Assessor in hands, Myrkas ran to his private spot. As usual, his only witnesses would be Snow and whomever else of his furry friends would deign to be present. Resisting the urge to verify his progress before he had fully recovered required an inordinate amount of discipline and willpower from Myrkas. The main reason the boy had succeeded in his wait was his nagging fear of uncovering some permanent damage lingering in his stressed body. Better to put his best form forward for his evaluation. It was finally time.


    With trembling hands, Myrkas activated the artifact and let it rest directly on his skin. The boy was insanely grateful to fate for allowing him to use this type of objective tool to track his progress. No need to rely on "vague feelings of increased power" as Myrkas climbed the many steps of each stage and Realm. No need to rely on others to see what worked and what did not. Myrkas could himself watch the numbers going up, and he knew of no better feeling in existence.


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    As previous, the shimmery gold and orange blob shifted to words in the air. The assessment process took a little less time than before, as if the amulet-like artifact remembered Myrkas'' preceding one. While holding his breath, the boy watched his updated status appear.


    <hr>


    [Assessment Complete]


    [Report]


    Name: Myrkas Hakhmir


    Age standard: 12


    Race: Human


    Constitution: None


    Bloodline: None


    Spirit Roots: 2


    <ul>


    <li>Water at Copper level,</li>


    <li>Air at Wood level,</li>


    <ul>


    <li>no other root above the Mortal level</li>


    </ul>


    </ul>


    Meridians: Trivial


    Dantians:


    <ul>


    <li>Upper: near gate closed, far gate closed</li>


    <li>Middle: near gate closed, far gate closed</li>


    <li>Lower: near gate closed, far gate closed</li>


    </ul>


    Soul composition: 63% Yang 37% Yin


    Qi types detected: 1¡ªUndefined


    Warning, soul damage detected. Dual fused reparation detected.


    Realm: Mortal


    Stages:


    <ul>


    <li>Body plane: Qi gathering Step 5</li>


    <li>Qi-plane: Qi gathering Step 0</li>


    <li>Soul plane Qi gathering Step 3</li>


    </ul>


    Detected techniques:


    <ul>


    <li>Meditation, self-made, Breath centred¨CCopper level</li>


    <li>Internal Qi Manipulation¡ªBeginner</li>


    <li>Qi Sense¡ªNovice</li>


    </ul>


    Skills:


    <ol>


    <li>Martial:</li>


    <ul>


    <li>Unarmed combat¨CNovice</li>


    <li>Evasion¨CBeginner</li>


    </ul>


    <li>crafting: None</li>


    <li>Social: None</li>


    <li>Artistic: None</li>


    </ol>


    [Report Complete]


    <hr>


    Success!


    Over two steps with one session. Myrkas could hardly believe it. The boy had not been able to move past the second step since his first assessment while following his uncle''s training regimen. This, this was real, visible progress. The fact that Myrkas had almost died to achieve it did not weigh much to the tween in front of the number going up. It was all worth it. Myrkas did not know what the future had in store for him. But cultivation worlds were ruthless, ruled by the strong. The only way he could prepare was to grow in strength as fast as he was able to.


    As for Qi-sense, Myrkas already knew he had acquired the ability. Even now, he was able to perceive his own Qi if he paid attention. The silvery colour soaked his insides, most concentrated around his lungs, heart, and beneath his skin. A faint stream flowed along Myrkas'' blood, continuing the cycle he had started to save his life. It felt oddly wrong, in a way. His intuition hinted how Qi was not supposed to directly travel through his physical vessels. Myrkas paused to analyze his state for a while.


    The boy remembered countless cultivation fictions. In each of those, Qi circulated from dantians¡ªcores¡ªthrough meridians, which acted as specialized Qi channels. A plumbing system Myrkas did not possess, according to the Assessor. It was clearly stated in his report: his meridians were deemed "trivial." In no universe was "trivial" a nice term.


    It was a flaw, no two ways about it. A giant ink splatter on his evolving report. Myrkas had already accepted his lack of an awesome bloodline. It wasn''t like he could change who his parents were. But this meridians business appeared fixable. Meridians were crucial to cultivators. If having underdeveloped ones prevented advancement, Myrkas would have expected his uncle or the Assessor to make note of it. Which they had not. Why would Koriss waste time on an irreversibly crippled nephew?


    Koriss would not. That would be wasteful, and Myrkas'' uncle was not intentionally wasteful. Distractfully so yes, but never on purpose, or when it was obvious. On further thought, if meridians were so important at the start, Ranil should have tested him before discussing his discipleship with his uncle. A thing the flaky man had not done to Myrkas'' knowledge. Although the thug seemed too fickle for Myrkas to base any conclusion on his actions. Better to plan with Ranil''s continued lack of involvement and reliability in mind. Expectations had to be managed. Success started with reasonable goals while relying minimally on external factors.


    Myrkas tapped his own shoulder. Those were great reflections. Superb wisdom. No need to feel dejected about the probable abandonment by a would-be mediocre Martial Master. No need to be sad whatsoever. Myrkas had everything he needed, right here. He was better without Ranil.


    Myrkas had the Assessor, his uncle, and regular martial training. So what if his current martial instructor looked a bit flimsy? The man was still a retired soldier. And he taught basic stances well from what Myrkas had observed. A punch was a punch, no need to complicate things too much.


    Infinitely smarter to rely on his proven resources. Starting with his portable Master! Without further ado, Myrkas enabled the Guiding mode and asked about strategies to improve his meridians from their "trivial" rating. Such an insulting rating had no place on a future legend''s status.


    <hr>


    [Guiding mode activated for Assessed Myrkas Hakhmir]


    [General Meridians Guidance]


    Current state: trivial


    Basic requirements not met for further assistance


    Unable to provide adequate strategies to advance Meridians for Assessed [Myrkas Hakhmir] at present.


    [End of Guidance]


    <hr>

 16.2 Arc 2: A Wild Training Arc Appeared

    Myrkas experienced an acute episode of severe, sudden disappointment, to say the least.


    His supposed priceless artifact did not bother to explain any further. A spontaneous hint on what the "basic requirements" entailed would have been much appreciated. Asking for further details did not work. Even a more straightforward approach of "How to develop Meridians" did not reveal any secret method.


    Myrkas'' immediate plans went down the drain. The boy would have to suffer the blight on his Assessment report for a while longer. He went back to the tried and true method of simply following the guiding mode''s next suggestions.


    <hr>


    [Guiding mode activated for Assessed Myrkas Hakhmir]


    [Please select focus]


    Suggested focus for Assessed [Myrkas Hakhmir]


    Techniques:


    <ul>


    <li>Develop current meditation technique </li>


    </ul>


    <ul>


    <li>Acquire a new meditation technique </li>


    <li>Acquire a Body meditation technique</li>


    <li>Treatise on Opening Gates </li>


    </ul>


    Skills:


    Spiritual:


    <ul>


    <li>Improve internal Qi manipulation </li>


    <li>Acquire external Qi manipulation </li>


    <li>Develop Qi-sense</li>


    </ul>


    Martial:


    <ul>


    <li>Unarmed combat </li>


    <ul>


    <li>multiple styles available </li>


    </ul>


    </ul>


    <ul>


    <li>Evasion </li>


    <li>Acrobatics </li>


    </ul>


    Expand Crafting and Social? [Not recommended with present Assessment]


    [Please select focus]


    <hr>


    So much to do, so much to learn! Myrkas wanted them all. He needed them. Impatience bubbled below his skin. His fingers trembled with contained energy. He had to focus. The one running after two hares at once would catch none. One thing at a time. Ambition was good in moderation, lest one be blinded by greed. No purpose in biting more than one can chew. Choking was not a pleasant death.


    Emboldened by his recent achievements, Myrkas chose three focuses to work on. The first one was obvious. Qi-sense had not been his only gain from his near-death experience.


    <hr>


    [Acknoledged selection]


    <ul>


    <li>Improve Internal Qi manipulation </li>


    </ul>


    current level: Beginner


    Definition: Affect and directly manipulate internal Qi (body, Qi-plane, soul) through willpower and intent.


    Practical exercises


    <ul>


    <li>Foreign Qi invasion</li>


    <li>Noxious Qi wound </li>


    <li>Unavailable (significant Meridians needed) </li>


    <li>Qi pooling </li>


    <li>Gate erosion </li>


    <li>Unavailable (current known meditation technique too crude) </li>


    </ul>


    <hr>


    At first glance, there was quite the overlap with the methods previously listed to acquire Qi-sense. It suddenly made a lot more sense how Myrkas had unlocked internal Qi manipulation without meaning to. But Myrkas had somewhat learned his lesson. The next time the boy messed with aggressive Qi he would use a lot less: half a morning''s discarded Jade Grass oil instead of the full amount.


    The remaining options were both intriguing and frustrating. Despite the succinct and impersonal tone of the Assessor, Myrkas could not help but feel nagged at by some of its word choices. He must be imagining it. Ancient and wise cultivators were definitely above adding unnecessary snark to their legacy artifacts. Just like the unwieldy communication must be a residual symptom of great age and immortality. The creator must not have thought much about the degree of explanation needed for people truly new to cultivating their Dao, their path. The Assessor could not be dry and minimally helpful on purpose. Who would design a feature meant only to annoy future users? No immortal sage, for sure. They could not be petty like that.


    And so, after a little more back and forth, Myrkas accessed the exercises¡¯ detailed descriptions.


    <hr>


    <ul>


    <li>Foreign Qi invasion</li>


    </ul>


    Improves one¡¯s control over their internal Qi by directly infusing foreign Qi in the cultivator''s body, and their subsequent need to identify and purge or assimilate it before a Qi deviation, or other adverse events, occur. In accordance with external types of exposures, aggressive and noxious types of Qi tend to be more effective than neutral ones, with the minor consequence of carrying more risk of adverse events. Small quantities are preferred at first exposure.


    Foreign Qi is usually inserted in the cultivator''s body by meditating in a highly Qi-filled environment (neutral Qi excluded), ingestion of a specially prepared concoction or natural treasure, delivery of a venom or poison (needles, injection, or through a spirit beasts'' bite preferred), or through the use of an appropriately weak spirit parasite.


    Warning: As expected, may cause Qi deviation, Qi overload, increased impurity accumulation, crippling conditions, and/or death. Unprepared fools, and weak-willed cowards should abstain.


    The cultivator will need to exercise their will and intent in order to isolate and then neutralize the invading Qi. Such can be accomplished either by purgation or assimilation of the foreign energy. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    <ul>


    <li>Noxious Qi wound</li>


    </ul>


    Stimulates the development of internal Qi manipulation by providing a concrete internal, though superficial,  target. A flesh wound using noxious Qi has to be freshly made before the apprentice cultivator enters a meditative state and attempts to excise said noxious Qi with their own internal one.. Most commonly used are Sword Qi or Sharp Qi, Ice Qi (or Deadly Ice Qi), Fire Qi (or Inferno Qi), Poison Qi, Death Qi, or Madness Qi (or Chaos Qi). A proper cultivator should be available to inflict the wound. In their absence, an advanced soul weapon, a sufficiently powerful spiritual beast, or a weak curse can be used to achieve similar results.


    Warning: Higher risk of Qi deviation, Qi overload and/or death, especially in non-talented individuals. However, this method tends to be quite effective. May cause permanent damage or crippling injuries to those unable to deal with the noxious Qi.


    <ul>


    <li>Unavailable due to inadequate meridians </li>


    <li>Qi-pooling </li>


    </ul>


    This method, while most effective during meditation or other Qi-gathering techniques, can be attempted at any time. The concerned cultivator needs to actively accumulate their internal Qi in a specific location, usually one of their dantians or a vital organ. Many use Qi-pooling as a way to build up Qi before forming a technique scaffold or an accessory core.


    Warning: Improper accumulation of Qi may damage fragile meridians and cause irreversible blockages. Stagnant Qi is at higher risk of deviation and adverse events. Unstable Qi-pools may explode unpredictably, causing damage concordant with the amount of energy accumulated prior.


    <ul>


    <li>Gate erosion </li>


    </ul>


    Necessary step to form a proto-core. Effective gate erosion technique requires a non-insignificant accumulation of mobile inner Qi. By focusing their willpower and intent, the experienced cultivator can grind at their inner gates. A drill or boulder shape is usually favoured, although some impatient individuals may prefer a chisel approach.


    Warning: Mistakes in gate erosion can cause fractures and dantian rupture with subsequent cripple state and inability to store and retain Qi outside of one''s physical plane. Improperly opened gates may devolve into body and soul dissociation and/or death. In some rare cases, irreversible soul damage and immortal soul death have been observed.


    <ul>


    <li>Unavailable due to simplistic meditation technique. </li>


    </ul>


    <hr>


    Mixed feelings arose inside Myrkas. On the one hand, the next steps weren''t so hard to comprehend. They even seemed almost easy, once one knew how to focus their intent and will inside their body. On the other hand, absolutely no explanation on how to achieve this focus outside of a life-and-death situation could be found through the Assessor. And again, the warnings below each technique spelled trouble. Warnings Myrkas found infinitely more instructive than previous.


    One fact had become quite clear, however. It was no surprise Myrkas had developed the beginning of internal Qi-manipulation seeing as the first two exercises listed were basically the same as for acquiring Qi-sense. With practically the same risks on the side. Despite his progress, Myrkas was less than enthused about repeating his literal "bloodbath" in the near future. Sure, he had already planned to use lesser quantities in any further attempt, thus mitigating the risks. Although, in all honesty, the boy had envisioned such future attempts much further away in time than the Assessor and his current goals suggested. In a year or more for example, not with his next scheduled medicinal bath.


    The pain Myrkas had suffered had been excruciating. He broke out in cold sweats at the thought of repeating the experience so soon. The benefits versus the risks were harder to balance with this new information. The cat had been scalded and it now feared all water, even cold one.


    Myrkas had time to decide. He would either not modify his next bath, using only the usual, mild reagents provided by his uncle, or decrease by a lot the amount of Piercing Jade Grass oil he would add. A quarter instead of half a morning''s worth, on further reflection. No! One-eight. Yes, one-eight was great. Sensible. Utterly reasonable.


    Next, Myrkas looked at the advice offered to improve his meditation technique. To his grand disappointment, the alleged guidance on the subject was quite lacking. Most sections were marked as "unavailable." So not helpful. As if Myrkas needed to discover some hidden universal truths before being handed the keys to infinite wisdom.


    The "body meditation" techniques weren''t much better. They amounted to a mix of exercising while in a meditative state while ingesting "adequate Qi-filled products." Of course, again, how to reach this meditative state or a precise list of ingredients was not included. Myrkas deeply regretted not having learned any taichi or fancy yoga poses in his previous life. They suddenly looked like the ultimate missed cheats. Otherworldly shortcuts. Such missed opportunities!


    Myrkas was frustrated. His recent achievements felt lessened, somewhat. As if he still stood at the starting line, yet to take a significant step on his road to personal power. As if his months of efforts so far amounted to one small grain of rice instead of the full bowl Myrkas thought he had gathered. So much was locked out of his reach. The small hill the boy had climbed had revealed a mountain, taller and steeper. But there was no point in self-pity while walking the long road. Myrkas only had to keep on walking. To stand back up if he tripped. As Nirrina liked to say: "the True Mountain was not climbed in a day."


    Myrkas breathed from his belly. He had progressed. So what if the Assessor hadn''t revealed an overpowered technique yet? It would come. Myrkas believed. His efforts bore fruits, sweet though small. Myrkas needed patience. The True Mountain was not climbed in a day indeed. Myrkas stood at the base, gathering equipment, experience, and momentum. Proverbial wisdom: never forget.


    Reassured, Myrkas smiled. He indulged in stroking his long, imaginary gray beard. The boy was young and not in any immediate danger. He had time, more than enough certainly. Protagonist shenanigans could wait for a while. The troublesome prince had made no hint of his presence whatsoever. Myrkas deserved a break. He should concentrate on self-care a little. Keep a balance, take it easier. Continue with his current training and consolidate his skills.


    A decision made just in time for the special nonat of the Summer Solstice Festival to start. How serendipitous. A whole nine-day stretch to spend having fun. What luck! What tremendous fortune! Myrkas left at once to grab Martine. The girl needed a protector to visit the sights. And Myrkas was a responsible Young Master, ready to volunteer himself to look after the little terror. It was his duty, not at all an excuse because Myrkas did not know anyone else close to his age and free to spend time with him. The boy would graciously act as her big brother, seeing as her actual big brothers were currently unavailable. It was only proper.


    Onwards! To the Summer Solstice Festival!

 17.1 Arc 2: A Wild Training Arc Appeared

    The sun had initiated its descent, adorning the street in a soft golden light. Lit, multicoloured paper lanterns hung on festive overhangs. The streets of Piercing Jade Valley were alight with cheer, with festival goers mingling, playing, haggling, eating, drinking, and laughing in the merry atmosphere.


    The town never felt as alive as during the Summer Solstice Festival. People of all stations paraded their best garments in front of the numerous temporary stalls and tents. Paper dragons and flower crowns abounded. Music floated at every corner. Kids ran after each other, hitting strangers¡¯ legs with mild chiding in return. Truly, the annual Summer Solstice Festival remained such a miserable time for the one named Suna Ranil.


    The scarred man was bored. So bored. The evening was too young for the rowdy ones to express their disruptive talents. The streets were filled with civilians and kids. Civilians and kids everywhere. Little bundles of terrifying joy completely clueless about any lurking dangers. Not that many monsters hid in the daylight. The few Suna had found, he had dispatched with a mere slap, tied them up like juicy hams and delivered them to justice or what else the Mayor''s minions called themselves. Suna did not care. Small frys were small frys, beneath his attention span. No more of a challenge than drowning a fanged wasp in blood.


    Even his half-empty flask of firesooz did not relieve Ranil of his boredom. He was currently on duty. Or whatever dregs of it he deigned to fulfill. So he kept tipsy and no more. More than tipsy was getting too expensive anyway. He kept his alcohol intake at just enough to prevent the edge of his pending existential crisis from encroaching further in.


    He would get proper wasted later, after his shift. Suna did have some remnants of a reputation to maintain. Not that the man cared himself, no, but someone Suna Ranil respected did, and so the man behaved most of the time. Enough not to make too many waves, lest he made his respected one''s life more difficult than it had to. In the meantime, Suna would control his ennui the old-fashioned way: with copious amounts of firesooz, the heavenly mix of perfectly fermented red apples, firefruits, cinnamon, potent green ginger, gold raken leaves, and virum extract. And if his boredom became too much, there was always the underground arena. He could pass the time watching a fight or two. Or challenge a group with his little finger if Chafu let him. Always a fun thing. To remind people who was boss, not that they were ever at risk of forgetting.


    Suna was so bored, the man almost missed that damned ape Kalor Hakhmir. Kalor had been a dumbass brute, without question, but at least that dumbass had been able to fight. And so fun to enrage, the hot-blooded fool. Shortsighted and explosive, Kalor Hakhmir had been the perfect opponent. Ready to fight again and again at the tiniest perceived slight. The asshole was dead now, burned of all things. As if to spite Suna on purpose.


    With Kalor gone, no one worth their weight was left to fight in Piercing Jade Valley. The few stronger than Suna Ranil were not to be messed with, so far above him in power and influence only a fool would dare. Having reached the Sky Realm wasn''t as fun as Suna had thought it would. Too few advanced Earthen Realm cultivators were around to pose any kind of proper challenge. People still in the Mortal Realm were so beneath him it wasn''t even funny anymore¡ªthough it had been for a while, their faces!


    But no point in risking his position for a bout of fun. It wasn''t yet time to go after the Governor''s people. And the Provincial Governor was still so far above Suna, to attack him was a sure way to get his lovely butt kicked. And Suna liked his butt both intact and in one piece. The man possessed an objectively nice behind, or so he had been told. Anyway, he largely preferred to deliver the beatings, instead of receiving them.


    The burly man sighed while reminiscing about the past few nonats. Suna had been busy. Depressingly busy. Slave traders had poked their noses, allied with some random mountain bandits. Stupid, weak bandits. It had nonetheless been entertaining for a time to put them back in their place, to bloody his hands a bit. It almost made Suna smile as he reminisced. Warranted violence and mayhem, his favorites. But they were too late again.


    Half the kids had already been sold and shipped. Records burned. The sponsors and masterminds gone with the wind. In any case, Suna had recognized enough of the kids to know which motherless bastard son of a gnoll had sold them first. That crooked pimp was nicely buried with his mountain bandit friends. Suna knew where blood blossoms would bloom next spring. He''d have to let Koriss know. Or get one of his own subordinates to harvest. The alchemist could get so squeamish sometimes.


    Suna had truly stepped in some bloody shit this time. He couldn''t leave while slavers ran around. Slavers always meant either crooked nobles, demonic cultivators, or a mix of both. He could not let it rest. Or the Provincial Lord would have Suna Ranil''s hide. If only all nobles were of the greedy, corrupted kind. Slaughter them all, then problem gone. But no, some had to take the whole "Noblesse Oblige" thing seriously, the self-righteous cunts. Made Suna''s job harder, needing to sort the rot from the sane instead of burning the whole field at once.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    Saving the little ones had been satisfying though, Suna thought.


    The kids were scarred and scared, but scars healed and fears faded. Or were conquered. The young ones had a better chance to recover at the temple''s orphanage than in whomever''s clutches had awaited them. The little rascals were someone else''s problem by now. Suna had no need for any rugrats to mess up with his path.


    The large man smirked as he took a sip from his flask. The hunt was still on. He could hope for a better fight at the end of this trail. A real challenge for once. He wished for a really evil demonic cultivator. One he''d have no qualms in annihilating. No place for pesky empathy. A ruthless fight to the death, filled with nothing but primal instinct. Suna''s inherent bloodlust rose at the thought.


    The crowd parted around the scarred man. While Suna kept himself in check as routine, an impalpable pressure seeped from him to his surroundings at that moment. The people shivered in the warm air of the summer solstice. It did not last as Suna Ranil noticed and reigned himself in. His guard uniform was not enough to reassure passersby when the cultivator let a hint of bloodlust sneak out. Especially since the city guard outfit, even the ones for officers, were not in the best of shapes.


    The light inner robe barely showed traces of its original spring leaf colour. The verdant, sleeveless kaftan overlying it was reinforced with scoffed leather pieces and old, burnished bronze. The same metal adorned more than one set before seeing the armourers'' hands again for maintenance. The large, utilitarian belt holding it together was in a similar state. Its only redemption lay in the fact that no one wanted to start his shift with a defective strap. Hence, the belts were in a slightly better shape than the rest. The pants needed no comments. One was lucky if they were close in colour to the regulatory brown beige. Same for their plain leather boots. At least those had steel toes.


    The city guard uniform did not offer much in terms of protection. It mostly served to differentiate city guards from common thugs. And spot them from afar. That stupid helmet. The hardened leather and bronze mix was adequate, with minimal field of vision loss. But did they really need the stupid center fringe mimicking a row of Piercing Jade Grass? It looked ridiculous. The sheer shame. There was no need to be so on the nose with the town''s name.


    He had to get out while he was still sane. The slaver thing wouldn''t last long. They would scramble, find new associates worse than the last, and make mistakes. Suna would get to kill them all and be done here. He had to hurry. Had to leave before his roots grew too deep. Escape a complacent life or risk that annoying man''s too-smug satisfaction. The nagging stayed better than his smugness.


    All that did nothing for his current problem though. Suna Ranil was bored. The usual had become redundant. Getting drunk and his dick wet did not have the same novelty as they used to in his younger years. The man was tired. Of course, Suna had choices. He could always switch it up. Visit the guys at the bathhouse instead of the usual working tavern girls. See if any new faces needed to be introduced to Suna''s special delivery of pleasure and pain. Get some tight ass as opposed to a nice mouth.


    The bathhouse did pose some risks though. The men there got confused sometimes, expecting feelings, and coddles. It was most annoying when they got attached. Suna never had that issue with other men''s women. No complications as long as he left their keys alone. No risk of leaving little nameless offspring behind.


    That was one mistake Suna refused to make. The man did not need any more chains. He lived as a drifter. Free to wander wherever he wanted. Beholden mostly to his own damned self. If Suna had wanted a warm place to call home, he would have accepted a wife or two a long time ago. Owned their keys, his alone, never to be shared or rented.


    Annoying, all of it. So bothersome. Obligations killed all fun. Suna only wanted to be entertained. Distracted. To lose his senses in the few pleasures found in this wretched existence. To black out in blissful oblivion, away from nightmares and memories of failures.


    It looked more and more like it was time to move on, to go back to his meandering mercenary ways. Once the slavers were dealt with. Suna had fulfilled his main task here anyway. Time for a break from responsibilities. Although, the perks included with his city guard officer role were nice. One got used to recognition. Made some transactions easier. And life on the road seemed bleary compared to his current comforts. Dirt roads and wild animals never made for good company. The lack of running water didn''t help with new encounters. Suna remembered how tired he had been of the long, monotonous travels as a mercenary. It had left quite a bad taste in his psyche.


    The man needed to get drunk. He still had ample time to decide. And people to find and massacre first. Forgetting everything, going back to the primality of "kill or be killed," of pure survival. It always helped when Suna sunk into darker moods. To bathe himself in heathens'' blood and wash it all away. Guiltless release.


    No need to torture his mind right this instant. His conundrum would wait. To stay or to go. Suna Ranil''s torn desires would settle in time. The man needed a sign first. For fate to hint at the way... He almost laughed at the thought. As if fate would bother with him. Thank Heavens Suna never bothered with seers and soothsayers. The definition of troublesome.


    The sun had descended halfway down the horizon. Suna''s patrol was coming to a close. The thuggish man sighed, undecided. He had yet to choose the way to end his day. He surveyed his surroundings. An unusual sight caught his eyes on his second pass around. A rabbit, perched on a boy''s shoulder. The animal was adorable. Its little nose twitched about in the air, its two front paws resting in the kid''s mass of messy black curls. Quite a peculiar vision. So interesting. Rife with possibilities.


    The more Suna looked, the more familiar it all seemed. Something about that rabbit... That pure white fur...


    How did I ever forget? Such a missed opportunity!


    This, this had potential. What Suna had been waiting for. An answer to his infinite boredom. The man smiled crookedly. His new toy was back in sight.

 17.2 Arc 2: A Wild Training Arc Appeared

    Myrkas was having fun. The Summer Solstice Festival was the best: the bestest ever. All Myrkas had hoped for and more. Music and cheers filled the streets. Colours abounded everywhere, from lanterns to banners passing by streams of flowers. Temporary stalls constructed of cloth and bamboo lined the town squares and wider alleys. Seasonal snacks teased Myrkas'' nose and stomach with their mouth-watering scents. The festive atmosphere was only enriched by Martine Kroush dragging him around, the little girl acting as the boy''s personal guide. It was sweet of her, the way she affectionately bossed him around. Her "poor Myrkas who doesn''t remember the Summer Festival!" It was almost too nice¡ªfor a tiny devil escaped from the deepest of Hells.


    Myrkas'' first summer solstice post-transmigration was now engraved forever in his heart and mind. The Solstice Ceremony had been imprinted beneath his eyelids. The images coming easily to his mind as soon as he closed his eyes.


    Before high noon, people had gathered in the temples'' courtyards all over the city. Dressed in their most colourful robes, kaftans, and overskirts, they had all come together to celebrate the longest day of the year. The day when the Empire''s Sun, the Ascended Allrikh, watched over them all with a benevolent glow.


    When the sun had reached its peak, a gong had resounded. The sound had originated from every temple in synchronicity. Together, the citizens had revealed their paper offerings. They had released the folded desert sparrows in unison, illuminated by the highest rays shining above, and accompanied by the gongs'' notes resonating about. The delicate paper birds had flown upwards on warm air currents. They had risen above heads and buildings, soon lost in the glaring sunlight. Once they reached their apex, they combusted, vanishing in a flash of purple flames. Each had carried a secret, known only by their bearer and Allrikh himself.


    Myrkas'' paper sparrow had risen later than the others, so transfixed was he by the ceremony. Nonetheless, his bird had caught up to Martine''s, and they had burned together. The ashes had flown to the skies, carrying their messages with them.


    The whole estate had been present, each with their own rendition of a small desert sparrow. No bird had fallen back to the ground. A mystical and magical event. One Myrkas would never forget, whether the First Emperor in the above Heavens truly heard his prayer or not. The closest Heaven was still quite far away, after all, with it being in an entirely different dimension and all that.


    While curious about everyone''s secrets, Myrkas respected the solemn tradition. He refrained from pestering anyone, even Nirrina. Each message was kept silent, without exception. Children drew instead of writing if they did not know how. Babies would leave their hand or footprints on their paper before their parents folded them. In this event, secrets were sacred.


    A wonderful tradition, Myrkas thought.


    More festivities followed. As the sun started to set, Myrkas'' coin-string was nearly empty. Few pieces of copper were left, and not one tael. They had disappeared so fast during the day. If the boy had not kept his hand solidly on his string throughout the day, he would have believed he had been robbed in broad daylight. But there were so many games, and food, and acrobats, and musicians. A whirlwind of new experiences. Ones Martine did not let him miss. Her giggles had carried them from stand to stand and street to street. A deserved reprieve from the boy''s effort with cultivation. A breath of fresh air.


    Martine had succeeded in convincing Myrkas to bring his two rabbits along. The girl had developed an unduly delight in sneaking flowers into Myrkas'' hair and watching as the two balls of fluff climbed him to chew on the floral snacks. Worst, Myrkas found himself completely unable to get mad at any of his three female companions. The trio had perfected the art of being forgiven by leveraging their cuteness. Martine had learned extremely fast how to get Lilac and Snow to cooperate with her schemes, getting away with performing the most devious acts: such as stealing the last cookie, the one Myrkas had preciously reserved for his breakfast. Despicable. There was nothing the boy could do. Those big emerald eyes were ruthless in their cuteness. The Kroush girl was one fearsome foe. A true Master Mind growing up before Myrkas'' gaze.


    The two children and their animal friends had time and coins for one last game before they needed to head home. Martine had begged Myrkas to win the biggest, brightest ribbon for her. It was the one prize she wanted most of all. Much more than any other he had already won for her earlier in the day. The little devil had used her ultimate attack: a sincere "please" while holding Lilac. The combination of reddish-brown hair and silver fur was deadly. Way too adorable for Myrkas'' ongoing well-being. The boy had instantly melted, like a toddler''s ice cream in a canicule. All his remaining sternness dripped to the pavement. From then on, Myrkas had acquired a new purpose, to obtain the most beautiful, fanciest ribbon ever. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    The game in question was simple in appearance. However, Myrkas had learned that such looks were deceptive. Those festival games extended deeper than one expected, aimed to trick and swindle their brave opponents. The laws of the jungle prevailed. Stand owners squared against humble practitioners, much too eager to please their loved ones. The Game Masters didn''t hesitate to ally with unscrupulous little ones to empty more pockets. For they too had families to feed. Ruthless. Ruthlessness in the name of love!


    The one standing in front of Myrkas combined higher concepts than the average game. It provided a true test of a challenger''s ability. Baskets of different sizes were affixed on rails and poles. The participants had one hourglass by attempt to throw as many balls as they could. However, it was not enough to hit the baskets, the ball also had to remain inside. Furthermore, the projectiles given differed in size and weight from each other. One had to adjust their throw each time. Worst, the balls had the inopportune tendency to roll back out if thrown a touch too hard or with the wrong angle.


    A tricky task indeed. An opportunity for Myrkas to prove his growing skills, his superior aim. He had to succeed. Martine''s latest dream rested on his young shoulders. Myrkas took a slow breath and recited his mantra to center himself. This was his first real try, the previous one did not count as it had been a practice one. This time, Myrkas would try to keep a meditative state throughout. The boy had practiced chanting his mantra in the back of his mind since his debatably fortunate bath incident. The "meditative reflex" helped to keep him calm and focused. As he did, his awareness of his inner Qi flow increased. While the process did not do anything so noticeable, it had to help. It was a known fact: in a cultivation world, meditation always helped. A profound, irrefutable wisdom no one dared to contradict.


    This time would be the one, Myrkas could feel it. Sense it deep in his marrow. His heart beat with power. The boy was harder, better, faster, stronger. His secret technique was ready. Myrkas had learned it painfully in his past life. Many carnivals and a few amusement parks had witnessed his relentless training, resulting in the ultimate technique: the underhand throw. With the perfect curved angle and a soft vector upon landing, it remained the only way to successfully deposit the balls within the baskets without them bouncing back out.


    Centered, focused, ready, Myrkas nodded to the game attendant. The boy suspected all those around him could somewhat perceive his hidden power. The talent of a legend "en devenir" could not be contained. Myrkas'' potential seeped around the boy, shimmering with power in his mind. He could hear the crowd holding their breath in anticipation. Victory awaited him!


    The attendant, visibly impressed by Myrkas'' determination and concentration power, turned the hourglass at once. The simple timekeeper knocked on the wooden counter and Myrkas began. He threw ball after ball, all the while succeeding in maintaining his meditation technique in the background. Unfortunately, this resulted in the projectiles thrown on the "harder" and "stronger" beats to fly right back out of their basket''s embrace.


    Naysayers would comment on the predictability of such an outcome. Nevertheless, Myrkas had made progress compared to his practice attempt. However, with only half of the balls secured in a basket, the youth did not have enough points to win the desired prize. Already, Martine, with her evil genius, had calculated his failure. Before Myrkas was able to say anything, the girl had grabbed his embroidered kaftan, directing his attention to her big, tear-filled emerald eyes and trembling lower lip. Another critical hit.


    Whatever Myrkas had meant to say got stuck in his throat. He couldn''t give up, would not. His pride, his honour, and a little girl''s dreams hang in the balance. Myrkas knew from deep inside his being that he would do better next time, be better. All he needed was one more attempt, just one. He stood at the edge of a breakthrough. Possibly enlightenment.


    But his coin-string was empty. The harsh truths of capitalism blocked his way to greatness. They robbed a cunningly sweet little girl of her brightest smile. Helas, such was life. A harsh but necessary lesson to learn for both of them.


    As Myrkas was gathering his courage and resolve to inform Martine of their coinless circumstances, a large shadow fell over the two children and the pair of bunnies. An ominous chill travelled down Myrkas'' spine. Forbidding any chance at escape, a large, calloused hand landed on the boy''s shoulder, instantly immobilizing him. Myrkas'' bad premonition was concretized once he heard a best-forgotten baritone voice.


    "Well, well, well, look who we have here! If it isn''t my new, favourite disciple!" exclaimed Suna Ranil, with his uneven smirk crinkling his eyes.


    Myrkas sighed in resignation. The evening''s adventures were only beginning it seemed¡­

 18.1 Arc 2: A Wild Training Arc Appeared

    "What do I see here young Myrkas? Did my sole disciple, bearer of my Martial Legacy, get his tiny butt kicked by a festival street game? Unacceptable! The shame! The loss of face! How will I ever be able to look at your uncle in the eyes again? When he entrusted me with your instruction, your potential. So I can ruthlessly guide you to the greatest heights.


    "This will not do. No disciple of mine can admit defeat in front of a mundane game. Myrkas, kid, you''ll have to try again. And again, until you conquer this game. Leave nothing in your wake. Not one prize. Here let me hold Snow for you. She can watch from my arms. She likes it when I pet her.


    Snow was immediately lifted from the boy''s shoulder before anyone could protest. The white rabbit did, however, look comfortable once settled into Suna Ranil''s arms. Martine was watching the obnoxious man in silence, while still carrying Lilac. She had on a calculating air that sent shivers down Myrkas'' spine. The boy could not let the budding devilish entity in his Master''s presence too long. Bad things would happen. Evil seeds of doom would be planted. Myrkas had to get rid of Ranil before his attitude could rub off on Martine. This was a state of emergency!


    "Don''t you worry, kid," Ranil went on, smug as ever. "I''ll pay for every single try it takes. Now, before you kowtow before your generous Master, let''s make one thing clear: I am lending you the coins, the taels if need be. Our Master-Disciple relationship needs to stay balanced. As I saved your hide already once, it would not do to freely give you money. Karmic debt and all that. We cannot risk stunting your development.


    "As for how you''ll pay me back, there again, worry not, cherished disciple of mine. We will find a way, I am certain you can guess how. It involves a specific place that made you fall all over yourself the last time you visited. Such a beautiful moment. A wondrous memory to see you so enraptured. I see it as my personal duty to ensure you gather as much ''experience'' there as you possibly can. As much as your young body can take!"


    Dread spread within Myrkas. The Underground. Suna Ranil meant the Underground, the place where Myrkas had been beaten to a pulp for everyone else''s entertainment but his. A terrible fate. Inescapable it seemed.


    Martine''s eyes were shining with desire, already assuming she owned the mountain of prizes left at the stand. She was too smart for Myrkas'' well-being. A mere ribbon would never be enough now.


    Worse, Master Ranil''s steel-like grip on Myrkas'' shoulder kept the boy firmly in place. The man had taken Snow hostage again, nestled in his other arm. She dared look content, the fluffy traitor. Ambushed! Myrkas had been ambushed and driven into a corner.


    Why? Oh, why had Ranil decided on this very moment to reappear? The smirking man radiated mischievous bloodlust in the middle of the street. Myrkas hadn''t even known such a thing as "mischievous bloodlust" existed before then! He dearly hoped whatever relationship Ranil had with his uncle was enough to protect him from his Martial Master''s sadistic tendencies. And debilitating injuries. Death seemed a lesser evil than never-ending torture at the moment.


    Myrkas suddenly understood prey who froze in front of the superior predator. Running was meaningless. Same for fighting. The only hope ''lay'' in remaining unnoticed. Wait for the predator to look away and leave. Unfortunately for Myrkas, it was too late. Ranil would never let him escape. The boy''s reprieve was officially over, gone. Suna Ranil''s persistent hold on the youth''s shoulder only further confirmed so. Resigned, Myrkas looked at the silver lining: Martine would definitely get her ribbon before the evening concluded.


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    The game started innocently enough. Master Ranil paid the few copper coins needed for Myrkas'' next attempt. An attempt which had come so close to perfection that it hurt.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    A heart-wrenching event, with the second-to-last ball rebounding out of its assigned basket. His only miss. Myrkas had come so close to quickly mastering the game and escaping whatever Ranil had planned. A few coppers were easily repaid, without the need to bleed.


    Myrkas was improving in using his meditation technique while moving. He was learning to regulate his motions and had missed only one throw between a "faster" and a "stronger." So close. But worth it. Myrkas better sensed the flow of his Qi through his body, the energy moving with his will. He was able to discern the small adjustments the Qi made to his muscles in rhythm with his mantra and motions. At this rate, the young cultivator might even unlock body meditation!


    One more try and the boy would get a perfect score. Myrkas knew it. His entire self screamed it. Let it be known that Myrkas Hakhmir was the greatest to be! His debt would still be reasonable, one match only being able to repay it all. One pummeling wasn''t so bad. Myrkas might actually win this time, at least he hoped so.


    Encouraged, the youth prepared for his next try. He re-engaged his deep breathing and reflexive mantra chanting. His mind was clear. The boy was focused, ready. He''d win and leave the victor. Emboldened, Myrkas nodded at Master Ranil. The scarred man replied with his crooked smile. Ranil then looked at the stand owner and winked, lightning fast. An understanding current passed between the two adults. No more needed to be said. The gears had turned.


    "Now now, Young Master, you''ve already won a prize! You are so, so very talented, you might just ruin me if you continue like this. My poor game cannot challenge one as quick as you are as it is. Allow me, Young Master, to increase the difficulty. Unleash the next version! It is slightly more expensive, I know, but think of the rewards, the challenge! Nothing less for a talented Young Master! Your little sister deserves only the best, after all," said the stand owner.


    There was a mean eel under that rock, Myrkas suspected. However, before the boy could express his disinterest, his prospective Martial Master enthusiastically agreed for him.


    "Of course, he''ll try it! Indeed, nothing less for my great disciple. What a grand idea you had Mister Wei. A genius thought!"


    Myrkas sighed in defeat. He was trapped. Master Ranil''s hand had gone straight back to Myrkas'' shoulder as soon as the boy had finished his almost perfect try. For the first time, Myrkas was conscious of the difference in the amount of Qi held in their respective bodies. The sensation did not manifest as mere intuition. Instead, Myrkas had an increasingly precise idea of just how far ahead his supposed Martial Master was. Ranil''s hand didn''t only feel like hard steel. It also carried the weight of an obese elephant. Ranil did not need to say anything. Myrkas instinctively knew any escape attempt would end with said elephant joyously sitting on his small chest.


    A thread of fear ran through Myrkas at the thought. Admittedly, the boy''s reaction was much delayed. The way Suna Ranil had easily controlled Myrkas and dragged him around in their prior interactions should have filled the tween with a healthy amount of wariness toward the older cultivator. But Myrkas had been blinded by anger and annoyance at the time. It had not really felt real until this instant. This time, however, the clear weight of their absolute difference in power shook him. This world was real. His world held real danger, real power, real opportunities.


    Myrkas smiled unbeknownst to himself. A hungry kind of expression. A scary Master was good, great even. Who better to teach how to deal with danger than danger himself? Myrkas'' chest filled with trepidation and excitement. He wasn''t in a dream. This universe choke full of magic and opportunities truly was his new home. Who cared if it was eerily similar to another world''s piece of¨Ctrash¨Cliterature? Myrkas lived here. He would thrive here.


    With renewed vigour and determination, Myrkas awaited this new game variation. With higher risk came higher rewards. This remained true. So what if Myrkas acquired a little debt with Master Ranil? The Underground was not so bad. The boy had survived his first bout. Myrkas had to see the silver lining, the chance to prove himself and grow in martial prowess.


    The challenge remained mostly the same. The new task involved throwing the same balls in the same slanted baskets, only this time while blindfolded. A tiny little detail, a very benign handicap according to his newfound Master.

 18.2 Arc 2: A Wild Training Arc Appeared

    Myrkas wanted to laugh. They had to be joking. But the two adult men acted all seriously, as if this was a totally reasonable and sane variation. Of course, Myrkas should remember each basket''s size and position. Nothing less from such a talented young cultivator! Triple the rewards for double the price! What a deal.


    As if on cue, Martine looked up at Myrkas with stars in her eyes. The flower-carved hairpin he had just won her was proudly nestled in her mass of wavy hair. She had already engaged "puppy dog eyes'' mode while pointing at the damned "prettiest ribbon in the world." As if Myrkas had any other choice but to keep on trying. With a sight, the youth planted his feet into position, took a last look at the stand and accepted the simple blindfold. At least it looked clean...


    Breathe in, breathe out, concentrate. Harder, better, faster, stronger.


    One at a time, Myrkas threw the provided projectiles. He extended his senses to the limit, envisioning his target and listening for misses and successes. His skin prickled, fine hair raised, primed to notice any change in the surrounding Qi. The boy became cognizant of the air currents made by people passing by, as well as Martine and Lilac holding both their breath with each of his throws. Myrkas felt... well he felt silly, in all honesty. There was no way he could hope to sense baskets over six strides away. It was too far. What help was it to be aware of passersby?


    Myrkas'' first try at the new variation ended with over three-quarters of the balls lying on the floor. And, most importantly, without any new prize. Each subsequent attempt was slightly better, but not perfect. After six more tries, Myrkas started to get the hang of it. He gained confidence, and that was his mistake. The eighth and ninth tries had only two missed balls each. Hence, predictably, a new variation¨Cwith a price increase¨Cwas revealed before his tenth attempt.


    "Young Master, I am in awe of your prowess. Truly a talented young cultivator," said Mister Wei. "A fitting disciple for you, Master Ranil. Perhaps one able to conquer the next step in the game? I must warn you, however, it is truly difficult. Do not blame me if I take all your coins."


    "But of course, Mister Wei. My disciple can master them all! Don''t worry, I have taels to support his endeavour."


    A big, intimidating silver tael left Ranil''s pocket to tunk on the wooden counter. Myrkas gulped. This was starting to be a substantial debt he was accumulating. But no matter. Myrkas would rise to the challenge and win all the pretty ribbons.


    This is an opportunity, not just a scheme to be put in Ranil''s debt, the boy reminded himself.


    Mercifully, the blindfold was off again. Myrkas could see. He had a free view of the portly stand owner as the man pulled levers on the side. Wood and metal creaked softly. Then the baskets moved, carried on their poles and rails. They went up and down and in circles, accompanied by the symphony of oiled gears. Myrkas was unable to decide if this constituted an improvement or a step back. Vision was important, but the boy wondered how the added momentum would affect the balls. They had trouble staying in place already. The boy feared the round objects would fall out with the motions.


    Nothing else to do but try.


    The baskets'' movements ended up being more of a problem than Myrkas had anticipated. The balls rolled out again and again. Ranil loved to comment on each one that chose the floor instead of remaining inside the nice, perfectly adequate basket it had been thrown into. Such commentary seemed completely unwarranted according to young Myrkas. Did his new Master have to make up reasons as to why the latest projectile preferred to throw itself on the dirt floor instead of staying put? The man was even voice-acting. No ball needed a fake high-pitched voice! It was wrong, it had to be. It was too irritating not to.


    With supreme effort and concentration, Myrkas improved. Each attempt was more successful than the previous, until the boy reached an almost perfect score twice in a row. Martine let her joy be known. A small mountain of toys, stuffed animals, and accessories was rapidly growing at her feet. Master Ranil had of course graciously purchased a colourful bag¨Cthe price added to Myrkas'' debt¨Cto hold her gains. The girl''s smiles and gleeful giggles were as numerous as her encouraging cheers. She, obviously, did not care whatsoever¨Cor understand¨Cthe concept of monetary debt or interests. Her Young Master was winning prizes for her and that was all that mattered. More was more, and Martine was certain to let Myrkas know anytime the boy suggested it was time to return home.


    As Myrkas had logically feared, a new variant made its appearance as he was about to master the latest one. The scam was laughably obvious. Neither Master Ranil nor Mister Wei made any effort to hide their greed, the latter for more shining coins and the former for his disciple''s anticipated groans of pain and misery. The thuggish city guard officer was smiling crookedly as he paid the ridiculous price for Myrkas'' next bout at the street stand. This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    He could feel the glee radiating from his Martial Master, Just as the boy tasted phantom blood in his mouth. Nausea rose in Myrkas'' throat while thinking about his future in the Underground ring. His ribs ached in advance of the blows, his breathing turning shallow from half-imagined, half-remembered pain. His mind almost escaped his present on the rising wind of panic this situation birthed.


    Keep calm, Myrkas, the boy told himself.


    He was stuck. Cornered. His debt was approaching two entire silver taels: enough to feed a small family for a complete season. And Ranil was smirking ever wider, oh-so-pleased.


    Enough, Myrkas thought.


    Anger rose from Myrkas'' core to replace his panic. Its tendrils travelled along the boy''s limbs, nearly reaching his head before Myrkas was able to calm himself. Undirected anger was foolish- It never helped anything. Didn''t make medicines work better or change one''s genes. Raging against fate didn''t make you six months older either. It only added to the despair, hurting one''s self. Fury toward the inevitable left one exhausted, drained, and just as powerless in the end. Better to quash those pesky feelings. To roll them in a ball and bury them deep inside, forgotten for a time. Wait until the flames burned out and the embers died, suffocated. Get rid of any distractions.


    Myrkas slowly resigned himself. His new Master was petty, no two-way about it. All this for one tiny interruption. A disproportionate response.


    "Risk your life once in search of greatness and eat the consequences forever more," the boy murmured under his breath.


    Myrkas took his place at the stand. The mechanisms activated, letting the baskets dance their choreographed patterns. Luckily, their movements had stayed the same. Next came the blindfold. Obviously. What an easy feat it should be for a talented cultivator youth! Ranil would not accept failure from his first-ever disciple. Only someone of Myrkas'' calibre could memorize the patterns and conquer the game. As it should be. No matter the cost!


    The three first tries were pathetic, with less than five balls ending in their wanted positions each time. Meanwhile, a crowd had gathered to watch around the stand. The street was filled, with only a narrow passageway left behind the gawkers. The cutest little devil was beside herself with excitement. Martine chanted Myrkas'' name from atop Master Ranil''s shoulders, the two rabbits similarly perched on the imposing man. When or how the adorable trio had ended up there was of no consequence to the concerned boy.


    The growing cacophony bothered him. Noises drew his attention away between throws. It disrupted his rhythm, throwing off his aim. It was making it harder to keep up with the baskets'' movement sequence. Too many things swirled in Myrkas'' senses.


    The debt kept on rising. Another silver tael had already been added to the first two. The amount had reached beyond the point where Myrkas could dare think about asking his uncle to lend him the money to repay Ranil. Myrkas feared the large sum would frighten his uncle, resulting in the old man forbidding Myrkas from ever going out again, or altogether cancelling his martial training with Master Ranil. That training remained Myrkas'' best chance to leap forward in his fighting ability. And Myrkas refused to stay weak, at the mercy of life and others.


    By his thirteenth try, Myrkas'' aim had become awful. The balls hit the rims and rebounded out. His anger had risen again, making the boy''s limbs stiff and unprecise. The memorized patterns had muddied in Myrkas'' mind with all the nearby distractions and the boy''s own concerns. He had stopped progressing, his best attempt stuck at half his throws remaining in their basket.


    Enough. Time to refocus, he thought.


    Myrkas was better than this. He would show them. Show his petty Master how his disciple could rise above this challenge. Above all challenges. Halt the climbing debt. Astonish the crowd. Win all the prizes for Martine. Prove his worth once and for all to everyone, including himself. His latest attempt done, Myrkas stopped moving. He removed the blindfold, taking in the scene in front of his eyes. He concentrated on the baskets only, relegating everything else to the background. The only motions he took notice of were those of his targets.


    The three farthest on the right moving up-and-down on a vertical line. The next four turning clockwise in a circle. Two above sliding over and off the large wheel. Three under moving up-and-down. And the last three on the left oscillating on a crescent.


    As he memorized, Myrkas regulated his breath. In, out, slowly. He took the time to look inside. He observed as his silvery-Qi moved from his middle dantian to his limbs. Myrkas directed a thread to his eyes, his inner ear, and his left hand, momentarily transformed into a metronome. Each strand helped him to remember. Up, down, turn, left, right. Again and again, the baskets danced on their rails.


    The boy''s anger was back to being locked away. He thought he saw a hint of red in his lower belly, surrounded by Myrkas'' silvery-white Qi. Myrkas tried to grab it at once. To see if he could use whatever it was. But without success. The flickering red dot in his lower dantian was too elusive to get a hold of. It bubbled on and off, never big enough to shape or mould. And so Myrkas let it be for now. Something to explore at a later time, when all his concentration was not spent on unruly balls and baskets.


    Instead, Myrkas focused on his Qi. He helped it circulate throughout, infusing his muscles, and enhancing his control. Each cell, each fiber drank the silvery energy like desert sand. Myrkas had to limit the amount he let seep through his tissues, afraid he would run out of Qi in his dantian. The boy did not know how long it took, but he achieved a point of equilibrium when as much Qi was replenished with his respiration as his muscles stole in a cycle. It was a tricky state but oh-so-great. Myrkas felt more real somehow. Every detail was sharp. His body was honed, on edge. Primed for victory.


    All Myrkas had left to do was win.

 19.1 Arc 2: A Wild Training Arc Appeared

    Myrkas motioned for a passerby to refasten his blindfold. The boy dared not interrupt his rhythmic beat to do it himself. His preparations were complete. He was ready to make this game his bitch. He would show it to sit, give paw, and play dead.


    In a trance-like state, Myrkas threw. Ball after ball, each on a beat, from right to left. The crowd had gone near silent, as if holding their breath. The repeated "tunks" of stiff fabric hitting wood were the only clear sounds heard in the small length of street around the stand. Even Martine had paused her enthusiastic cheering.


    Tunk, tunk, tunk, in the baskets they went.


    Myrkas hesitated for half a second before his last throw. One more and that was it. He took a deep breath, and let a few beats pass. Then the round projectile flew. And missed. The resounding "clank" announced it to the whole street. The ball had hit the rim of the last target. The short break had done in Myrkas.


    Undeterred, the tween barely stopped. Someone brought him back the worn projectiles. Myrkas kept his tempo. The boy didn''t ask for the blindfold to be let down, by all appearances not needing to look at his targets again.


    Back in position, Myrkas waited until he was back in his "groove," This absolute mindset where all that existed was his self, the balls, and the moving targets. His Qi kept on cycling, its laminar flow never interrupted. Steady and calm. The red dot in Myrkas'' belly apparently asleep.


    A last exhale and Myrkas started again." Tunk, tunk, tunk," all on the beat. Myrkas did not miss one. His Qi was flowing smoothly, effortlessly. His mind was free of distracting thoughts. All that existed were himself, the game, and the rhythm.


    With the last ball nestled in its basket, Myrkas nodded to the stand owner, instinctively knowing where the chubby man stood. In complete silence, Mr Wei handed the boy the recovered projectiles and restarted the mechanism, the same dance they had done all evening. A deep breath, and Myrkas¡ªstill blinded¡ªperfectly slotted every single ball. Not a moment of hesitation. Not one extra motion. The boy proceeded to succeed a third time, as if he needed to prove the previous two were not mere happenstance.


    After his third perfect score in a row, Myrkas exhaled, letting the beat go. Satisfied, the youth smiled. He had done it, he had beaten the game! He had shown he was a true talent indeed. Beaten all their expectations. No more tricks, no more rising debt.


    Take that stupid, petty Master!


    Myrkas was simply better. The boy couldn''t wait to see Master Ranil''s surprised and dumbfounded face. His petty scheme had been thwarted! Utterly defeated by none other than his lowly disciple. Victory tasted sweet. As sweet as the dragon''s beard candy Myrkas had shared with Martine earlier. As sweet, but infinitely tastier. Addictively tasty. Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    With barely contained anticipatory glee, Myrkas removed the blindfold. His first sight was of Mr Wei, flabbergasted. The man was standing immobile, looking at Myrkas, a hand raised in an undefined gesture, mouth open like a goldfish. A living statue of surprise and shock. The most satisfying of sights.


    Unable to keep a small smile from his lips, Myrkas turned slowly towards his so-called Martial Master. Myrkas savoured those instants. He imagined Ranil''s defeated expression before the boy''s win. All his expectations beyond exceeded. The man would have no choice but to bow in front of Myrkas'' Supreme talent and potential.


    Ready for a second serving of sweet victory, Myrkas completed his 180-degree turn. The boy stood in front of the crowd, his Master at the forefront. Martine was still on his shoulder, her small mouth also fixed in her own interpretation of a goldfish. Snow looked smug, as much as a rabbit could, while her sister Lilac was already looking for a snack.


    Myrkas'' eyes finally landed on Suna Ranil''s face. Immediately, a wave of fear spread through the boy, raising every single hair in its wake. The devious man was smiling wildly, with an air of pleased insanity in his eyes. His scarred, half-paralyzed left cheek did not help at all in reassuring Myrkas. The man was delighted. Obviously over the moon with his student''s impromptu performance. In a very predatory way. Like a bear discovering the injured doe it had chased had a hidden fawn nearby. A perfect youngling ready to devour. Served on a silver platter. The juiciest prey putting its own neck in the predator''s maw.


    Myrkas'' stomach filled with wasps. Butterflies were just too nice to describe the sheer anxiety he was experiencing. Cold sweat ran down his back, making him shiver in the warm evening air of early summer. A bad omen, undoubtedly. A terrible one. Suddenly, Myrkas wished his teacher had persisted with his memory lapse. That smile foretold unspeakable horrors all in the name of "training."


    Myrkas'' shock was so, that the boy nearly fell under the enthusiastic weight of Martine jumping in his arms. The small terror had come down her perch while Myrkas precognitively glimpsed his soon-to-be unfortunate fate at the hands of his Martial Master.


    The little girl almost choked him in her excitement. She was babbling incomprehensively, pointing all over the stand. Too soon, she was pulling Myrkas towards Mr Wei, insisting they deserved all the prizes, without any exception. Clearly, it was the only logical next step before Myrkas'' feat. Including "the most beautiful ribbon ever."


    Mr Wei did try to negotiate. He put up an honourable fight, according to Myrkas. However, predictably, he had to bend in front of the mix of weaponized cuteness and peer pressure Martine employed. She had gathered enough support from the crowd of onlookers to make any hard refusal a reputational nightmare.


    "A terrible loss of face, were the merchant to deny such an adorable child after such a display of skills from the Young Master Hakhmir," had been heard at least once.


    And so Myrkas watched as Martine stuffed her bag full of festival goodies. In an uncharacteristic demonstration of generosity, she shared some with the nearby kids. Of course, her big ribbon stayed preciously nestled in her hair. Myrkas prayed no one dared touch it. The boy did not wish to deal with the consequences. Myrkas tensed as he felt a massive paw landing on his young shoulder. No need to look, for Myrkas knew to whom the appendage belonged.


    "What a beautiful display, disciple. I''ll see you on the first day of the new month, post-festival. It''s about time we start training you for real. No such talent shall go to waste under my watch, I promise," said Master Ranil.


    And hence concluded Myrkas first brief break in his new universe.

 19.2 Arc 2: A Wild Training Arc Appeared

    The boy stood straight in front of the large reinforced wooden doors. His black hair was tousled by the breeze. Early morning light fell upon Myrkas as if blessing this moment. A solemnity broken by the grunts and screams that travelled from beyond the doors. In a moment, Myrkas would join those poor souls in the torture called martial training. Soon. As soon as he finished gathering his will and courage.


    Any moment now, Myrkas promised himself.


    A last fortifying breath, and Myrkas pushed the doors. They were surprisingly easy to open despite their appearance. As the boy entered the open courtyard, smells of dust, sweat, and blood filled his nose. Men were spread around all over the open space. One corner had a few going through martial stances¡ªkatas¡ªunder the vigilant eye of a senior officer. A third of them were sparring with sharp weapons, their battered city guard garbs accumulating yet more bumps and scratches. Rivulets of sweat and blood trailed the hard-packed ground under their booted feet. Minimum concern was spent on the underlings'' safety.


    Healers ran around, easily identified by their harried looks and blue-green armbands. They delivered pills and potions left and right, resetting bones and joints when needed. Myrkas even saw one of the men begging to be left alone, preferring to endure the pain of his dislocated shoulder than to be sent back into the fray.


    Few officers were barking orders, considering. They were too busy alternating with their own training to spend much energy on useless harassment. All men present, for they were all male, without exception, looked exhausted. Those on the sidelines waiting for their turn or doing maintenance weren''t excluded from the "haunted look" crowd.


    As he dragged his feet, Myrkas wondered if he had just entered the City Guard Training Hall or one of the Lower Hellish Realms. Hopefully, his Master, the Chief training officer, would be much too busy to pay poor little Myrkas much attention. Suna Ranil was a busy man, with many responsibilities. Newly minted guards didn''t whip themselves into acceptable shape. His Martial Master was the second lieutenant for the whole guard after all. The third highest ranked, with only the captain and vice-captain above him. An important man. Too busy for his young, inexperienced disciple.


    Myrkas hoped against hope while he took in the scene. The boy felt almost more dour than when he had first woken up at the fateful funeral. His insides were churning with nerves. His clothes soaked with sweat from the early summer sun and his anxious state. Myrkas was tempted to remove his outer robe, as light as it was. But it would not do to meet new people clad only in his underclothes, even if the tight-fitting light brown shirt and loose pants were more appropriate to move around. Some decorum had to be maintained, at least initially.


    Too soon, Myrkas'' Martial Master found him. The scarred man''s sinister smile welcomed the boy to what would become his second home in Piercing Jade Valley. Myrkas gulped. The intensity had instantly raised over 9000. The boy almost regretted his choice. He would most likely not die. Everyone present still had all their limbs. It had to be a positive sign, right? Time to train, protagonist style!


    A heavy hand landed on young Myrkas'' shoulder, in what was quickly becoming a favourite move of his newly minted Master. Ranil''s steel grip made certain Myrkas did not miss a single word he said. Not that Myrkas had any intention to let his mind wander. The boy wasn''t stupid. Training deserved his full attention, with or without extra "physical incentive" needed. Suna Ranil''s status as one of the strongest martial artists in town was sufficient motivation. Despite his¡ª understandable¡ªreticence, Myrkas was fully committed.


    With one jump, Snow landed gracefully on Myrkas'' other shoulder. She nuzzled his cheek and nibbled his hair to express her happiness at their reunion. Master Ranil, the miscreant, had shamelessly bunny-napped the white furball during their last encounter. "Extra incentive to prevent any thoughts of running away." A full four days without his steadfast meditation partner had affected Myrkas more than he had expected. He had missed her reassuring weight, which had surprisingly increased during their short separation.


    Myrkas was starting to suspect his so-called Master was using underhanded tricks to gain the rabbit''s affection. Myrkas wondered what Ranil fed her, if he mixed illicit substances in her treats. Maybe the man kept a patch of spiritual clover at his house? That was the only reasonable explanation for why she dared choose to jump right back in Ranil''s arms after her short greetings to Myrkas.


    The boy''s hurt heart did not have time to recover before a booming voice brought him back to more pressing matters.


    "Disciple! Welcome dear, dearly treasured Disciple. Welcome to our humble City Guard training halls. You''ll come here six days a nonat: two on, one-off, two on, one-off and so on and so forth for the foreseeable future. All in accordance with the agreement between your uncle and me. All four nonats of all twelve months in a year. You only get the four separate nonats of the Changing Seasons off. Aren''t I so generous a Master? So much quality time together! Such progress you''ll make! Leaps and bounds. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    "Additionally, Snow is expected to accompany you every single time. I suspect she''ll outpace you in no time. She is so clever. Such a good girl, right Snow? Yes, all the pets and cuddles for you. I have decided to name her your senior disciple. Call her "Senior Sister" as of now."


    Myrkas instantly opened his mouth to protest. However, a synchronized double glare delivered by both Ranil and Snow killed his words before they were even conceived.


    "Young Myrkas, let me remind you, my word here is law," continued Master Ranil. "Don''t bother trying to appeal to the people here. I gave them "strong suggestions" on how to act with you and clear examples of what would happen to them if they did not listen. No pity to be gained. Maybe some sympathy if you are lucky but no more. You''ll see. They''ll help with your training in time "


    Myrkas took a minute to look around. He crossed gaze with a few training guards. Indeed, their eyes betrayed an inner bloodlust, a delight at the new fish in the pond without any desire to help it survive. Piranhas listening to their shark master.


    "Koriss already fired your previous instructor. No more time for that weakling. I hope you have said your goodbyes. If not, well too bad. Good luck finding the time for those, Don''t expect ''fair fights,'' none of that bullshit in my hall. Fighting ain''t fair. Use every advantage you can to win. Within reason for a spar. Try not to maim or kill, it makes too much paperwork after. We don''t fight for "prestige" here. There are no "Martial Arts Displays" or narcissistic tournaments. You''ll learn to fight for your life, to protect your comrades and to survive long enough to give report and get help. That''s what a real warrior needs. Not the fancy noble skit."


    The boy straightened his spine and clenched both fists in response. He looked at his Martial Master in the eyes, consciously ignoring the white rabbit in the man''s arms. Myrkas was ready. Greatness required sacrifices. His days of leisure were over. This was Myrkas'' first step up the True Mountain.


    "Ready Master," said Myrkas as he bowed.


    "Good disciple. We''ll start with the utmost important skill for any martial artist, save maybe some ancient enlightened turtle. Guess which one, kid."


    Myrkas paused to think for a moment. He reflected on his recent fight and on what he knew of Master Ranil''s philosophy. With a hint of trepidation, the boy took a guess.


    "How to take a hit and bounce back, Master."


    Ranil smiled, his canines on full display. Pleased, one might say.


    "Close, kid, damn close! Not bad, not bad at all for a first guess. But no. The answer is footwork. Movements, weight shifts, rhythm, dodging, stopping, and exploding. Plus stamina. Those make up the basics of all styles. Unless you are a square boulder. Even mountains move. Some immortal busybody wrote a treatise about it a century or two ago, apparently.


    "Don''t you dare worry though kid, I will personally ensure you know how to fall, take hits, and rebound once you''ve mastered a bit of footwork. Plenty of practical experience. Enough so you don''t need to think about anything. It''ll all become second nature.


    "You''ll train your body at the same time. Improve your endurance, build on some muscle, get more flexible. If you can''t do body meditation yet, don''t worry. We''ll train you hard enough your little head will empty itself before you have time to think about anything. Just try not to pass out too much. We have healers on site but Koriss might skin me alive if I give you too many pills. He always worries too much about impurity accumulation. Even if we use his stuff. Anyway, you''ll start with running suicides. Come, kid."


    ???


    The flows had lessened. An unacceptable fact. Something blocked their rivers upstream. Somewhere far, in the farthest reaches of this so-aptly named Province. Those regions of the Verdant Mountains That Pierce the Sky had not faltered for decades before. A drought here and there, perhaps, but nothing the likes of the past three years.


    The noble Young Lord could not be the reason alone. While he made their type of trade a touch more difficult, the idealistic noble had never been able to make a significant dent in their organization. Their roots were too deep. Their allies bought and scared down their souls, from one generation to the next.


    No, something else had perturbed their local flows of sacrifices. A pesky bug, out of place. Certainly with eyes too big for its stomach.


    He''d have to take care of it again. Before the problem festered. Before his Master noticed. Furthermore, his newest disciple needed some fresh sources of tears. And sturdier sparring partners. The last ones were used and dried up, barely good enough for some bloodletting before being discarded. Or converted to alchemical ingredients.


    Children were unfortunately not the sturdiest of materials. One was bestowed a surprise, from time to time, like his young disciple, but most didn''t last. Still, children were the easiest. Innocents, too young to know better. With fresh dreams to be crushed and hopes to smother. The classic source of potent demonic energies. Much better than simple animals, even spirit beasts.


    He had to act. Nothing too obvious. Time to remind his friend Flame Stone Fist of their shared past. No one stopped trading once they started. A break here and there was fine but nothing permanent. It would not do to set a precedent. Yes, that man would find the blockage and clear it. Find some fresh blood at the same time too, why not? One rock, two birds and the like.


    Time to go back to his dear disciple. The boy was almost healed from his last supplice. Time to apply fresh wounds on his still too-tender flesh.

 20.1 Arc 2: A Wild Training Arc Appeared

    Past the beaten earth courtyard, behind the main hall, Master Ranil revealed Piercing Jade Valley''s City Guard''s athletic set-up. A rounded rectangle took centre stage, complete with running tracks formed of bicolored moss. Its middle comprised various barres, wooden pillars, and platforms at different elevations. On the farthest reach, a foreboding muddy pool with thick bamboo stalks of varying heights stood. Few guards were going through their paces in this area. Significantly less than in the main courtyard.


    Myrkas'' hidden hope of passing unnoticed, of melding between the training men was finally crushed and buried six feet under. There was no way Master Ranil could lose his disciple among so few people. Myrkas would stand out like a single red poppy on a green hill. Unless one was colourblind.


    The Master and disciples trio¡ªbunny included¡ªstopped in front of the longest straight stretch of running ground. Stripped yellow and white wooden stakes were planted beside the track at even intervals. This particular setup rekindled memories from both past lives in the boy. Memories of unending back and forth, the boredom of the task only beaten by the physical strain it induced. For an instant, Myrkas almost wished "running suicides" meant running into a literal wall again and again instead of... that.


    Without the need for any further explanation, Myrkas ran. He ran to the first stake, then back to the start line. Then to the second stake and back again. The boy wasn''t sure if the exercise had been named for the self-harming desires induced by the boredom or the physical strain inherent to it. At least he had Snow to keep him company. Her white fluff running in the corner of his eye helped keep his spirits above ground.


    Good old endurance training. No one escaped it, not even in a magical universe. If only this world gave stat points to distribute instead of needing to train. It would have been so much easier, so much more fun for Myrkas. Better get those thoughts out of his puny head. He had to concentrate on his task. Remove everything else from his mind. This was the perfect opportunity to practice body meditation.


    And so the tween did just that. His mind empty, he focused on running, taking notice of each step, each muscle, each breath he needed. Run, reach the stake, bend to touch the line, run back, bend, run again. His spine was straight, slightly bent forward, in line with his entire body. His feet hit the ground one after the other, striking with his mid-foot. He kept notice of his knees, raising them higher when his stride was faltering. His arms swayed in rhythm, in complementary balance.


    Throughout, Myrkas was aware of his Qi. The permanent cycling thread of silvery-white energy fed his muscles. The contractile fibres took very little though. An insignificant amount, way less than his body had been able to soak in during his "bloodbath." It was not necessarily a bad thing. With his current exertion, Myrkas was unable to replenish his core as fast. He could only gather a trickle of Qi while running. The boy could not focus on his running form and his mantra at the same time. Too much blood was going to fuel his motions, without enough left to power the higher functions of his brain. Thinking was hard, his will focused solely on going further.


    That was his first issue to fix. Myrkas had to be able to fully meditate while exercising. Otherwise, his progress with Qi accumulation would stall. His new schedule left little time for regular meditation. Martial training with Ranil, alchemy lessons and practice with his uncle, and general education filled most of his awake time. The boy was already having a hard time moderating his frustration at the slow process of climbing the steps of cultivation. He could not accept that. He had dreams to concretize.


    Inhale, exhale. Harder, better, faster, stronger. Stupid bending down to touch a stupid line. Damn, need to get back on track. Harder, better, faster, stronger. Breathe in, breathe out.


    It was surprisingly difficult to keep on running. Myrkas needed a lot more willpower to keep moving while meditating compared to when he played the game at the Summer Solstice Festival. It seemed aimlessly running back and forth required more of his will and intent than throwing balls to win a prize. Understandable, in fact, when he...This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    "Ouch! What was that?"


    Something had hit his shoulder, with enough force to leave a bruise. The boy had stopped, too startled to continue.


    "My dear disciple, did you really think all you had to do was run? What type of lousy Master do you take me for? Of course there''s more. If not, you just escape in your head, completely unaware of what''s around you. Deadly. That''s how you get killed in the real world. Gotta watch your own back.


    "Hence how I came up with the very sophisticated present exercise. Basically, any time you are not sparring or practicing stances, you will be subjected to harmless projectiles. As I, the Great Master Suna Ranil, already considered the limited time I will be able to fully dedicate to your education, anyone will be able and encouraged to throw these at you. I heard they even made a game of it, with points depending on where they hit you, and bonuses if they can make you trip. Don''t you appreciate your seniors¡¯ enthusiasm for your martial education Myrkas? A true blessing indeed."


    Blood tried to leave the boy''s face on those words. Unfortunately, Myrkas was too warmed up from his exercising for any kind of regular cold chills to take hold of him. He had half expected this. Anyone could tell their trainees to run suicides. Only an especially sadistic Master made a game of throwing things at said trainees.


    Myrkas eyes landed on the so-called projectile. A peanut. They were throwing peanuts at him. For some reason, it made everything worse. As if getting hit by peanuts of all things was beyond insulting. The ultimate loss of face.


    Although, to be perfectly honest, his comrades-in-training''s ammunition weren''t exactly peanuts. They only looked like it. Their vaguely tear-dropped, softish shell held a single nut instead of two. And the shell itself was a deep burnt-orange colour instead of light brown. Not that it made much difference. Getting hit by an almost-peanut versus an actual peanut hurt just the same. It was humiliating and discouraging.


    "But, Master Ranil," the boy started." I thought the most important was to focus on body meditation. How am I supposed to do so if I have to watch out and dodge at any moment? Also, I don''t have eyes behind my head. How am I to see anything thrown from my back? It''s impossible."


    Suna Ranil affected an air of mild disappointment upon hearing the complaints from his sole human disciple.


    "Ah Myrkas, I thought better of you. You need to expend your senses. Enemies will not wait for you to be ready before they strike. You should always be aware of your surroundings, at the very least on a subconscious level, or you will die, plain and simple. Look at your senior sister here."


    The man pointed at Snow, her long ears perking up at the attention. Myrkas instantly wondered what he could learn from watching his pretty bunny.


    "See how she runs effortlessly. See how she sprints from stake to start and again, turning around in one smooth jump. She even stays in a straight line, against her natural instincts to better demonstrate her technique to her junior brother¡ªthat''s you Myrkas, in case you haven''t acknowledged it yet. The more talented pupil gets seniority. Blame tradition.


    "Now, watch how she dodges and parries."


    Ranil then proceeded to throw dozens of orange not-peanuts at the defenceless fluffy rodent. Myrkas almost screamed in protest. To the boy''s benefit, he quickly learned how futile his worries were. Snow was flawlessly avoiding every single projectile. She made it look easy. At some point she started to zig-zag on the course, seemingly to make Ranil''s task of targeting her more difficult. Myrkas could almost swear she was throwing sassy winks towards his¡ªcorrection, their¡ªMartial Master.


    "Granted," Suna Ranil said. "Smaller prey animals have an innate advantage. They are instinctually aware of their environment. They don''t bother waiting for the threat to show. They bolt at any hint of danger. Their literal survival depends on it. Not like us humans who need to identify the threat first, To ''see it coming.'' A waste of time I call it. It can get tricky if you get tricked by feints too much later on but that''s for later. You are way too bad a sensing and reacting to threats as it is. We will deal with feints only when you can sense them first."


    Myrkas bit his lips. He would not let them wobble. His shoulder hurt. The rest of his body too, in anticipation. He allowed himself to pettily glare at Snow. She looked way too smug after her feat. She was even eating the projectiles that had missed her, the cheeky bunny.


    The boy tried one last time to barter for a more reasonable training regimen. In as professional a way as he could think of.


    "Master Ranil, while I understand your point, my concern is that getting hit repeatedly while training will provoke otherwise preventable injuries, and overall negatively impair my learning curve. It would be more productive, I am sure, to further compartmentalize my training and reserve dodging and parrying to their own time, separate from endurance training."


    Myrkas was pretty impressed by his eloquence there. His arguments were beyond reasonable. Fit for any high-ranking middle manager.


    "Nice try kid. If you don''t want to get home all bruised up, I have only one advice: get good," replied his Master.

 20.2 Arc 2: A Wild Training Arc Appeared

    The boy''s shoulders fell. His masterful argument had been thoroughly denied. Only one thing left to do then.


    So Myrkas ran. He ran and got pelted all morning. The hit came from everywhere, the not-peanuts merciless upon their landing on the boy''s flesh. It hurt, obviously. The city guards did not seem to lack mean-spirited members. They counted points out loud, relaying them to one lower officer on the side in charge of marking the scores. Most had started to aim for Myrkas'' ankles, a hard target with high rewards. It made him fall a lot more than once. Enough to get knees as bruised and scraped as a kid learning to rollerblade without knee guards.


    The boy''s run was only interrupted for mandatory cool-down periods and callisthenics. A quick sip of diluted citrus juice from his literal gourd, ten minutes of slow walking around, and hundreds of push-ups, crunches, pull-ups, planks, lunges, frog-leaps, and what not did not constitute an adequate break in Myrkas'' book. Especially when he remained at risk of projectile showers the entire time. He barely managed to avoid a few handfuls of the shell-encased fruits. Worst, his breaks ended with him needing to painstakingly gather the fallen orange balls and bring them back to a communal basket for his bullies'' benefit. He had to personally replenish their ammunition!


    Torture. Bona fide torture Master Ranil dared to call training. Even Snow was getting tired. She bravely accompanied her junior brother in his trial. Hitting her actually granted a lot more points in the game their Master had devised. Which happened a grand total of four times throughout the whole morning.


    The sun was nearing its apex when Myrkas crumbled. His knees buckled under his weight, his thighs shaking with exhaustion. By some miracle, the boy had not yet vomited. He lay there on the ground, heaving, unable to move any of his limbs. A finger twitch was the most motion he could muster.


    Snow came to lay beside his head. Her tiny chest huffing and puffing in tandem with her human friend. Her usually white fur was a little matted and dirty, a predictable result following the frequent water misting Myrkas had given her to keep her cool. Rabbits were not made for endurance training. Their inability to sweat a major disadvantage.


    Likewise, the boy''s clothes had turned a deeper brown colour from dirt and moss stains. His robe had long been discarded by the wayside. His underclothes stuck to his skin, soaked with sweat. It itched, but Myrkas had no strength left to do anything about it. A few reddish spots marred the cloth. The blood had come from the shallow cuts on Myrkas'' skin where he had been hit repeatedly. The rest of him was turning all shades of blue from the hits he had endured.


    Suna Ranil looked upon his downed disciples from his standing position. The man looked displeased, to say the least. He used his feet to turn Myrkas around, taking note of his sorry state. He showed much more care with the rodent, gently turning her over and petting her damp fur. Still, Master Ranil''s frown deepened following his cursory examination.


    "Your body''s a mess Myrkas. Weak, underdeveloped, barely anybody cultivation integrated. What did Kalor feed you? Or not feed you most likely. Clearly, he considered you the lesser of his sons. Didn''t wanna waste any resources on you. I wonder what your brother was like to so impress your short-sighted father. Oh well, it''s almost better for me. That means no faulty foundation to destroy and build back up. A blessing in disguise, probably."


    Seemingly satisfied by his assessment, Master Ranil grabbed his human disciple by the collar, lifting him like a kitten. Of course, Snow was meanwhile comfortably seated in the crook of the large man''s bent elbow, letting herself be lazily carried around. Myrkas was too battered to think about protesting his transport. His exhaustion combined with his bruised body put a weight on his very existence. He felt like a dishrag passed through the wringer one too many times.


    The boy was carried so to a modest-looking side building. Despite its utilitarian architecture, the cube-shaped edifice made for an interesting sight. Its simple white-washed stone walls were topped by an odd tiered roof. The half-pyramid, half-low dome of the roof clashed with the otherwise unadorned elements found in the city guard training site. Myrkas wondered what could be so different about this building to warrant such a sidestep with the prevailing aesthetic of drab, beige-brown bricks and straight lines found all around him.


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    A question quickly answered it turned out. The trio first entered an antechamber lined with wooden cubicles and furnished with simple benches. Some compartments held personal effects while others displayed clean linens and spare uniform pants, shirts, and robes. All clean but apparently well-used.


    It was a changing room. A good old changing room. Not really a locker room as there were no locks in sight. Myrkas guessed he had gotten filthier than he had thought if his Master would take the time to make him change mid-day. It seemed a bit pointless if the boy was scheduled to exert himself some more after a light lunch. Unless Myrkas had misunderstood and was only supposed to train for half a day. But that would make too much sense. Why would his Master let him leave after a mere half-day of torture? Suna Ranil wasn''t so lenient. It was better for Myrkas to quash those hopes before they bloomed.


    Master Ranil dropped the boy on a nearby bench. Myrkas hissed upon landing. His whole body was sore. And he did not have the energy to stretch to try to alleviate some of the yet-building soreness. All Myrkas wanted was to crumble right here, to rest and recuperate inside, away from the harsh summer sun. The boy could not even imagine how he was going to "train" some more that day. He could not move. Would he have to dodge not-peanuts while lying on the floor? Was he expected to just "not die" for the afternoon? A mystery destined to be answered way too soon to the youth''s tastes.


    "Here, drink this," said Master Ranil as he handed the boy a small bamboo gourd. "That''s Clear Refreshing Water, a low potency alchemical concoction to help you recover some. And yes, it''s from your uncle. Don''t get too used to it though, this is the nice type. We don''t give it out too often. The regular one tastes like barely diluted horse piss, you''ll see. Expect to drink barrels of that one through your training. And yes, it''s also made by your uncle. He could get it to taste better but then he charges too much for it. So aim any complaints you have at him, not me."


    Too tired to answer, Myrkas mustered his last reserves of willpower to accept the container and its magical water. He drank it all, not wasting one drop. By now, the boy knew the value of such Qi-containing items. While not that rare, they were relatively expensive, especially reputable ones. It was a wonder his Uncle did not charge a more monstrous mark-up. The older man must have had his reasons though.


    The concoction tasted a little sweet. It was very refreshing, with a mild aftertaste of cucumber and grapefruit. Reinvigorating. Myrkas noticed the refreshing liquid descend to his stomach. There, the energy it had hidden was released and quickly spread through the boy''s battered system. His soreness lessened instantly, his body cooled and healed a little from the inside out. While Myrkas'' appearance had not changed, the boy felt infinitely better. So much so that he dared try to stand on his own.


    He stood gingerly at first. He felt like a newborn lamb, with his legs shaking unsteadily. However, just like the baby herbivore, he quickly recovered and solidified his mastery of equilibrium and the standing position. His body still protested the motions. Myrkas was better, true, but his morning had still taken its toll. His muscles required more rest before their next adventures.


    "Good, you can move. We might make something out of you after all kid. There''s some hope. Now stop dallying and get naked, we don''t have all day," said his Master.


    "Hum, can I take a change of clothes first? I''m not sure anything will fit me here," replied the boy.


    Myrkas remained a bit shy about nudity in general. He much preferred to keep the lower parts of himself under cover. He specifically did not want to be fully naked for any prolonged period amongst grown men. He had not had a growth spurt yet and felt a bit self-conscious about his overall "smallness."


    "What for? Just get naked kid, there''s no point to cover up."


    The boy froze. Changing his clothes made sense. Myrkas could understand the desire to have a presentable disciple at his place of work. Master Ranil had a reputation to maintain, even if it wasn''t the best. Hence, a temporary state of exposure was acceptable if inevitable.


    But "staying naked" made no such sense. What kind of activity did his Master have in reserve that required gallivanting in his birthday suit? A hint of fear shot through Myrkas at the thought. What the hell was this building truly for?

 21.1 Arc 2: A Wild Training Arc Appeared

    A bath. They were headed to communal baths.


    Myrkas exhaled in relief. He had been scared for an instant. His Martial Master did have a terrible reputation. A confusing one. Rumours of his depravity and lack of scruples abounded. The boy had half-overheard perplexing stories in the nonats leading to his reunion with Master Ranil. He had paid extra attention to any news on the wind concerning his would-be master.


    At one point Myrkas had had to stop listening. The circulating pieces of information were too contradicting. One side claimed Suna Ranil hunted demons and devils with a heart full of vengeance, while the other was convinced the scarred man was a hidden demonic cultivator masquerading as a city guard. The friend of the brother of the nephew of someone''s cousin had supposedly witnessed many times the senior officer in question exiting known seedy brothels with his face speckled in blood. Another had heard screams coming from his house many a night. Bone-chilling screams quickly cut off.


    Master Ranil''s proponents explained those troublesome sightings as Ranil punishing the wicked. They claimed those rumours had been started by Kalor Hakhmir to hinder the younger man''s upcoming promotion. To keep his competition in check. Those citizens believed Master Ranil only had their best interest at heart, as proven by his generous tipping practices and willingness to strike "very reasonable" deals instead of reporting everything to the city''s authority.


    In short, young Myrkas did not know what to think of his Master. The only thing the boy knew, was convinced of, was that his Martial Master was strong. Hence his slight worry at what kind of activities required nakedness as part of his training. Myrkas believed a healthy amount of distrust and carefulness was quite warranted in his situation. While his uncle had vouched for Ranil, the older man had also shown he could get quite oblivious towards other people and things not related to alchemy and his research.


    And so Myrkas again let out a relieved sigh when the trio finally entered the bathing area. He had not expected the training grounds to hide a bathhouse within its midst.


    "The hell is wrong with you disciple? Are you scared of water? You look as if I was bringing you to your execution," exclaimed Ranil with a somewhat concerned frown. "Finish fixing your face right this instant. The exclusive Piercing Jade Valley City Guard Baths are no place to spread your anxious miasma. Bad vibes out. No hindering your comrades'' peaceful moments between trainings.


    "This place is the main reason most people join the city guard. That and hoping to avoid a military draft. These baths and the other cultivation aids we provide are the best body cultivation resources poor commoners are ever going to see, let alone use. The Qi isn''t plentiful, but it''s there. It''s also pretty neutral, almost placid, ready to be absorbed and assimilated. It''s not very powerful, but the energy is compatible with pretty much all paths, and it''s easily assimilated. Not much need for talent here. Even just soaking in the middle of training gives benefits. Perfect for clueless bastards who still crave power.


    "Moderate power with minimal risk. If these whores'' sons and poor lads really wanted to be strong they would enter the army. Much better support there. But the risk of death is much higher too. Most avoid it unless they are noble scions or conscripted. Honour and glory don''t feed one''s family. It may get you one though. I recall that''s how your grandfather got a last name and his first wife. Can''t be any kind of officer without a last name. The entire organization would lose face.


    " ''Nough talking. Get a move on. You don''t wanna be late for the afternoon. I don''t have a ready punishment for lateness but I''m sure I can come up with something if I need to."


    A hard slap on his naked back propulsed Myrkas into the bathing area. His tired limbs only just managed to prevent a fall on the wet and slippery floor. After this supreme display of preserved equilibrium, the youth gathered his courage and repressed his embarrassment. He dared not voice any complaint about their completely unnecessary¡ªin his opinion¡ªnaked state to Master Ranil, lest he sparked his ire. Myrkas dearly wished bathing suits in public settings were more prevalent in this world. It simply felt wrong to see and be seen by strangers like this. A small piece of cloth could not impede cultivation that much, could it?


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    Back straight and arms relaxed by his side, Myrkas headed to the "shower" area. Everyone needed a good scrub and rinse before entering the shared pools. The floor and walls were covered in small ceramics, in various shades of blue and brown. Metal grates were positioned at intervals to drain the wayward splashes. Pumps, disposable sponges, and buckets along the entrance walls further emphasized good hygiene practices prior to bathing. For those who desperately lacked common sense, a giant painted sign, in both writing and pictogram, forbade anyone to enter the healing waters before removing the grub from training. Dire consequences were promised for any dirty misbehaving ones.


    The obvious lack of soap bothered Myrkas tremendously. He didn''t feel completely clean unless he could luxuriate in a fragrant, bubbly lather of cleaning agent. He was not convinced that removing a layer of skin with a rough sponge or cloth and rinsing it off was equivalent. It for certain did not smell as good. This flagrant¡ªand ''fragrant''¡ªlack of hygiene standards did, however, provide the ambitious boy with an unmissable opportunity. For who was better placed than him to become the first and only provider of Qi-enhanced soap to his city''s guards? The perfect novel cultivation aid! And a much nicer smell everywhere they went. An absolute win on all sides! Myrkas only needed a completed product to sell. A small detail. Nothing a good dose of motivation could not fix. He was going to be so rich! He could already feel the coins, no, the taels, between his greedy fingers.


    Lost in his dreams of golden bubbles, Myrkas did not see the bucket of cold water coming his way. His sudden shower brought him out of his thoughts, and one look from his impatient Master was all the boy needed to quickly, but thoroughly, scrub himself and his tired rabbit. His once pet now senior sister preferred to let herself be pampered instead of spending the small amount of energy she had recovered with a few sips of Clear Refreshing Water on grooming. The white ball of fluff had barely moved a muscle since the end of their morning training, content to be carried around and catered for. Myrkas even gave her a quick brush with his fingers. He dared not let her fur get tangled. That was a sure way to receive unfair admonishments from both Lilac and Nirrina. Fur care was apparently supremely important, at least according to those two.


    Finally rinsed, they were ready to bathe. A welcomed break in a so far harrowing first day. It almost made the morning worth it. A series of pools was spread out in front of the trio. Steam filled the air, carrying a mild herbal scent. Tall columns held the domed part of the ceiling. The few skylights ensconced in the dome let diffuse daylight inside. The scattered beam gave a mystic sense to the visible swirls of steam rising from the varied pools. Very apropos for a space dedicated to meditation and growth. And to soothe muscle aches,


    Master Ranil led them to the largest pool, near the center of the room. They submerged themselves without further ado, making use of the benches carved in the waterbed. About half a dozen guards were already there, meditating¡ªor dozing off, to be more accurate. Once in the water, Myrkas braced himself, focusing on his inner Qi. His recent misadventure with a more potent medicinal bath had left him wary. He definitely preferred to avoid excreting any amount of blood and/or mysterious black sludge on his first day of training with the city guard. While he had not been teased so far, being younger than the next youngest by at least three years in addition to being a "nepotic non-recruit" ensured a good ribbing was coming the boy''s way. Myrkas expected that the "throwing not-peanuts at Master Ranil''s disciple" game would not be enough to assuage the group''s thirst for teasing, whether in good humour or mean-spirited. He did not want to add "unexplained dirt coming out of his pores on his first day" to their ammunition.


    Hence, to prevent such a shameful display, Myrkas poured his will into circulating his Qi and absorbing the energy surrounding him. He spent his first minutes in the bath oblivious to his comrades, too absorbed was he in observing his inner energies and making sure he was not fated for a repeat in grossness.


    A useless fear as it turned out. The Qi contained in this bath was much more gentle than the Piercing Jade Grass one. The difference did not warrant any comparison. The Piercing Jade energy, as its name implied, had attacked Myrkas'' very cells, scouring his being of any "impurities", whatever that meant. On the contrary, the Qi in this pool was incredibly placid, content to float there, waiting for anyone to assert their will at it. It was almost too easy to grab. But much harder to direct. It felt like molasse, sticky and hard to manoeuvre. If someone had sworn the energy came from an old, lazy ox, Myrkas would have believed it. The Qi had immense inertia, resisting motion and absorption: enduring Myrkas'' will.

 21.2 Arc 2: A Wild Training Arc Appeared

    "Master Ranil, what exactly is this bath? The Qi is odd," the boy asked while absently petting the bunny plastered to his chest, the animal clearly afraid of needing to swim any more than strictly necessary. Myrkas had not even known rabbits could swim before that day.


    "Can sense Qi already hein kid? I should have known," replied Ranil. "But shouldn''t you tell me what''s in it? Aren''t you the baby alchemist? It''s harder when it''s not one of your uncle''s right? This one is pretty basic. A staple of city guard training halls all over the province, if not the empire. It''s made to be hard to mess up. To be beneficial even if one has abysmal talent to cultivate. Or is just too lazy to do so."


    Master Ranil said the last part with a sneer directed at the two guards snoring in the corner. After a short sigh, he continued.


    "I''ll give you a hint kid, so you can tell Koriss I''m actually helping your studies. Maybe he''ll give me a discount next time. This bath helps in two ways mostly: it has mild healing properties and provides some body cultivation, with increased endurance and general toughness as end results. Guess the ingredients and I am sure Koriss will be pleased. He might reward you, and you will share, of course. Only right I get something as I provided you with this wonderful learning opportunity."


    Myrkas allowed himself to glare at his Master for exactly half a second before refocusing on the bath. He could do this. This felt like an almost reasonable challenge, for once. The boy had become aware of a number of common and less common alchemical ingredients by learning at his uncle''s side. The bath waters could not hide anything too fancy if the borderline run-down city guard was using it liberally. And the list of cheap, useful, Qi-filled reagents was not that long. Especially those that were plentiful enough to supply not only Piercing Jade Valley but the entire Province! And so Myrkas concentrated. He "tasted" the energy and its subtleties hidden behind the overwhelming platitude. It was a heavy type of Qi. Easy to touch but not to move. Something Earth-based it felt like.


    The boy fell deeper in his meditation. He observed the heavy energy as it slowly seeped through his skin. Only a small amount passed through further, with most of the Qi stopping skin deep. Only a trickle travelled deeper, passing through his muscles to join his own silvery Qi amongst his blood. What passed through felt different, dark, deep, and calm, like a cold morning sea, at rest between tides.


    "Soothing Seaweed, of course!" Myrkas murmured, to no one in particular.


    It only made sense. Almost all healing concoctions contained some part of the gentle seaweed. It was the main export of the Allrin Empire''s most recent conquest, the Archipelago of Nihinn. The cold ocean stream passing between the southwestern tip of the continent and the former Nihinn Nation''s main island cradled the growth of the magical herb. A significant portion of imperial scholars and politically inclined people suspected that the Empire''s Light had fallen on Nihinn mostly to secure the supply of Soothing Seaweed. Not that it mattered as the islands had been assimilated over three years ago now. But enough political thoughts. Myrkas had an alchemical problem to "solution"!


    The Soothing Seaweed was obvious, in retrospect. Myrkas could discern its gentle healing balm now that he paid proper attention. It quieted inflammation and accelerated natural healing most softly. A true miracle herb, well worth its cheap-ish price. Totally worth a conquest, according to Myrkas'' young opinion. But the seaweed did not explain the heavy Earth-based sensation that predominated in this particular medicinal bath.


    The dark, brownish-yellow Qi did not penetrate far into the boy''s body. It was stuck in his dermis, seemingly too dense and heavy to travel any further. On closer observation, the Qi was indeed toughening his skin, rendering it more resilient. The boy could feel it resonate and assimilate even more on each "harder" and "stronger" of his mantra. On those beats, some more of his silvery-white Qi left his vessels and mixed with the bath''s derived energies to improve his outmost layer. It was wonderful. He could feel himself getting literally tougher. No wonder body cultivation was so popular. If all one needed was to train, bathe, and let the Qi settle in it made sense most people did not bother with anything further. This was much easier than meditating under a tree, at risk of a wayward bee attack. Much faster too, if he compared the amount of Qi his skin absorbed versus the one he was able to collect, transform, and retain with his breath.


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    Myrkas was unfortunately still releasing over fifty percent of the ambient Qi he converted with his breathing technique and his mantra. While it did not travel far from him, it still felt like a waste. So much of his silvery-white Qi had to be inhaled more than once to be properly absorbed and stored in his middle core. So inefficient. With inevitable losses to the atmosphere.


    ...and to a pesky white rabbit who was nestled in his neck, breathing in his exhaled air. Stealing his painstakingly converted Qi. The sneaky little thief. It explained why Snow always insisted on meditating with him. She was not encouraging him, she was stealing his labour!


    "How dare you, Snow! All this time you''ve been sneaking away my Qi. Using me as your own portable formation. Your convenient Qi-converter!"


    The rabbit in question looked almost contrite, then smug, then contrite again. She opened her pink eyes wide and bumped Myrkas on the nose. She then proceeded to adorably groom herself, as if no other excuse or explanation was required for this break of trust, And without moving one iota, continuing to partake in Myrkas'' exhaled silvery-white Qi.


    The boy was so shocked, so flabbergasted he did not think about how arguing one-sidedly with his bunny would look like. Undisguised mirth could be seen in Ranil''s eyes, while two nearby youths were watching the unlikely duo with interest. The two teens were clearly intrigued by their senior officer''s disciples, though they dared not interrupt.


    Oblivious, Myrkas glared at the wet rodent until he was satisfied. It did not matter that much in the end. He could share his awesome custom Qi with his senior sister. It wasn''t like he was guaranteed to absorb what he exhaled if she did not breathe it in. He could sense the losses in the air. The amount his small rabbit was stealing was only a fraction of his overall losses. Better to figure out how to improve his efficiency than to start meditating alone. Meditation was boring enough with fluffy company, Myrkas did not want to see how much more boring it could get while feeling lonely.


    A last crack at the "Earthly" ingredient then the boy would purely concentrate on his recuperation. The day was not over after all. He closed his eyes and dived deeper, trying to find the hidden secrets, the aspects covered by the overwhelming "toughness" present. To decipher hints of their make-up. The boy metaphorically "tasted" long grasses, the shine of bronze, and motherly nurture in the Qi''s depths. It was apparent in the way it was feeding his skin, a little his muscles, and promoting some growth. In contre part, the most abundant flavour was an aftertaste of ashes, of cooled embers with the chalky taste of rocks. But with a smooth feel, not very gritty.


    And then it clicked. The answers came to Myrkas with a sudden inspiration. Bronze Bison Milk and Fresh Pale Basalt. No, not Bronze Bison Milk, way too rare and expensive. The lesser spiritual beasts were wild and hard to contain. Too "spirited" for this placid Qi. More chances for it to be milk from Hybrid Bronze Cows. The well-domesticated hybrid breed was far removed from their wilder ancestors by now. It was rare to find a "true" hybrid nowadays, the lineage diluted with the years. But still, the bovines were highly prized for their Qi-filled milk and strong leather.


    Similarly, Fresh Pale Basalt made the most sense as the main component of this widespread bath. The rock issued from recently cooled lava was easy to find and contained moderate amounts of Earth-based Qi. It was a tough and resilient stone, often used in permanent formations or in powdered form to add stability to a concoction.


    Satisfied with his deduction, Myrkas could not wait to share his thoughts with his uncle. He smiled. They would finally have something new to discuss at dinner. It was so rare they found common ground outside of the laboratory''s happenings. For once, Myrkas would bring a new avenue of discussion instead of following up on the alchemy lesson of the day.


    While many other reagents were undoubtedly needed to complete the bath water formula, the boy stopped his musings there. He ran a hand through his hair, wetting the curls that had fallen into his eyes. The three main ingredients were a good start. The rest would come later. For the moment, he had a more urgent issue to deal with, namely to fix his indecent Qi losses from his meditation technique. There lay the key to improving his rating by that difficult Assessor.

 22.1 Arc 2: A Wild Training Arc Appeared

    Myrkas watched as his preciously converted Qi escaped his lungs and mixed with the surrounding steam. The boy did not have much time left in his mid-day break to figure out how to gather and retain Qi more efficiently. He did hope to garner the start of a solution at least before his gruelling training started again.


    Now that he wasn''t so focused on preventing a biological disaster or figuring out the waters'' make-up, Myrkas relaxed fully into the liquid warmth. The healing water felt heavenly on his bruised and tired flesh. He basked in the moment for a time, enjoying the weightless sensation. It made the morning exercises almost worth it. Almost.


    He kept on meditating, with the ambient Qi readily entering his lungs. His dantian converted it faster than ever. Myrkas observed as the varied colours and waves transformed into his own silvery-white brand. A mesmerizing sight. But not enough to make the boy forget his new goal: to keep it all inside!


    If only he knew how to cultivate his Qi-plane. It would make sense for it to absorb and store Qi more readily than his physical body. But his gates were still locked and Myrkas was wary of trying to open them on his own. Better to wait for when he was able to manipulate his inner Qi with gracious ease. So he tried again to accelerate the whirlpool between his heart and lungs. It worked a bit, but not much. The suction effect was hard to improve upon. Myrkas needed constant attention to expand his willpower on his core to attain and maintain the next level of rotation. Otherwise, his Qi threatened to spill out of his core. The boy had to keep the pressure, to crush and concentrate his energies. To keep everything centred.


    It was beyond exhausting, mentally speaking. A few minutes resulted in Myrkas sweating abundantly. This method might do in the long-term but it was too slow. Myrkas wanted more Qi now. He did not want to wait for his dantian''s capacity to slowly grow over time. He needed more power sooner to survive whatever Master Ranil had in store for him. And to keep ahead of Snow. It would not do to lag behind his rabbit. She might become a true spiritual beast before he stepped beyond the Qi Gathering stage!


    If his dantian had trouble taking more in, Myrkas would just have to store Qi elsewhere. His other dantians were prime candidates, of course. However, the youth feared messing himself up if he changed too much there. After some internal debate, he had concluded that the red dot in his lower core looked like bad news. He did not want to thoughtlessly spark whatever was hidden there. Its dark red colour looked ominous. Myrkas feared it might even hide a "villain''s back story." Better to let it be. To keep it quiet and hidden away. To let devils sleep under their seals.


    His upper dantian, situated in his head behind his glabella, came with a different kind of risk. That core was awfully close to his brain and was said to be the most direct path to the soul. Basically, it was super dangerous to mess with it. What if Myrkas injured his brain by overloading his upper dantian with Qi? Or what if he disrupted his cerebral blood flow? Those were too important to risk. The boy did not want any chance of wasting this life by becoming an empty meat bag, a human vegetable.


    It was smarter to focus on his body. To get his Qi to reinforce and improve his overall body cultivation. A stronger, tougher physical self was never wasted. It would help him survive and endure everything this life could throw at him. The first step to protect himself and his loved ones. A sure way to never feel powerless ever again.


    Reinforcing himself was easier said than done. Myrkas did not exactly hold an easy-to-follow instruction manual, complete with pictograms and readily accessible example videos. In a predictable manner, asking for help for this new endeavour did not cross the boy''s mind. He must have been too taken by his self-imposed task. Too enthusiastic at this new glimpse of power to stop and really think about the smartest thing to do. On how to best use the resources at his disposal. Sometimes, eager enthusiasm could act as an inadvertent blindfold.


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    Myrkas tried to increase the amount of his Qi circulating through his vascular system. Speeding up the cycle was possible, but like accelerating his whirlpool, it required too much mental effort to be sustainable for a prolonged period. Next, the boy sent a thicker stream of Qi down his blood vessels. As some naturally leaked out through the cycle, Myrkas thought this would improve his absorption overall. His whirlpool would take more from his lungs if a larger amount was diverted out at all times. He should be fine as long as he did not empty his core by mistake...


    This method ended up being promising. It did improve his converted-Qi retention rate by a fraction, or so Myrkas thought. The only, minor problem was the strain the added amount of Qi put on his vasculature. His arteries, veins, and capillaries were not made to carry such large amounts. They were not meridians, Myrkas realized. He could not will them to transform instantly. He had tried, of course, but it did not work. It would take a lot longer before he was able to push much more energy down his physical vessels. And a self-induced burst blood vessel sounded like one of the most idiotic things one could do in the pursuit of power and immortality. What a lame epitaph it would be: "Died by a self-inflicted ruptured aneurysm, here rests a deluded fool."


    During his experiments, Myrkas had noticed another issue. The "tough-healing Qi," with its dull, darkish yellow colour, was settling into his skin before having the time to mix with Myrkas'' own. Some did, but not most. It might not be a problem per se, but the youth did not like it. Once mixed, the bath''s Qi became lighter, shinier, and sparkling. A much nicer result in terms of aesthetics, and likely every other aspect too by fantasy logic. Those energies also seem to better mesh with Myrkas'' being, as if he was truly appropriating the Qi instead of passively being changed by it. Instead of weight settling in his skin, the improved yellow Qi felt like a new layer of protective flesh, entirely his own. Myrkas did not wish to be weighed down by external Qi, as placid as it was. He had no control over the bath''s energies, unlike his silvery Qi.


    Unacceptable. The boy could not, would not let himself be suppressed by external Qi, even if it made his skin a touch tougher. He had to integrate it all, make it his own, and bend all available energies to his will. Only through discipline and dedication could he ever reach the highest peak of cultivation and personal power! Myrkas would climb the True Mountain, no shortcut necessary!


    The answer was simple in theory: more of his own Qi needed to reach the upper layers of his skin. Myrkas worried something bad would happen if he let the sluggish yellow Qi alone in his dermis for too long. He did not know, and he did not want to find out. Better to aim to convert it all as quickly as possible.


    The boy needed more Qi out of his dantian. If adjusting the flow itself was an inconvenient option, then he would make new reservoirs. Qi would spend longer outside his core and these new pools¡ªmore like puddles¡ª could head start the "outside Qi" assimilation process, He would start small though. Start in the place where he had the best control in his entire body, where his will was changed into actions the easiest. He chose his favourite finger: his right thumb. Trained with countless hours of gaming in his past life, his right thumb was the prime target for this new experiment.


    The young cultivator focused inward. He narrowed his "inner vision" to the wanted digit and took a second to think: where should he put this new reservoir of Qi? The base of his thumb, with its nice amount of muscle? The joint below his nail? Ultimately, Myrkas decided to try for a small pool only at the very tip of his finger. It would hopefully minimize the damage if he ended up blowing his finger. A fingertip should be easy to regrow in a magical universe. Right? Sure, he had seen some missing limbs while wandering in the streets, but a missing finger, a tiny finger piece really was wholly different. And Myrkas was a cultivator. His fate would be different, for sure. No need to worry about maiming himself indefinitely...


    Myrkas followed his Qi, the scintillating energy travelling along his arteries, capillaries, and then veins before heading back to his heart. A lot of his silvery energy was already seeping through towards his skin at the tip of his finger. Only logical, considering how highly vascularized that area was. The boy grasped the silvery-white Qi with his metaphysical hands¡ªhe did not know how to describe it any better¡ªand attempted to create an offshoot right below his nail bed.

 22.2 Arc 2: A Wild Training Arc Appeared

    The process was hard, harder than expected. Myrkas had thought himself not that bad at internal Qi manipulation. He had been wrong. Handling Qi away from his dantian ended up being infinitely more complex. The feeling of trying to grasp smoke was back with a vengeance. His Qi felt wispy and elusive, only too happy to keep with the flow of his blood. It did not want to be diverted elsewhere.


    The boy changed strategy. He tried to grab the whole strand of his Qi. To his pleased surprise, he managed to keep a hand on a whole third of it. It wiggled and required constant attention, but it was in his hands, metaphysically speaking. A direct subject to his will. With patience and care, Myrkas slowly guided the small strand outside of his arteriole. He needed to dig and drill through something¡ªan unknown substance to the boy¡ªto create the tiny passageway needed to bypass his capillary bed and tunnel through to the venule on the other side.


    The task done, Myrkas laid back and opened his eyes. He was panting, breathless. He had even dropped his mantra while concentrating on his thumb. Creating a brand new space in his body to store his Qi was much, much more gruelling than he had thought. Almost as if this was not what he should be doing. But no, his theory made sense. He needed to keep more Qi in his body and increase his storage capacity directly. This would help to convert external Qi and reinforce his body. It had to be something good. He was certain. He had convinced himself. The difficulty only acted as a barrage to the unworthy. As with most things in cultivation, risks and difficulty brought the best rewards, guaranteed.


    So the boy carried on. He plunged back deep inside himself. The diverted flow was well flowing, not doing much otherwise inside his thumb tip. Maybe it helped to convert a little more of the bath water Qi but it was difficult to quantify. The amounts were too small to give an accurate idea of the changed efficacy of his natural Qi conversion. It helped some, maybe, possibly.


    It clearly needed more Qi. The goal was to make a reservoir, after all, not just an extra pathway. Myrkas pushed on the walls of the offshoot, expanding them in the middle. He carved the space, dragging his Qi along. He persevered while sweating buckets, with his fingertip turning warm and pink¡ªoddly¡ªunder his efforts. Time passed, and the boy completed his project. He now had a new Qi path with a bubble of Qi at the tip of his thumb.


    However, the silvery-white energy filling the newly-made "pool" did not flow nicely. The energy on the side of the bubble was stagnant, lacking vigour. It seemed wrong, as if Qi was improved by motion. As if it craved movement. Furthermore, a minimal amount of scintillating energy seeped through the tiny pool''s mysterious membrane. Myrkas'' offshoot had created turbulence, impeding the normal circulation and conversion, it seemed.


    Something to fix and to fix right this instant. If Qi wanted to move, Myrkas would make it more. The boy did not need to look far to find a solution. If a whirlpool was good enough for his middle dantian, it was good enough for this new puddle he was making.


    A bout of dizziness passed through the youth before he could act on his idea. He had stopped his inner mantra again. His breathing had turned ragged. He took a needed moment to calm his racing heart and to steady his respiration. No point in improving his periphery if his core got derailed in the process. Myrkas took a few slow, deep breaths and then looked at his dantian.


    The small ball of solidified Qi forming in its middle had deviated a little, getting off center. It conflicted with the whirlpool''s swirl, resulting in disordered waves that should not be. Myrkas worried the marble of concentrated Qi would flow down his heart and block something, likely killing him. Blood blockages were not a desirable thing usually.


    With a nudge from his willpower, Myrkas replaced it where it belonged, in the perfect center of his core. The act was so much easier in his core compared to the faraway location of the tip of his first right digit. Myrkas would have laughed at it if he had even one iota left of attention to spare. A last spin and squeeze on his dantian to ensure everything was in place and Myrkas could relax again, A crisis had been averted.


    A few more deep breaths and he was back to his thumb. This cultivation thing was so exhausting, that Myrkas had to slow himself down, worried he would mess up again in his haste to finish. His moment of inattention confirmed the need to resolve his Qi stagnation issue. Dull, caked on energies had accumulated on the bubble''s sides while Myrkas was fixing his dantian. It looked bad and felt plain wrong, in all honesty.


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    The boy went to work again, carefully spinning his Qi from the afferent opening to the efferent one. He fashioned a sort of infinite screw with his will to carry his Qi along. In the process, he reinforced the walls and shaped the new reservoir to be more tube-like. He remembered that distended and round balloons were easier to burst than cylindrical ones. As he did prefer to keep his fingertip intact, he concluded that it was a better shape to aim for.


    His teeth gritted unconsciously while he worked. A frown marred his young face. If Myrkas had been aware of his surroundings even a little, he may have noticed how he had become the center of attention of the four people closest to him. Snow, obviously, was worryingly pawing at him. She lapped the drops of blood coming out of his nose as it slowly dripped. The two teenage guard trainees, who shared the large pool with them, wore worried frowns. They alternated staring at Myrkas, Master Ranil, and each other in saccades. They, however, did not dare disturb the boy or his Master with pesky questions or verbal expressions of doubt and worries.


    Master Ranil, for his part, seemed pensive more than anything else. While some might have detected a hint of concern passing through his face, the man remained calm and relaxed. He did not appear like he was going to stop his human disciple anytime soon. Whatever hare-brained idea Myrkas had come up with, Suna Ranil was going to let him see it through. As long as the boy did not die, Koriss would forgive him. Hopefully.


    And so the young cultivator completed his task under watchful eyes. He had had to tweak the afferent and efferent pathways to integrate them with his desired flow but it had been worth it. His Qi spiralled flawlessly through his newly shaped cylinder, removing all stagnant energies in the process. The silvery-white energy seeped a touch more from this contraption now that the Qi was in motion. It definitely increased the exchange rate between the yellow Qi that had entered Myrkas'' skin and the boy''s own energies. Success! Myrkas'' thumb had transformed into a super thumb! The best thumb ever. The ultimate Thumb''s Up! The boy smiled brightly. He had forgotten where he was through it all.


    Myrkas did not know what the long-term results would be but he was optimistic. He could feel an absolute increase in the amount of Qi circulating in his body without a constant need for him to "manually" speed it up. And he was convinced he was able to absorb and retain a fraction more of the magical energy with each of his breaths. His next step was clear: repeat the technique on all his fingertips, knuckles, and major joints. Myrkas extrapolated that the increased flow in those areas would help reinforce them further. He had an inkling usual body cultivation was more focused on skin, bones, and muscles than anything else. Much easier to target most likely. This way, he would minimize pretty common weak points. The boy was a genius, he was sure of it!


    Satisfied, Myrkas submerged himself in the water to wipe away his sweat and trace amounts of blood. Only to resurface quickly after being the victim of a bestial bite. Once back above the healing liquid, strong hindlegs battered the boy to express a bunny''s great displeasure at being dunked underwater without notice. An angry rabbit was a fearsome beast indeed!


    "Sorry Snow! I was lost in thoughts. Don''t be mad," Myrkas said as he scratched her behind the ears. "I''ll give you extra pansies. And cabbage, a whole head just for you! I''ll even convince Serni we absolutely need a large patch of spiritual clover below my Sorrowed Silver Willow. I promise. Forgive me please, oh merciful Senior Sister?"


    The living pile of wet fur in Myrkas'' arms glared at him a little before mellowing out. Finally taking notice of the other humans around him, Myrkas blushed profusely. It was not the most noticeable with the boy''s tanned skin but it denoted his embarrassment nonetheless. It was as if none of them had ever needed to apologize to a non-human being before. Myrkas was lucky it was Snow he had had to apologize to. Lilac would not have been appeased so easily, especially when her precious fur was concerned.


    His Master was frowning again, likely jealous Snow had chosen to bathe with Myrkas instead of him. The boy had to maintain a careful watch. Master Ranil might truly steal Snow one day. Even if she did not seem to mind, she was still Myrkas'' rabbit. He was the one who first chose her amongst all the other available rabbits. A few sleepovers here and there might be acceptable but no more! Myrkas then proceeded to hug her tighter and diligently pet and scratch all her favourite spots, so she remembered who loved her best!


    "You done now kid? Had fun wasting all your willpower during break? You know there is no need to assimilate all the Qi at once right? It''s made to settle and get slowly converted over time. Oh well, I guess you''ll train willpower endurance too this afternoon then. Come along, we wasted enough time," said Suna Ranil as he exited the pool. "Time for more training!"

 23.1 Arc 2: A Wild Training Arc Appeared

    The day could not end soon enough.


    The afternoon had actually started quite nicely, with a light meal of stewed tomatoes and lentils with an over-easy on top, the whole served over a small handful of white rice. The lukewarm green tea on the side had not been the worst Myrkas had ever drank. The common beverage had done its job of helping the meal go down as well as providing a little pep in his step for the second half of his busy day.


    Myrkas'' mild euphoria after his intensive meditation and impromptu internal Qi manipulation session did not last long. The boy had barely kept his knees from buckling under his meagre weight on his way to lunch. At least they had not headed back to the running track after. Myrkas was not sure what he might have done otherwise. He probably would have tumbled down and begged for mercy. Probably. Almost certainly.


    Instead, the trio had reached a large, flat square of off-white stones, at the edge of the main courtyard. Close to two dozen guards were already waiting in orderly lines under the scorching summer sun. For once, the men stood only in their matching light green robes, with the protective pieces of their uniforms piled on the sides. Some had added tied weights to their wrists and ankles, but not most. The two teenagers from earlier in the baths were arrayed beside the only empty square plate left, in the last row, just off the middle. All indicated this was Myrkas'' designated spot.


    The boy in question took his place without waiting to be told. He tried to incur as little annoyance as possible. He did not wish to find out what a truly annoyed Master Ranil had in store for him.


    The scarred man walked to the raised platform at the front of the crowd. Once he climbed it, Master Ranil divested himself of all his clothing except for his pants and boots. He also put on the biggest, heaviest-looking weights Myrkas had seen so far onto his wrists, ankles, head, and waist.


    The boy gulped, throat dry. It appeared he himself did not need extra weights. Myrkas kept his lips tightly sealed, in case it was a small mishap on his Master''s part. Not everyone present had them anyway. At least, it did not look like running was on the menu this time.


    "Good afternoon children!" started his Martial Master while facing the small crowd. "Rejoice, for my first personal disciples have joined us today. Yue, Rivak, you are next to the kid on purpose. He will suck. Your job is to not get distracted by his incompetence. But also, to pay him enough attention to correct his stance when he gets it so wrong it becomes painful to watch. Remember this lesson the next time you are on patrol. I don''t want to have to tell you twice."


    The two on either side of Myrkas shifted in place, visibly embarrassed. There was an obvious story there, Myrkas noted. Maybe something to share and commiserate about together. To bond in sympathy over their shared suffering under his Master. The duo did not look that much older than him. They might become friends! His first real friends as Martine did not count. She was more like a pesky little cousin, Myrkas assumed, as he never had cousins before.


    "Before we start, Yue go get the lightest set for Myrkas. Yes kid, I saw you thinking you were getting away with it. That smile betrayed you. I see all and hear all, remember."


    The taller teen left at once and quickly came back with a set of weights. While undoubtedly smaller than Yue''s own, the added weight was quite significant on Myrkas'' small and skinny frame. It felt like putting on shackles, as if Myrkas had to physically pay the price for his desire for power. A spiritual sacrifice of his liberty to grow in strength. A counterbalance to the freedom higher levels of cultivation would afford him.


    A slight tremor filled Myrkas as he snapped in place the last of the six weights. A frenzied connection, hard to describe in words. A quote was forming in his mind, filled with a profound meaning.


    "With great power comes great..."


    Before the boy could complete his thought, Master Ranil started to speak again. Interrupted, the strange sensation left Myrkas, leaving only a feeling of great loss behind, like a treasure had been within reach and then swallowed by a merciless wave. It wasn''t rational, but it brought him to tears. Which he willed not to fall with his entire drained willpower. Nothing good would come from crying during training, whatever the reason. This truth was etched deep inside him, stored in his dark red core.


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    "For the rest of you bastards, it''s as usual," continued Master Ranil. "A reminder for the kid''s benefit: we go through stances¡ªKatas¡ªwith a fifteen-minute break between the hours. You all get one cup of water at break, no exception. I don''t yet feel like killing today. So don''t make me. Your other cup per break is one of two: the good stuff for the three best in the previous hour or the horse piss. And yes Myrkas, the good stuff is the one you tasted earlier. Don''t think you''ll get another sip any time soon unless you get Koriss to lower his price.


    "As always, I won''t force the horse piss down your throat. If you want to stick to water be my guest. Anything else is a waste of my time. Yes Myrkas, even you. I won''t force a mule to drink. And yes Snow, you get water and horse piss too, a full cup of each. I won''t show favouritism yet. Gotta wait at least a nonat so those wretched beings glimpsed a fraction of your talent first."


    The rabbit huffed at Master Ranil''s last comment. She had clearly expected some senior disciple''s privileges. She quickly climbed to Myrkas'' shoulder, quite intent on participating in the exercise in her own way.


    "One last thing, anyone who faints gets punished. Myrkas, that means I get to keep Snow hostage every time you fall. If you faint more than once, I get your other rabbit too. You have been warned."


    A few guards turned around to glance at the small intruder in their midst. Some snickered, happy the attention of their second Lieutenant was taken away from them momentarily. Myrkas kept a stoic face. He knew some mockery would be thrown his way. It was in the nature of groups to band against their weakest link. Especially in groups made of insecure and weak-willed individuals. Some posturing to make themselves feel better when faced with their inadequacy.


    That''s what Myrkas told himself. He would let those snickers roll off his back. He''d show tell all! Survive this gruelling training and grow stronger than even his Master. Be harder, better, faster, stronger than the lot of them. He had lived through worst. Died through worst. And he was still there.


    The boy tried not to think too much about his "deaths." He was not sure what it meant, or how or why he had survived and gained memories and a self from a past life. Better to focus on the present. He could always revisit the question when he understood the world¡ªworlds?¡ªbetter.


    Myrkas copied his Master and comrades'' movements. They were working through slow stances, heavy on precise foot placement and controlled weight changes. From time to time, the men exploded with a raised arm or leg and a shout, breaking the monotony. The emphasis was on defence, focused on dodges, parries, and deflection. A slow dance that made Myrkas'' muscles tremble under the strain.


    The boy was sweating bullets under the harsh sun. He nearly fell a few times. The movements were unfamiliar to him. Despite the low cadence, it remained a challenge to keep up with the stances. Moving in such slow motion, with added weights to burden him, ended up being much harder than expected. While this routine looked like it would only help in dodging a venerable grandma tortoise, each motion required precision, strength, and endurance. None of which Myrkas possessed in abundance. He was panting, muscles shaking, doing his utmost to barely keep up with the group. Every single move was torture in its slowness, his young limbs begging to rush through the exercises and be done with it.


    This time, Snow''s presence wasn''t as welcomed. She kept to her perch on his head, in a precarious equilibrium. Her weight, though small, added nonetheless. The boy did not know what exactly she was doing there, but he dared not disturb her. Nothing good would come from bothering Master Ranil''s obvious favourite disciple.


    Myrkas had an equally hard time maintaining his meditative mantra. It was arguably easier than in the morning. However, the fact he had to learn all the stances and their sequence was the biggest hurdle in his attempt to achieve the mystical state of physical meditation. Though not being hit by frequent not-peanuts helped a lot. The occasional one thrown by his two immediate neighbours did not count. Those were almost gentle, meant not to be dodged but to correct his form. The boy was actually grateful for their attention as they had helped to prevent more than one fall.


    The promised break could not arrive soon enough.


    A sip of water sounded divine under the heat. A pause in the shade to recover some. And a recovery elixir. The taste could not be that bad. Myrkas knew most of all ingredients his uncle used. He processed them. There was no actual urine used anywhere. No reason for a concoction to taste of it. The boy was convinced his Master exaggerated to scare him a little. To mess with his disciple and see Myrkas'' reaction. What''s more, Master Ranil would never let Snow ingest anything truly noxious.


    The break arrived, finally. Myrkas was convinced he had lost half his total water weight in sweat. His clothes were not even that wet, the sun ensuring his water evaporated quickly once it exited his skin. The boy was deeply thankful for his darker complexion. He did not want to add sunburns to his growing list of pain and discomfort. He refused to even think about potential skin cancer. They had magic, they should magic the risk away.

 23.2 Arc 2: A Wild Training Arc Appeared

    The boy lost no time to divest himself of his added weight as well as his robe and shirt. He also dedicated a few seconds to thank any higher entity nearby that they exercised outside. The infrequent breeze remained the only salvation against heat stroke and an olfactory shut-down. Almost two dozen men doing stances in summer did not smell good. Myrkas thought he was now able to differentiate the special stink of testosterone from regular body odour.


    It was the type of knowledge Myrkas would have preferred to never learn. Male musk was definitely not one of his favourite scents. It almost made him angry. Some primal competitive instinct perhaps.


    Parched, the boy crawled as fast as he could to the blessed water table. Ever a good friend, he settled Snow in the shade with her cups before grabbing his two. He greedily drank every single drop of his water cup as soon as he had it in hand. The life-giving liquid tasted heavenly on his tongue. Water had never tasted better. He could feel his very cells filling back up with the fluid, his skin gaining back its bounciness with his replenished moisture.


    Without thinking, Myrkas took a large sip of his second cup. Only to spit it out as soon as the flavour registered. The concoction tasted vile. No other word could adequately describe it. It was infinitely worse than expected. "Diluted horse piss" undersold how disgusting it was. Diluted horse piss mixed with week-old garbage juice was a more apt descriptor. Myrkas hardly believed his uncle had made this clearly demonic elixir. He was not a mean man. Nowhere villainous enough to come up with "this."


    A horrible aftertaste had stuck in the boy''s mouth. The taste itself felt sticky, like the foul liquid had left a film of nastiness on its way out. All to nag Myrkas with his avoidable mistake of fully drinking his plain water first. The boy could not help his dismayed expression.


    What a fate! he thought as he looked at his nearly full cup of Qi-enhanced concoction.


    The boy registered the amused smirks and outright bouts of laughter of his current compatriots. Like Myrkas, most guards had also selected to continue on with as little clothes as possible. Unlike Myrkas, however, the vast majority preferred to refrain from partaking in the provided elixir. The emotional damage it gave overwhelmed its value as a weak cultivation resource.


    "What is one more drop of Qi in my inner ocean," they said, almost in unison.


    Only the three lucky¡ªor meritorious they would insist¡ªbastards chosen by Master Ranil benefited from the delicious, reinvigorating Clear Refreshing Water the boy had tasted earlier in the day. The three bastards savoured their short-lived victory over their comrades. They slowly drank their prize in full view of all and smacked their lips with appreciative hums. It was as if they did not fear any future retaliation. As if they welcomed a challenge to their triumph. The most driven guards watched with gritted teeth, gulping down the vile elixir. One could detect their silent promises to beat the three in the coming hour. The air vibrated with their overt intent.


    Snow had taken a smarter approach than her foolish junior brother. She had plunged her head at once in her plain water before drinking frequent sips of the foul concoction. By alternating cups, she was able to finish her portion of liquid cultivation aid in no time, then leisurely sipped the rest of her plain water.


    Myrkas refused to be beaten by his rabbit. He would never recover if his furry senior sister became stronger than him. Spirit Beasts existed in this world, and while Myrkas had no clue how a mundane animal became one if one could achieve it, it was Snow.


    Determined, the boy looked at his cup like a great foe to be conquered. A drop might not be worth it for the surrounding, weak-willed guards but Myrkas was different. He was made of sturdier materials. Or if not, he would remake himself stronger than all of them. Oceans were made of drops. The strength of a hurricane was proportional to its overall number of water droplets. Null should laugh at the power of one more drop!


    As he considered the best way to ingest the liquid, Myrkas decided to analyze its content. Maybe if he could decipher what was in it, it would seem less disgusting. One could hope. He took an average-sized sip this time, not wanting to prolong the experience any more than necessary. He also did not let the liquid linger in his mouth. His quest to discover the makeup of the elixir was not intriguing enough to warrant such torture,


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    Myrkas concentrated on the Qi released by the liquid going down his gullet. The taste was inordinately distracting but at least his self-imposed task made it easier to tolerate. The main "note" was highly reminiscent of ammonia, explaining its likeness to equine urine. Hidden under, Myrkas noticed a hint of overly ripe sweetness, similar to macerated fruits. Some very sweet fruits, like peaches or the large, round, and spiky ones that grew in the warmest places of the Empire. The precise name escaped Myrkas for the moment.


    Underlying it all, the boy denoted some more subtle flavours. Subsequent swallows help to identify them. Traces of yeast, fish, and peppercorn revealed themselves to Myrkas'' traumatized tongue. It was enough for him to know, with absolute certitude, what its main ingredient was. Myrkas had finally discovered the answer to a question that had puzzled him since he had started his alchemy apprenticeship. This, this foul cultivation and recovery aid was where the juice from the fermented Soothing Seaweed went.


    The six-month-long fermentation process was his uncle''s way of extracting the maximum potential from the lowest¡ªand cheapest¡ªquality soothing seaweed on the market. The fermented leaves themselves were rinsed and turned into a paste to be used in Koriss Hahkmir''s inexpensive topical healing products. Those were easily his bestsellers with civilians. He had a whole range to treat anything from arthritis to infections.


    Myrkas had wondered why he had to rinse the leaves before grounding them into a paste. It made little sense, as some of the precious Qi would wash away with the rinsing water. Sure, it did help the smell by a lot¡ªa definite advantage with marketing. But Myrkas had worried they were wasting some potential there. Same for the foul-smelling juice left in the earthen jars once the boy was done fishing out the leaves.


    A mystery solved. This was where the rinse water and the fermentation juice ended up. Down the most motivated city guards¡¯ throat. This was a case where the "risk"¡ªtaste-wise¡ªdid not increase the returns. The "diluted horse piss" provided only one-quarter to one-third of Qi and healing energies compared to a similar or even smaller amount of Clear Refreshing Water. A true shame, really. By Xianxia convention, it should have been a Supreme Elixir, a secret cheat for the favoured and bold. Not an unwanted consolation prize for the less talented or dedicated city guards in Piercing Jade Valley.


    Still, more Qi was more Qi. Cultivation resources were expansive and somewhat rare by definition. Myrkas would not waste this opportunity, even if it made him gag going down. And after, with its awful and slimy aftertaste. Hence the boy drank all his allotted elixir. Every single awful drop. His rabbit did the same.


    By the third break, Yue and Rivak, the youngest trainees after Myrkas, followed suit. The meagre amount of Qi headed straight to their muscles and bones, helping with the accumulated strain of the day. The energy restored just enough stamina for Myrkas to complete the afternoon without fainting once. A goddamn miracle. A heroic feat only achievable through pure grit and determination. A feat which made a few very happy and others quite grumbly, as Myrkas saw many coins change hands depending on whom had betted which way.


    The day ended without much fanfare. Tired, Myrkas dragged himself one last time to the series of cups holding both his salvation and his damnation. That last cup was the drop that made the vase overflow. This fourth cup of "horse piss" broke the boy''s carefully maintained stoic demeanour. He nearly broke into tears but managed to merely crumble on the ground, inwardly cursing his Master and fate.


    The youth fumed. Gone was his optimistic outlook. Any sincere gratitude towards receiving that elixir was impossible, as freely given as it was, The princely original main character did not have to subject himself to such foulness to advance. Of course not! That guy undoubtedly ingested the best of the best, carefully crafted for optimal taste and benefit. The imperial scion was showered in the finest cultivation resources, trained by the most talented Masters, all personally tailored to perfect his Imperial Path.


    Completely unfair, Myrkas sulked.


    He had to deal with a sadistically mischievous Master who derived may too much unabashed pleasure from watching his disciples suffer. The scarred man revelled in his subordinates'' disgusted faces as the few truly driven drank the "piss" down to improve their chance of advancement.


    Myrkas raged as the aftertaste lingered. He cursed his luck in not being a noble scion himself. And his lack of bloodline. And his lack of any other classic fantasy cheat to propel his growth. He cursed under his breath, vowing to himself to surpass that prince at any price, purely out of spite. This was his story now. Myrkas would become the most overpowered of his generation. No one else!

 24.1 Arc 2: A Wild Training Arc Appeared

    The first moon was rising in the sky as Myrkas lay unmoving on the training grounds. The boy had exhausted every ounce of energy he once possessed. He had no clue how he would get home, half convinced his Master would let him sleep right where he had collapsed before starting all over again at first light the next morning.


    Staying awake in and of itself was difficult. Snow urged him to move, cutely rubbing her nose against his smooth cheek. The boy could see the open pity in her light pink eyes. Pitied by his pet rabbit¡ªsorry, his respected senior Martial sister. Myrkas had fallen so low, literally and figuratively. The princely golden not-bastard did not have to suffer such insults, certainly. Another reason to be pissed at him. It still felt great to have a convenient scapegoat when his anger rose in his belly.


    Myrkas sighed at the end of his inner rant. He gave up on moving. This training compound should be safe enough to spend the night. Nirsa would maybe understand. At worst Ranil would get a lecture. Maybe that was for the best. Force the man to review his training program. And entertain Myrkas at the same time. Seeing his Master in hot water would be a balm on Myrkas'' spirit. A warranted retribution.


    The boy was already half-asleep when two pairs of hands grabbed his wrists and ankles. His body then lifted from the ground, suspended by his tired limbs. Through half-opened eyes, Myrkas glimpsed Rivak holding his ankles. He assumed Yue was the one in charge of his wrists.


    "Where to Sir? "Rivak asked.


    "The baths," Ranil answered. "Dump him in the Teal pool."


    "Are you certain, Sir? That one is quite harsh."


    "That''s Koriss Hakhmir''s nephew and alchemy apprentice. He''ll handle the Teal pool even if half-asleep if he has any desire to maintain any kind of face. Get him home once he''s coherent. The rabbit as well."


    The baths again. Good news at last. He could survive the baths. Not drowning was a worthy and achievable goal. The Teal pool would not be that bad. The boy''s guts told him. His homemade bloodbath had been worse than anything present in that building, Myrkas was convinced. His honour would stay intact, he promised himself.


    The two teens carried Myrkas'' dead weight without complaint. They undressed and rinsed the boy quickly, with the concerned tween having no strength left to protest.


    Then, as ordered, they promptly dumped Myrkas into the Teal pool. This particular bath was so named for its characteristic and eponymous hue. The vapours rising above it gave a sharp scent, with a hint of citrus to it. This receded pool was smaller than the others found around, barely big enough to accommodate two or three grown men, depending on their level of comfort with one another.


    "Do you think we should dip in with him? Make sure he doesn''t drown," Yue asked his long-time friend.


    "Are you crazy bro? That pool is reserved for officers for a reason. The Qi is too harsh, way too aggressive for newbies like us. We''ll keep watch from the light blue one and trust that Lieutenant Ranil won''t kill his very own disciple. And don''t you dare mention the rabbit. Rabbits can swim. She is perfectly fine where she is on the stairs. Lieutenant said to put her in the bath, she is in the bath, we don''t need to do anything further. If she dies it''s his problem not ours, see? The kid''s nose is back out, everything is fine."


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    Myrkas heard two dampened splashes before the room fell back into silence. He floated peacefully in the warm waters. The healing liquid gently flowed about his limbs, cradling his battered body.


    The boy''s tired mind valsed from one idea to the next. He was too drained to think deeply about anything. All he focused on was to breathe and float, on doing the best starfish impression he could.


    The water''s Qi rose, as if awakened, and went to work. The energies that reached Myrkas'' skin were the most aggressive he had been exposed to that day. The boy immediately understood why the two teens had preferred to leave him alone in this pool. The sensation this Qi inflicted was not exactly pleasant. But it was almost comforting with its familiarity. Indeed, it appeared the secret of the teal pool''s potency lay in its hint of Piercing Jade Grass Essence. A baby dose to say the least. Just a touch to help the ever-present Soothing Seaweed Qi penetrate deeper into hurt flesh.


    Myrkas basked in it. The green devil''s Qi prickled more than hurt him. It was nothing compared to his own "enhanced" medicinal baths. The tiny needles of green Qi pierced no deeper than his most superficial muscle layers. A few drops of blood might escape here and there but nothing significant. The boy even suspected the blood to come from his numerous bruises rather than to be a direct consequence of the Jade Grass Qi''s breach of his natural barriers. The minuscule holes allowed the deeper blue soothing energies to penetrate easily.


    The overall effect was blissful. Whatever else his uncle had added to the mix was working its magic. Myrkas felt the lactic acid being broken down and flushed out. He saw muscular micro tears and bony micro-fractures repaired in minutes. He sensed his body temperature coming down to normal, non-inflammatory levels. An amazing experience. Ten out of ten would recommend to a friend.


    So blissful Myrkas let himself become engrossed in his starfish impression. He was the best starfish. So good, that all four-year-old beginner swimmers should strive to emulate him. He floated perfected, a gold-star kind of starfish.


    Weren''t starfish also known for their regenerative properties? Myrkas thought so. He was actually pretty convinced. The idea rang a very large bell, The kind that needed three people to manually ring it. At worst, there most likely existed a sort of super-healing magic starfish in this universe. Most probable.


    Deciding to roll with it, Myrkas added his reliable mantra to his sea-life mimicry. He was the... hardest starfish? That did not fit well. Starfish were not hard per se. They had little spikes for defence of course, but not something one would truly call "hard." And the boy did not wish to grow spikes. Who knew how cultivation could change him? He liked hugs from certain, select people. Hurting them with spikes growing out of his skin was not part of his plans.


    Something else then, another concept to fold into his meditation. If this particular star-shaped animal recovered and regrew so well, it was for the explicit goal of survival. An ability developed to become able to survive almost anything, ensuring the individual starfish could start over again once safe. It made them the "hardest" survivors!


    Good enough for the moment. Better was easy. Myrkas embraced being a starfish. He extended his limbs as far as he could, pushing his belly slightly above water. He embodied the best starfish, an exemplar starfish. The very best regenerative starfish. A brilliant one!


    It recovered faster. Wounds would close under Myrkas eyes. Blood would stop flowing under a minute even for big cuts. The boy would be able to regrow his limbs before a carver had time to sculpt him a pegleg. Or a smith to forge him a hook. Especially while surrounded by water and seaweed, the home of the starfish.


    Finally, everything Myrkas would regrow would become stronger than ever. Grow from his injuries. Learn from his mistakes. Start anew but with old knowledge. Be ready to overcome what hurt him before. Each wound would become an opportunity to reforge his body. He would survive, recover, and grow stronger. Always.


    To ever transform into a better version of himself.

 24.2 Arc 2: A Wild Training Arc Appeared

    This "mantra refining process" took longer than it seemed for the boy. Throughout, Myrkas had become vaguely aware of himself resonating and absorbing the Soothing Seaweed Qi with greater ease. The more he improved upon his star-shaped sea-life metaphor, the easier his assimilation of the surrounding bath energies became. The Qi was pouring in, purifying and healing. The pinprick sensation intensified likewise, increasing from uncomfortable to mildly painful.


    The sun was well on its way down to rest for the night when Myrkas completed his visualization. That was when it happened. Tension had built around the boy. It was subtle, hard to notice to the non-initiated. The air and water vibrated with a pulsatile tremor, synchronized with the youth''s heartbeat. Myrkas'' thoughts settled.


    Unending improvement. To turn adversity and misfortune into strength, into power. Such was a worthy goal, an ideal to strive for, To rise above and return ever stronger, never admitting defeat. To survive and thrive, again and again until he transcended existence itself. Like this, Myrkas reached an understanding between every single core component of his being and the universe in all its layers. His newfound Truth resonated at large, causing subtle ripples in the fabric of the world.


    At once, Qi rushed inside the boy. It appeared from everywhere and nowhere at the same time, It came from deeper than his current place in the physical world. The gathering energies converged towards his middle dantian, storming his Qi pool. No, not a pool, a sea: his nascent sea of Qi. Where better for the most brilliant starfish to live than in a scintillating sea?


    The rush lasted less than a minute. By the end, the large amount of rushing Qi had vanished inside Myrkas'' yet developing middle core. His silvery-white whirlpool¡ªor nascent sea as it shall now be known¡ªhad not grown by much, surprisingly. Instead, the solidified marble of Qi settled in its middle had changed in quality, gaining in substance. It shined like a gemstone, with newfound markings faintly etched in its center, directly inside the gem-like Qi. Five thin arms, connected in the middle, forming a star spanning his entire core. It looked a lot like those famed star sapphires.


    Myrkas instinctively knew his core would not be as easily dislodged anymore. It was firmly planted in his dantian now, anchored deeper than the boy could see. A fundamental change had occurred with his revelation. He had materialized his Path, in a way. Confirmed his budding Dao. This step had brought him farther than ever on the road to Self-Improvement, Survival, and Rebirth. His core concepts cemented into his very being.


    The boy was dazed, his mind momentarily empty. The pool''s water felt weak now, depleted. The sun had set, its light replaced by fire from glass oil lamps perched on the central columns. Their glow melded with the rising steam, enveloping this rest area in warm shadows.


    Myrkas stood in the teal pool. His bath time was over. It was time to go home. His body did not hurt as much¡ªthank Heavens! However, he was still as bone-deep tired as before, able to stand only thanks to the water''s help and his own buoyancy. The boy half-walked and half-swam to the steep exit stairs. He grabbed Snow on the way, the rabbit happy to settle in his arms and lick some remnant droplets.


    As soon as he was out, Myrkas nearly fell. He had exhausted his stamina, went way beyond his meagre reserves. The walk, no, crawl home would be excruciating, no two-ways about it. He let out a loud sigh. He did not know if he should just give up and sleep somewhere on the training grounds. Some remaining guards might be nice enough to share a piece of bread, some jerky, and point him to a remote corner where he would not bother anyone. It might be better than to crawl home on his hands and knees. The boy was not convinced he could walk more than three steps without falling on his face.


    He was about to resign himself not to see his oh-so-comfortable bed, with its feather duvet and soft, fluffy pillows when an arm sneaked around his waist and helped him stand. Another came from his other side and took Snow from his arms, relieving him of her small but significant weight.


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    Yue and Rivak had come to his rescue, as promised.


    "Come on kid. Let''s get you home," said Rivak, the shortest of the two, from Myrkas'' side.


    "Let''s get him dressed in some spare clothes first, bro. Everything he wore today is beyond filthy now, and I don''t want the Lieutenant to blame us if it sours his relationship with the alchemist. I don''t want to know what he''ll do to us if we make him lose money."


    Yue shuddered as he said the last part. The taller teen quickly led them to the changing area, where the three young men dressed. Snow merely groomed herself while waiting, happy to ingest the remnants of her bath. Myrkas feared she may experience an "accident" on the way with the absorption of Piercing Jade Grass essence but refrained from making any comment. No use in spooking his would-be saviours for something that may not happen... Anyway, the bath water had contained so little, he was likely worried for nothing. Hopefully.


    "Hey kid," asked Rivak, "how exactly did you end up becoming the Lieutenant''s personal disciple? I gotta be honest with you, I''m not sure how smart a move that was. Right, bro?"


    This was the third strike. Myrkas did not know why, but he found the use of "bro" jarring coming out of the teens'' mouths. It sounded wrong, somehow, like something which should not happen in this universe. At odds with the overall aesthetics. He had heard it here and there earlier in the day between guards sharing a rank but had believed he heard wrong.


    Unable to let it be, Myrkas had to ask.


    "Why do you call each other ''bro?'' You don''t look like actual brothers."


    The two exchanged a glance before Rivak answered.


    "It''s for brothers-at-arms, broaas for short. But we say bro ''cause it sounds better. And the ''d'' is silent."


    "The ''d?'' What ''d?" the boy asked right back.


    "Exactly."


    The teens shared a smirk, to Myrkas'' complete confusion. The boy smelled a trap and was too tired anyway to waste brain power to ponder further. Avoiding the clear social pitfall, he opted to answer Rivak''s earlier question.


    "It kinda just... happened? Master Ranil arguably saved me one night. And then he brought me to get beaten up. Stuff happened and he convinced my uncle to let him take me as his disciple. To be honest, though, I think Master mainly wanted an excuse to pet Snow. And to watch me get beat up some more. He enjoys that, I''m sure you can relate."


    The young guards exchanged doubful looks. Rivak went as far as to raise a single eyebrow in question. Silence fell in the room, the two looking expectantly at Myrkas. Unfortunately for them, the younger boy was at a loss for what type of extra information they could want following his statement. And so he gazed back at them, awaiting follow-up questions that never came.


    Rivak nearly said something when Yue slapped his shoulder. The sound resonated in the otherwise empty changing space. The taller teen gave his brethren a significant look, his lips tight and closed. There was something there Myrkas was missing, he knew it. It was obvious even for him. But, once again, he was too exhausted to go fishing for answers. Setting bait, throwing the line, reel it in: all too much effort for his current energy level.


    He assumed his new maybe friends¡ªat least friendly acquaintances, they should have reached that level, or so the boy thought¡ªwere refraining themselves from making any potentially misunderstood comments on their superior officer.


    A smart choice, Myrkas concluded.


    Commiserating with the newbie was not worth the pain of being heard badmouthing the great Suna Ranil would incur. This was easily avoided suffering. Myrkas had to silently applaud his seniors'' wisdom. A few years older than him only, and they demonstrated remarkable survival instincts.


    Great examples to follow, Myrkas decided.


    The four dressed and somewhat dried, they left to bring the youngest and his bunny home. The walk took a while, with Myrkas tripping over his own feet every few steps. At some point, Rivak simply lost patience and carried him on his back.


    All five moons shined in the clear night sky when they arrived. Myrkas was welcomed by Nirsa''s immediate fussing and uncharacteristic cursing towards his Martial Master. She made sure the growing boy ate his fill despite his protest for bed. Nirrina hovered so much around Myrkas, outwardly worrying and swearing, that she succeeded in convincing Koriss to bestow an extra dose of Clear Refreshing Water to his poor tired nephew.


    Myrkas smiled the entire time. It felt great to be cared for. It gave him warm fuzzies all over. The pleasant sensations mixed with the healing energies from the unbelievably delicious elixir in an indescribable feeling of comfort, safety, and accomplishment. He had survived his first day. He felt so good as he was falling asleep in his bed, that he almost did not dread the next day. Almost.


    Nonetheless, Myrkas slept peacefully that night.

 25.1 Arc 2: A Wild Training Arc Appeared

    The next day of training was awfully similar to his first. As well as all those that followed over the next nonats. Myrkas spent his mornings running in alternation with going through the obstacle course and plain old strength exercises. All the while being pelted by not-peanuts. It was a never-ending race between the boy''s improvements in his ability to dodge and the guards¡¯ creativity in throwing their projectiles. Myrkas had insisted his name and Snow''s be added to the scoreboard. They gained points by dodging and parrying, obviously, with extra if they were able to hit back the original assailant with their own not-peanut caught in mid-air¡ªor deflected by a nimble paw.


    Without any surprises, Myrkas'' senior Sister won more often than not. Only the officers were able to hit her with any consistency. The others usually received a soft-shelled fruit to the face for their efforts. She was the favoured disciple for a reason. No one dared to question her undeniable talent anymore. Especially not in an earshot of Master Ranil.


    The two were improving by leaps and bounds. Though progress came with a price. A price paid in pain and muscle aches. Myrkas came back bruised every training day. Unfortunately, the teal pool was indeed reserved for officers. His prolonged soak on his first day had been an exception. Any further inquiries to partake in its healing power were quickly shut down. Something about Myrkas using up all the Qi on that first day. The boy received no further explanation from his Master, only a mumbled "should have known with this kid" as an answer to his questions.


    Instead, they used the varied pools available for all guards to use according to the whims of Master Ranil. The big one in the middle, with its placid dark-yellow Qi, remained the most frequent one. In addition, Myrkas was only allowed a quick wash and a short dip in that same biggest pool at the end of his training days. The boy looked on with envy at the officers enjoying the superior healing of the Teal one. The earth-based Qi of the middle one simply did not resonate as well with his new starfish concept. It was a little harder to integrate. It had to be coaxed and corralled into his middle dantian. Compared to the Teal energies rushing in on that first day, it simply was not as satisfying an experience.


    Still, Myrkas trained and meditated diligently. As Master Ranil said, self-discipline was the best-guarded secret of higher Realms cultivators. Well, not really a secret. More of an annoying advice most people didn''t want to believe in. It was much easier to blame fate for one''s lack of power instead of acknowledging their own inadequacies...


    Not that Myrkas ever did that, of course not. It was not the boy''s fault if complaining about a certain imperial princeling felt so great, so liberating. The benign spite helped foister his self-discipline and hurt absolutely no one. He had no reason to stop. No reason to analyze his random bouts of anger and redirect them elsewhere. The original main character stayed the perfect emotional punching bag. Myrkas saw no cause to change his favoured coping mechanism. It was the mature way to deal with feelings. A great way to keep on advancing.


    Keep calm and chew the prince to your heart''s content.


    Especially since the boy tended to accumulate a lot of such unwanted feelings on "equilibrium" days. During those dreaded afternoons, the usual katas were replaced by an exercise so horrible, it had to have been devised by a truly vile and sadistic mind ¨C "cough Suna Ranil cough."


    Myrkas gritted his teeth and clenched his fists as he stood once again in front of those damn bamboo poles. They towered over him, nagging him with their superior height. These were devious training implements. The precise combination of rigidity to flexibility they were kept at did not allow for any mistakes. The fact that his fluffy bunny bested him every single time they had to do this equilibrium exercise in no way helped the boy develop any benevolent sentiments towards the whole set-up.


    The curated vegetal lengths were carefully arrayed in the muddy pool at the end of the athletic field. The pool itself was about two meters deep, with some sort of reddish-brown algae growing from the bottom to provide a little cushioning for the frequent falls. It was the bare minimum in terms of safety measures.


    The boy stood there, almost ready to start. His midday bath had done wonders again. He had not bothered with getting dressed post, preferring to exit the bathhouse wearing spare pants and shoes only. He had known what the afternoon would bring. Master Ranil loved to tell him before his bath, to make sure his human disciple could stew in trepidation when he should be relaxing. The action of an evil, evil man indeed.


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    In the month since Myrkas had started his discipleship, he had completed all but one tiny cylindrical Qi reservoirs in his fingertips and knuckles. While the boy had initially planned to move up to his wrists next, this particular exercise he was about to start was making him rethink it. Maybe he should do his toe tips next. It should help his grip, prevent some falls. One could dream. And experiment. Better the dream one could transform into reality. With Qi, anything was possible, or so Myrkas hoped.


    Plans for later. Resigned but determined, Myrkas climbed onto the first pole. Another afternoon of misery lay before him. Snow quickly climbed ahead, happy to display her superior jumping power and athletic skills. She almost never fell or got hit by not-peanuts. Myrkas still refused to learn the dark orange soft-shelled fruit''s name from pure pettiness.


    To the boy''s great disappointment, equilibrium training was not exempt from "target practice." Master Ranil considered the "dodging, blocking, parrying" game to be a wonderful feature more than anything. Especially since it helped to make his disciples fall down their perch more often. A most wonderful entertainment.


    The mean Master had even started to give notes on Myrkas'' landings into the pool. On how the boy should maintain awareness in mid-air and reposition to ensure he entered the water feet first. Or at least buttocks first. Master Ranil had made a grading chart for his splashes, deducing points if Myrkas'' skin became red after the boy hit the water. The scarred man had even added a bonus if Myrkas was ever able to grab a pole while falling and climb back up. A feat not yet achieved.


    Torture. Pure and simple torture all around.


    Myrkas could not wait for winter. For when it would be too cold and the water would freeze over. Snow fell here¡ªthe actual snow, not the rabbit. She was far too skilled to fall. She only fell when she attempted exquisitely difficult manoeuvres.


    Unlike her clumsy human junior brother, she delighted in this particular hellish exercise. She ran literal circles around anyone up there unfortunate enough to train at the same time as her. It was usually Myrkas. Pretty much always Myrkas.


    At least, the boy was spared from sparring up there. That was something done by officers, or officers to be. Aspiring corporals and sergeants looking to show off. The lieutenants and the captain did not spar often, but when they did, it was always atop the bamboo poles. Not so much to show off but to give them a degree of difficulty without needing to leak killing intent everywhere. It would not do to kill their weaker colleagues inadvertently.


    But Myrkas was still quite far from that level. The simplified stances he practiced high in the air were more than enough of a challenge for him. No need to look any further yet. He was only starting to breach the mystical state of body meditation. No need to add actual "play fight" to his plate. He had enough to work on as it was. He had barely any time to work on his basic meditation technique. Only a few afternoons here and there between martial training, formal education, alchemy apprenticeship, and working on his secret projects¡ªlike his revolutionary soap formula and how to improve the infect "horse piss" elixir. That taste was a sheer abomination.


    The afternoon went on, with the boy "making splashes" again and again. A whole month of this had not diminished his anger when confronted with his failures. Each hit scored against him, each fall, each slip only strengthened Myrkas'' resolve to improve. His spite against his Master, the princeling, and himself only grew, fueling his determination. The red dot in his belly pulsed each time he was knocked down, urging the boy to stand back up. To gather power and get revenge. Revenge against... against... against whatever the Hells he wanted. When the time was appropriate. He didn''t have a clear target yet. Mostly a general simmering anger when stuff did not unfold as he wanted. No need to think too deeply about any of this though. Myrkas was fine. Of course, he was. No trauma there. Animal therapy was all he needed...


    Strength needed sacrifices. Myrkas would pay its price in pain and grits. That was what all good protagonists did. And today, Myrkas had one more thing to keep him going. One more reason to stand back up and give it his all. Tomorrow was the day. The day he finally allowed himself to verify his progress. The boy had already received his uncle''s permission to take out the Assessor in the morning.


    Over a month had lapsed since his last assessment. Myrkas had waited patiently, afraid not to see any change if he looked at it too early. His poor heart would not have survived that. His sufferings at the hands of his Master had to mean something. This ongoing cycle of exertion, bruising, and recovery had to bear fruits. The boy needed to see a significant improvement. His motivation depended on it. His faith in his sadistic Martial Master had limits. Limits reached a long while ago. Master Ranil was lucky fantasy novels were full of somewhat quirky teachers with unconventional methods. That fact had sustained Myrkas'' faith in his Master more than once. That and his monetary debt. He did not want to know what Master Ranil would do if Myrkas gave up on being his disciple. Outright stealing Snow was not too far-fetched.


    Myrkas could wait no longer. One more night and the boy would know. Did his numbers go up?