[The Twining] 7. Lessons in Cultivating (Patreon)

The first time Isen tried to drink the blood, he threw up. His mind rebelled against the idea, even if his tongue said the blood tasted fine. But eventually, he forced several swallows down.

“Do you feel it in your core?” Ros asked.

“It’s in my stomach, like where I gather the ambient energy.”

“That’s your core—it’s hollow now, but it will one day become a proper sphere. To draw the blood into your body, you’ll need to refine it. Refinement is always the first step—you must refine whatever you send into your core. Refining energy nourishes your core and your meridians as it passes through them.”

“Meridians?” Isen almost didn’t want to interrupt and ask another question. Most adults he’d spent time with hated interruptions. Even Lady Jin had been sharp with him when he’d been learning his letters, impatient and stingy with what knowledge she parceled out. She had always gone on about how knowledge was power, emphasizing how grateful he should be for every word that dripped from her slit of a mouth.

But Ros was patient. Maybe he was just happy to have a distraction from his grievous injuries, Isen didn’t know. But he appreciated the beast’s willingness to speak. It acted like it was just sharing common knowledge, but Isen wasn’t stupid. What Ros shared with him was priceless.

He’d soak up every word.

“Meridians are the passages in your body that extend from your core,” Ros clarified. “They are the network that distributes energy to your flesh. And less commonly in beasts, but often in humans, they serve as pathways for the flow of energy to manifest external skills.”

Isen’s eyes widened. “Like mages?”

“Sometimes. Now, focus on your core. Visualize the blood within.”

Isen closed his eyes and focused on the swell of energy in his stomach—no, his core. Unlike the mist, which was immaterial and entered his vessels without much effort, the blood was thick and refused to move, like a blockage.

What does it mean to refine something? he mused. It means breaking it down into useful components. I need to break the blood down until it’s useful, like the mist.

The idea felt right. He concentrated inward but the energy refused to move. It was too solid.

“It is harder to refine monster blood than ambient energy because of its potency,” the beast interjected, sensing Isen’s struggle. “It’s a much stronger tempering agent.”

Isen frowned. His current strategy of trying to control the blood directly wasn’t working. I need a tool to refine it, something I can control.

He breathed deeply, inviting a flood of mist into his core. It swirled around the blood, nudging it, but doing little else.

“Perhaps it’s too much for you,” Ros said, licking its forearm.

Isen recognized the taunt for what it was—a source of motivation. That didn’t make it palatable. He hated when people suggested he wasn’t good enough. He supposed most people were the same. Humans simply loved to do whatever they were told they couldn’t. It was their rebellious, proud nature. But when he was told he couldn’t do something, he felt more than indignant. He felt hateful.

It made him want to leave. And he might have, just to cool his head, if this wasn’t so important.

Anger is a form of energy, he thought, imagining the wrathful bolts of tribulation. Maybe I can use what I’m feeling.

He sent the mist into his vessels—apparently, his meridians—then exhaled, releasing the spent air. He breathed in again, but sharply, taking in a swallow of air that darted into his core, through his meridians, and out his mouth, all in less than two seconds.

He did it again—in one. Then in half a breath. Soon, he was panting in the mist. The sharp, constant deluge of energy served as a grindstone, shearing off the blood energy and forcing it through his meridians and into his body. It was like a tornado on the plains, stripping away everything in its path.

His back was awash in sweat, not that his shirt could become any more soiled. His hands trembled until he sat on them.

Finally, when he could take no more, he stopped.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?”

“Like scraping myself raw from the inside.”

“With weaker blood, tempering would be easier, but purging the impurities later, before advancing a stage… Most stall there, unable to do it.”

“How often am I supposed to do this?”

“As often as you can handle.”

Isen sighed, then turned his gaze on the books. Most of the spines were illegible, written in a foreign script, but some seemed familiar, using at least the same alphabet. Whoever had made this sanctum, it hadn’t been someone who came from Dawnblade or Eboncall.

After thirty minutes of fruitless searching for a single legible book, Isen walked over by the door and inspected the handprint that had allowed him to turn on the lights. He figured that the creator of the sanctum—that’s what he decided to call this place—would have wanted to spend lots of time within its walls uninterrupted. She would have needed light to see by, water to drink, food to eat, and places to sit… but there was nothing but books and the chandelier.

There must be more to this place. He placed his hand upon the handprint, keeping his mind blank.

Nothing happened.

He withdrew it, then pressed his hand again while envisioning darkness.

The chandelier’s light winked out.

“What are you doing?” Ros asked, its eyes twin beacons in the dark.

“Just some experimenting.” While keeping his hand on the impression, he imagined the room full of light. Sure enough, the chandelier resumed its glow.

Suddenly nervous, he steeled himself to think of water. More specifically, a basin full of water, for bathing. The coagulated blood was truly unbearable, and unlike Ros, he couldn’t just lick himself clean.

To his shock, a door appeared on the far wall, where he could’ve sworn there was previously a bookcase. Isen removed his hand from the impression and walked around Ros, who was facing the wrong way and hadn’t seen the door’s emergence. He walked right up to the door and considered whether to walk in.

His sixth sense said it was fine, so… it was probably fine?

If an ancient mage or cultivator wanted to kill me, she wouldn’t need to do it through trickery. The door didn’t have a knob, and Isen recognized it as the type that slid into a wall. He pushed the door to the left and it glided smoothly, as though recently greased.

Beyond was a dedicated bathroom, but one unlike any he’d ever seen. There was a washbasin with a spout far overhead and a chamber pot that had flowing water. He suddenly felt silly for stepping just outside the sanctum to relieve himself.

He walked inside—very aware of how he was dragging his filth into a pristine space—and approached the basin at the front. It was a trough that held continuously flowing liquid like the chamber pot with a mirror situated above it. It might be positioned a bit short for a tall man, but it was perfect for Isen.

For the first time in a long while, he got a good look at himself. His face was, as expected, disgusting. Rather than being red from blood, it was a waxy, off-yellow color that looked distinctly unappetizing, even after washing his face with water earlier. He grabbed handfuls of water from the trough and scrubbed at his face. It was hard with just his hands, but he managed to get the worst of it off.

“It’s gold,” he murmured, staring at his left eye. There was now a ring of glowing gold that bordered his blue iris. It didn’t look natural. He’d never seen anyone whose eyes looked like that. “Maybe it’ll fade,” he said, not really believing it. He covered the eye with a hand. “At least I still have one normal eye.”

Besides, he comforted himself, it’ll only be a problem if you escape this place. Don’t worry about it until you reach that point.

He turned toward the large washbasin and grinned. A minute later, he was pacing the basin, chewing his lip. How do I start the water? He stared up at the spout, too high for him to reach, and wondered how to work the mechanism. He didn’t see a handy handprint anywhere.

There were three knobs on the side of the basin that he’d ignored. Stepping out of the basin, he very carefully turned the first, waiting for something odious to happen.

Water gushed out from above, freezing where it splashed over the edge and pattered against his clothes. He twisted the knob closed, then tried the next. The water shot out, scalding. He yelped and closed it off. He twisted the third one and a foaming substance came out, falling into the basin. He pinched a bit of it, then held it up to his nose.

It was soap.

Thank you, sanctum maker. He thought it in a joking tone, but his gaze was dejected as he stared at the spiral of foaming soap on the basin floor.

It had been days since he’d last seen the surface. He’d told himself it was fine, that he was just having an adventure, the kind that he’d always wanted. He’d told himself that he was lucky to survive the calamity brought upon Goldbounty by the idiotic cultivator pill woman.

He’d told himself a lot of things, but he was twelve, maybe thirteen, and he knew the truth. He’d survived almost certain death by leaving Goldbounty and entering the tear, but escape was improbable. He would probably die down here. It had been days since he’d left the safety of civilization and already he’d nearly died. He’d been literally swallowed by a massive bear and butchered it from the inside with a simple knife.

He had no idea what tomorrow would bring.

But staring at the washbasin, somehow, he felt… it might be possible. Living in this place. Growing stronger—strong enough to escape. Maybe even strong enough to escape under his own power, without Ros.

Ros seemed to think he knew more than he did. It was refreshing, someone listening to his word like it was law, like he actually knew what he was talking about. It had been a while since he’d had that kind of trust.

Until the Lady Jin disaster, he’d always loved the edge the sixth sense gave him. It was the one thing in the world that made him special. He thought that maybe, compared to all the other children, it was that specialness that made him dare to dream beyond the circumstances he’d been born into.

Someone powerful like Ros trusting his ability reaffirmed that specialness. But along with the beast’s faith came responsibility to use his ability with wisdom. To know when to retreat and when to advance.

Isen’s body trembled as he gingerly removed his clothes, trying not to ruin them further. When they were on a heap next to the tub, he stepped inside, desperate for a source of warmth. He leaned away from the shower until he’d turned the knobs to produce the ideal temperature, then sat directly under it, relishing the heat cutting through the grime and caked on fluids.

His collected, determined facade melted away. He closed his eyes and pitched forward, holding his head in his hands, crying where not even the gods could see, the tears invisible.

He wasn’t sure if anyone should ever trust him again.

He reached for the soap. He lathered his hair, his face, feeling cleaner than he’d ever been. He’d never had access to running water like this. It didn’t shock him—he thought mages might have something fantastical like ever-running heated water—but it was a level of luxury he wanted to forget himself in. And now, it was his, for as long as he wanted. As long as he stayed in the depths.

You took a chance, he thought. Now make the most of it.