Chapter 9 - The Price of Power (Patreon)

He paces the length of his bedroom, eyes locked on the Beast Core sitting on his bed.

He can feel it even without touching it, and the concentrated well of fire-aspected Qi makes his own reserves feel insignificant by comparison. As much as he desperately wants to sit down and start cultivating already, even in his impatience, he knows it’s a bad idea.

Cultivation requires absolute focus. His experiments with the bonfires have shown that losing control of the energy can result in backlash, and while at the time it wasn’t much worse than a bad sunburn, there’s an order of magnitude more energy in this tiny chunk of crystallised Qi than fifty bonfires.

A mistake here could easily be lethal.

He settles down onto the floor cross-legged, resting his upturned hands on his knees. It’s his favourite position for meditation, taken directly from pop-culture. He has no idea if it actually helps him focus or whether the effect is entirely psychosomatic, but if nothing else it gets him in the right frame of mind. 

It’s hard to focus on cycling his Qi when there’s what feels like a burning sun not two meters away from him, but his practice reinforcing himself while running through the forest pays off, and before long his Qi is churning in its customary circle in his dantian.

Eventually, finally, he feels ready, reaching out with a tentative thread of Qi towards the core. The response is immediate and overwhelming. A torrent of fire-aspected energy surges into him, and he has to clamp down with all his will to avoid being overwhelmed.

It’s like a man dying of thirst trying to take a drink from a waterfall.

The Qi rushes through his channels and slams into his dantian, and it takes every ounce of focus he has to keep cycling. After a moment it… doesn’t get any easier, exactly, but the flow of energy seems a little smoother, easier to guide.

Even still the energy is wild, and some slips from his control to run free through his body. It feels like a bad case of heartburn, and while he know’s its supposed to be very dangerous to let Qi run through his body he simply can’t spare the focus to stop it right now.

Far sooner than he expected, he can feel his dantian stretch to the limit, his Qi condensing and solidifying. It’s such a smooth process that it takes him a moment to realise that he’s just broken through to the Third Stage of the Qi Condensation Realm.

He laughs in disbelief, a giddy sound. There’s still so much energy left in the core, too; it feels like he’ll be able to break through at least twice more!

Still, he knows that the process of breaking through can be straining, so he reluctantly dis-tangles the thread of Qi he had wrapped around the core.

The instant he breaks the connection, the core flares with energy, a blazing, uncontrollable surge that floods the room with a heat so intense it feels like the walls might ignite. Zhujiao’s eyes widen in horror as the core pulses violently, cracks spider-webbing across its surface. The raw, untamed Qi begins to seep out, tendrils of fire-aspected energy licking at the air and scorching everything they touch.

He panics, immediately forming another connection, desperate to reestablish control. His Qi wraps around the core again, trying to absorb the escaping energy. The instant the connection is reestablished, the flow of energy resumes, slamming into him with even more force than before. It’s like trying to hold back a tidal wave with his bare hands.

Sweat beads on his forehead as he struggles to guide the wild Qi. The core’s energy is far more volatile now, the cracks releasing chaotic bursts of power that scorch the wooden floor and char the edges of his bed. He can feel the heat singeing his clothes, and the acrid scent of burning wood fills the air.

He channels more Qi, drawing the energy into himself as quickly as he can. The pressure in his channels is immense, and he feels like his body is about to burst. The energy sears through him, scorching his Qi channels and sending waves of agony through his body.

He can barely breathe, the pain blinding, but he forces himself to keep going. The energy keeps coming, an endless torrent, and he realises that he has no choice but to continue drawing it in. The process is damaging him, tearing at his channels, but it’s the only way to prevent the core from exploding.

Dimly, he hears his mother screaming his name.

Time loses meaning as he struggles to maintain his focus, the pain growing more intense with every passing second. His vision blurs, dark spots dancing at the edges, but he clings to consciousness with sheer willpower. He can’t afford to pass out, not now.

The ocean of energy in the core is slowly shrinking, but so is his ability to stay conscious – his basic reinforcement technique is the only thing keeping him going, but it’s clear that it’s not enough.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the torrent begins to slow. The core’s energy is nearly exhausted, and Zhujiao can feel the last remnants being drawn into his dantian. The pain is almost unbearable, black spots beginning to bloom in his vision, but he holds on until the final threads of energy snap into place.

The last thing he sees before blacking out is his mother slamming through the door to his room, eyes wild with fear. 

He wakes only for brief periods.

He can feel someone scooping his limp body up before laying him down again on something softer. There’s a sense of movement, and for a while, he thinks he’s on a boat. His mind fuzzily kicks into gear after a moment, though, and he realises it must be a wagon. 

The thought wanders through his head, looking for something to connect with. It feels important. Why is a wagon important?

He’s dragged back under before he can figure it out.

The next time he wakes, he’s a little more cognizant.

He immediately regrets it. He had been sick or injured for most of his life, in the Before. He knew pain, all the different kinds – the slow, subtle pain of joints aching well before their time, the deep pain of something truly terribly wrong, his body shutting down on him.

He’s never felt this fiery, burning pain before. 

The agony is all-consuming, a searing heat radiating from his chest and arms. Every breath feels like inhaling flames, the skin across the front of his body feeling tight and blistered. His vision blurs with tears, but he can’t summon the energy to wipe them away.

He tries to move, but his body rebels, a fresh wave of pain crashing over him. He gasps, a sound that barely escapes his lips, and the world tilts alarmingly. The rough jostling of the wagon only makes it worse, each bump and dip sending new jolts of torment through his already ravaged nerves.

He’s dimly aware of a cool paste being applied to his chest, and the pain subsides a little. It’s enough to take the edge off the only thing keeping him conscious, and he slips off into the comforting embrace of nothingness once more.

Days pass in a haze of pain and movement. 

He tries sending a trickle of Qi into his channel, intending to see if his reinforcement technique can help with pain, but the bolt of agony that shoots through him quickly convinces him to reconsider.

It’s obvious why, in hindsight – his physical injuries are the side effect of the damage, caused by the overflowing Qi that he lost control of. The vast majority of the damage is constrained to his Qi channels themselves, and he’s terrified that he may have caused himself permanent damage.

If his entire cultivation journey comes to an end because he was too damn impatient to bother reading up the dangers of using beast cores, he’ll… well, he’s not sure what he’ll do, but it won’t be pretty.

Already he knows he’s luckier than he had any right to be – if he weren’t a cultivator, or if he had been any less practiced in his cycling technique, he wouldn’t have survived the process. As it is he’s going to have a permanent reminder of his stupidity – while his burns are covered by bandages slathered in a cool medicinal paste, he knows that they will certainly scar.

A costly lesson to learn but a valuable one – cultivation is not a game, and it is certainly not a race. Assuming he hasn’t stunted or even shattered his cultivation, going forward, he’s going to double and triple check every damn thing he does before he does it.

Despite his reservations, it might even be worth looking into joining a Sect. He might not like the strings that come with it, but better to be alive with restrictions than free and dead.

He’s cognisant enough to realise they’re heading for the city – unsurprisingly, the town doctor is not equipped to help with cultivation-related injuries. Even the city itself might not have anyone who can help, but it’s certainly better than nothing.

His mother remains a constant presence, her hands gentle as they apply fresh paste to his burns, her voice a soothing balm to his frayed nerves. Her worry is palpable, especially when he can’t keep any food down and barely manages to drink any water, but she hides it as best she can. 

When the wagon finally comes to a halt, he forces his eyes open, squinting against the harsh light. The outer wall of the city looms ahead, a towering structure of weathered stone that speaks of age and strength. The city gates are bustling with activity, and a long line of people and wagons are waiting to be admitted. Guards in dull armour move methodically through the line, asking questions with practised efficiency.

Even through the haze of pain, it feels vaguely nostalgic – he might have grown to love the peace and quiet of the small town, but he’s always been a city boy at heart.

The line progresses quickly, and before long he sees the an older guard in weathered armour moves forward to speak with his mother.

“What’s your business in the city?” the guard asks, his voice firm but not unkind.

“We seek medical help for my son,” his mother replies, her tone steady despite the strain in her eyes. She gestures to Zhujiao, who manages a weak nod.

Surprisingly, the man’s eyes narrow, and he takes a half-step back. “And what is the nature of his condition?” the man asks warily.

His mother seems just as surprised as he is. “U-Uh, he’s very badly burned,” she manages. 

The guard relaxes, his expression softening and tension leaving his frame. “Right, sorry about that. We’ve heard news of a plague from some of the outer towns, so we’re being extra careful right now.” The man gestures at some of the other guards, and Zhujiao only realises that they had been very casually surrounded when the other men disperse. 

“Alright, then, you can pass,” the guard says, waving them through the gate. “Head straight to the healer’s district. They’ll take care of him there.”

As they pass through the gates, a strange sense of unease gnaws at him. There’s nothing obvious he can see – the guards seemed like they were just doing their jobs, and as far as he can see, none of them are looking at him or his mother oddly, but…

By the time he realises that it’s his Qi senses screaming at him, the guards are already shouting in alarm. 

In the distance, two figures appear, moving with blinding speed. The first makes an impossible leap, blurring through the sky and soaring over the city walls.

The pursuer raises a hand.

An ocean of Qi slams into him, his senses blinded instantly. Nothing compares – even the Spirit Beasts are inconsequential in comparison. His vision whites out from the sheer force of it.

A massive explosion rocks the ground, shaking the very core of the city. Zhujiao feels the concussive force before he sees anything, the air knocked from his lungs, his ears ringing.

The world comes back into focus in disjointed flashes. The city wall ahead of them is crumbling, huge chunks of stone falling away. Dust and debris fill the air, choking and blinding him.

He catches a glimpse of his mother, her face a mask of fear, her mouth open in a scream he can’t hear over the roar of destruction. He sees the structure of the wall start to tip with a terrible finality and knows that she is too close, that she cannot escape.

He’s too weak to save her.

He tries anyway.

He fails.