Hmmph... this junior is a good seed [Cultivation Management Quest]

[no.]

Iskander Pallikari 1 - Fundamentals​

As the sun rose over the Organ Meat Desert, a boy of almost twenty cracked his eyelids open, looking around blearily. With a groan of effort, he rolled out of bed and tumbled to the floor. He was of average height with well-built muscles, a square jaw, a cleft chin and a mop of curly blonde hair - handsome, perhaps, but awkward. Still not quite done growing into the face and body of a man.

After slapping himself on the cheek a few times to wake himself up, the boy immediately lay down on his back and began to exercise. "Gotta get strong. Gotta get strong. Gotta get strong." Iskander repeated to himself over and over as he did his morning sit-ups. "Senior, are you awake? You said you'd be awake today, since it's my first hunting day."

Iskander looked expectantly to his desk, where an old sword hilt, bereft of its blade and tassel and badly cracked down the middle, was laid on a small pillow. This worthless scrap metal was all that remained of the once legendary sword, the Wailing Conqueror.

The hilt remained silent and motionless, which made the young Devil roll his eyes. "He tells me I can't oversleep, then he oversleeps himself. What a hypocritical Senior." He chided the still unresponsive object, though there was no real mockery to be found in his voice.

Even as the boy's muscles burned, he kept going; he couldn't get tired now, this was just his morning warm-up. The entire life of a Junior Aspirant, those lowly servants fresh out of the academy, was chores and training, until they either found themselves a benefactor or rose into the Third Heavenstage on their own merits.

The person in the opposite bed, a short woman with close-cropped hair and an array tattooed around her eye, sluggishly turned over and cracked her eyes open to look at Iskander. She stayed firmly nestled under the covers, poking only her head out like some sort of human-faced worm. "Today's the day, huh?" She mumbled. "Gonna start going at it hardcore from now on?"

"Damn right, Clotho." Iskander nodded, continuing to exercise without skipping a beat. "Hardcore, that's a good word; Iskander Pallikari is going hardcore now!"

"Just looking at you is exhausting." Clotho grumbled. "You're close to the Second Heavenstage after just a couple years. Don't you want to rest a little bit after you get there? Just lower your work-rate for a month?"

"Don't got time to rest, my buddy here's been sleeping for long enough." Iskander replied, gesturing at the sword hilt on his dresser. "I said I'd rescue him, so I'm gonna do it."

"Oughta worry about yourself before you save anyone else, kid." Clotho chuckled. "You've got fifteen years before the next Centennial Trial. You wanna be a savior? Get strong enough to survive that."

"That's why I gotta go hardcore. I already did the math. Well, not really, I'm bad at numbers; Senior did the math." Iskander stopped for a moment to point at the hilt of the Wailing Conqueror. "Anyway, he did that math, and he thinks I can make five times more from a shift at this new job than I do with chores; ain't that crazy?"

"Yeah, because it's not meant for Junior Aspirants!" Clotho said with a glare. "I like you, kid, I don't want you to hurt yourself - and if you do this as your regular gig, you'll just get yourself injured or killed."

"It's not a regular gig, I couldn't maintain that." Iskander clarified, finishing his crunches and getting to his feet. Immediately, he switched to squats. "Nah, I'm just doing this job one day a week, my regular chores five days a week, and taking off one day a week for nothing but training, cultivation and a fun night out. That adds up to uh…"

The young Devil cocked his head, already feeling a headache coming on. "Like… like twice as much? Thirteen or something? Wait…"

"Ten days' pay per week." Said the sword hilt, or rather, the entity within it. "Five plus five is ten, are you slow?"

"Kinda. Blood of Bronze makes Devils slowed than other Cultivators." Iskander said, not at all perturbed by the haunted hilt suddenly speaking up. He was used to abrupt starts and finishes to conversations at this point. "Good morning, Senior."

"Morning." Said Lai Bohai, casting his spiritual sense around the room. Clotho shivered under the attention of a Nascent Soul, even one as diminished as this one, but Iskander was no longer bothered by the weighty sensation. "And it's not just the extra pay that will help him cultivate faster; that extra training on his day off will help develop his fundamentals, and more leisure time will hone his mind. I recall having a similar routine when I was just starting out."

"See? It's totally normal." Iskander concluded, enjoying the vindication as Clotho scoffed, rolled over and went back to sleep.

Clotho Lenthulus, Iskander's roommate, wasn't a particularly hard worker. She was in the Fourth Heavenstage, and not in a major hurry to reach the Fifth, as the Fifth Heavenstage meant full Legionnaire status. However, being in the Fourth Heavenstage meant that her apartment was actually half-decent, as opposed to the small hovels handed out to Junior Aspirants.

The modest rent she charged ate into his desperately needed cultivation funds a bit, but Lai Bohai assured Iskander that proper rest and good food would be worth it in the long run. Rest and good food meant a healthy body, which meant he could do bigger jobs, which meant more money on the whole.

Once the warm-ups were done, Iskander immediately made his way to the pantry, pulled out some cheese and salted meat and began tearing into it. His energy felt bottomless today, a mixture of nervousness and excitement filling his body until he was bursting at the seams. Still, it wasn't quite time yet.

—-

"What the hell is this!? Do you even know a thing about swordplay!?" Lai Bohai shouted indignantly.

"I know enough, you fucker. Enough to have a good time!" Iskander roared, wailing on the straw dummy and continuing to gradually shred it to pieces.

"No no no, that's terrible, you won't get anywhere hacking away like that!" Lai Bohai shouted, which finally got Iskander to stop. "It's not just about hitting them hard and getting the sharp bit in! A formless style is fine, but only if you have more precision than this!"

"Goodness, aren't you passionate?" The Junior Aspirant sighed, slinging the practice saber over his shoulder. "Can we save the scientific stuff for later? Between eating, sleeping, cultivating and working, I don't have that much time left. I gotta build muscle!"

"It's not science, it's art! It is beauty itself!"

"Come on man, you're so strict!" Iskander yelled, bringing the saber back and holding it parallel to the ground. With a smooth motion, he chopped deep into the dummy's neck. "Look at that; a dull practice sword, and I can still cut it that deep!"

"A real swordsman could decapitate that dummy with no qi and a dull kitchen knife." The hilt said with a scoff. "I'm not being strict, you're taking this too lightly. Do you have any idea how much my advice is worth?"

It continued on like that for a while, until Iskander's allotted training time was done and he needed to get to work. For all that the two of them bickered back and forth, Iskander couldn't help but enjoy the old ghost's company. Perhaps it was simply because he spent comparatively little time awake; 'absence makes the heart grow fonder' and all that. Or maybe he simply took solace in having someone who truly took him seriously.

Iskander wasn't a pure Sword Artist like some who sought total mastery of combat were. He'd considered going down that path, but Lai Bohai had discouraged such a thing. According to the old ghost, totally or near-totally specializing in one area of expertise was only feasible for two types of people: geniuses good enough to 'defeat paper with rock', and people rich enough to have subordinates who will support their weaknesses. Iskander was neither of those things, and thus spent much of his time also studying basic Body Arts, both to enhance his baseline performance and to support him if he were ever disarmed.

When not practicing sword forms, chopping away at dummies or roping another Junior Heavenstage into sparring, he was doing a wide variety of exercises to build his strength, speed and endurance. The young Devil had heard of weightlifting, but some of this equipment baffled him; what was the difference between lifting an iron weight and lifting a bucket of sand? Why was squatting on one's toes different than squatting on flat feet? Back in his hometown, if a man wanted to get stronger he just ran, lifted rocks, did push-ups, stuff like that. What in the name of fuck were 'macros'!?

By the end of this training session, Iskander was sweaty and sore, albeit less so than most days. He'd gone easy this time around, since he would need to be in perfect condition in about six hours; today was the day he went hardcore, after all. And so, he trudged back to Clotho's apartment for a meal, a wash and some cultivation.

—-

Five and a half hours later, Iskander was feeling… really no closer to the Second Havenstage than before. "Cultivation is the work of a lifetime, of course you never feel different after one session." Lai Bohai had chided him. He was a little late, but more jogging-late than sprinting-late, which meant he could admire the buildings around him on his trip.

The Department of Sanitation commanded far more respect and awe than one would expect, with many towering offices and a large and well-stocked barracks for the two Legions they commanded. He'd never understood why the janitors were such a big deal, but any time he had asked a Senior, they had either chuckled knowingly or winced at a bad memory. One had simply informed him that the day he did some work for the Department was the day he would know.

After some time trying to figure out the difference between the Bureau of Sewage, the Sewer Management Office and the Sewer Corps. Headquarters, the boy finally found himself at what he was pretty sure was the correct location. Before him was a simple but well-constructed wooden desk, behind which sad an old, bored-looking Legionnaire.

His Qi Lake was like a bright star compared to the puddle that was Iskander's. Filling the entire Dantian with qi wasn't even the final obstacle to completing the first Great Realm of cultivation, but the midpoint. And yet, even that milestone seemed so very far away. The young Devil steeled himself - this was why he was here. He couldn't coast along, or that vast stretch of time would swallow him whole.

The man behind the desk sifting through the paperwork bore an expression that was the height of utter boredom, and barely looked at Iskander as he explained the job. "The deal is simple: you get paid for every spirit, spirit beast or large animal you kill and bring back. No proof of a kill, no pay. If the body's got any valuable components, you'll be paid extra. Understand?"

Iskander nodded; that sounded about right. "I do, Senior. And where do I drop the proof off?"

"Office of Spirit Beast Disposal." The record keeper said, seemingly by rote. "How you get it there is your business, but I'd get a Compression Pouch."

"Alright, then I'll just-"

"Wait!" He held up a hand, causing Iskander to freeze in place as he scanned the papers one more time. "Alright, everything seems good to go. Aspirant Iskander Pallikari, you're registered as a sewer hunter for the next year." The record keeper paused for a moment, before returning to the documents and reading them again. "Wait… Junior Aspirant? Is that a typo?"

"No Senior, I'm a Junior Aspirant. Here to start grinding and get those big payouts!" Iskander answered, flashing a grin.

The resource keeper seemed to strongly consider saying something for a moment, before sighing and giving up. "Well, I guess that's allowed… be very careful."

"Will do!" Iskander laughed, taking his token and setting off toward his destination.

Iskander knew that many Cultivators simply never made it past the Third Heavenstage, simply because the scarcity of the resources a Third Heavenstager could safely acquire, combined with the fairly limited scope of their powers, meant that one could easily be stuck in a loop of working every day just to make snail-like progress and not backslide. There were three ways one could avoid such a fate: first, have a family wealthy enough to brute force you to the Fifth Heavenstage in a decade, making you powerful enough to take higher-paying solo missions or work as a fully-fledged Legionnaire. The second was to be so innately talented that you continue to advance quickly despite doing the same bullshit as everybody else. The third was to get a little stupid and do things above your pay grade.

He didn't have much money and his talent was, as far as he could tell, nothing amazing, which meant the only option was to get stupid. Thankfully, Iskander had been practicing getting stupid every day of his life thus far.

—-

"You're a hard worker if nothing else, and that's very good." Lai Bohai chimed in as Iskander navigated through the dark, fetid tunnels beneath the Dawn Fortress. "Not just that, but a creatively hard worker; add in a bit of luck and all that hard work should pay off."

"My my my, you're being encouraging for once!" Iskander smiled, peeking around a corner and casting his torch around. The light didn't go quite as far as the boy would have liked, but it served to confirm once again that his immediate surroundings were safe.

"Good habits should be encouraged. You make me sound like a monster." Lai Bohai chuckled.

Iskander prepared to reply, only to hear an odd banging echoing in the distance. He crouched down in response, before remembering he was carrying a torch, and thus could not hide at all. Slowly, he got back to his feet and crept toward the sound. "Well, isn't that what they call Nascent Souls? Old Monsters?" He asked quietly, trying to keep the mood light.

"Monstrousness is a relative term that can mean many things - now focus!" The hilt commanded. Iskander nodded his assent, unsheathing the saber at his side and continuing to advance.

Iskander's spiritual sense was not exceptional, but they could hardly be called dull either. Lai Bohai had instructed him to work hard on honing it, since accurately judging the strength of an enemy - and thus whether it was wise to engage them - would be a crucial skill for the rest of his life. The creature up ahead, as far as he could tell, was in the Third Heavenstage; that was close enough for him to handle.

Feasting on the half-melted remains of some repulsive-looking worm creature was some sort of frog. That was the closest analogue Iskander could think of, at least, what with the slimy skin, toothless mouth and large, bulging eyes. That said, the ropey pink flesh, bulging throat and almost-human proportions(aside from the back legs, which bent backwards) made the beast that much more unnerving.

Was… was that another of its own kind the monster was chowing down on? Iskander suppressed the urge to throw up.

Still, it was too late to back out now - the wretched beast squinted in the light and let out an ear-piercing screech of warning, taking up a defensive posture over its meal. Without taking his eyes off the enemy, Iskander carefully and deliberately drew the saber at his hip. He circled around the monster, taking note of the foot-deep water and estimating how much it would inhibit his movements.

"A demon, albeit one of the lowest caliber. Formed from the buildup of impurities and possessed of a very rudimentary intelligence." Lai Bohai chimed in. "As opposed to humans and beasts corrupted by impurity, naturalborn demons can take all manner of forms. Weak, Qi Condensation-level ones are a common sight in cities with advanced sewer systems and many high-level Cultivators. Don't let your guard down."

As the clash began, Iskander recalled the lessons that Lai Bohai had started him off with; lessons the hilt claimed had been the foundation of his success as a warrior.

Lesson number zero: Everything in the universe has an end. Nothing is immortal, and anything can be vanquished with the right plan.

Iskander emptied his mind of fear and continued to advance. The beast's maw opened wide and a viscous, mucoid goo shot out. A First Heavenstager didn't have much of an advantage over a mortal, but they did boast a greater reaction time; he dodged to the side, letting the liquid splatter on the wall behind him. His heart was beating like one of those massive drums at the front of a parade, but he approached even closer.

On the one hand, he was in the melee range of an animal that could kill him. On the other hand, it was also in his. Time to party.

Lesson number one: Sword Art effectiveness = technique choice + power + weapon + speed. When everything lines up properly, an artist can bring out miracles, and enough of one component can, to a degree, compensate for a deficiency in another.

Iskander didn't have much speed; that would come with cultivation, and cultivation needed money, which was why he was in the sewer in the first place. His saber was a unadorned piece of ordinary spirit-steel. Hell, spirit-steel was too pricey for him to own at this point; the fucking thing was rented. Still, it was well-made enough. His physical strength was good for his Heavenstage, but certainly less than this demon's.

His choice of techniques was also limited, to say the least: All he had was a very simple Body Art which did little more than loosen up his muscles as if he had been stretching for ten minutes, and an extremely barebones Sword Art which spread a thin layer of qi over the edge of his sword. Another Body Art which put extra force behind an individual swing of his sword; he could use that about five times per day.

The beast lunged, and Iskander's blade rose in an upward slash to meet it, scoring a cut along his enemy's face and driving it back. He reversed his strike into a downward cut, but missed as the demon darted to the side. It jumped into the wall of the tunnel, then pounced toward the little human that dared hurt it.

Lesson number two: Sword Art power = strength + grip + timing + angle. Brute force and size matter, but they are ultimately just one part of a greater tapestry. A man who masters the mechanics of a strike will hit with the destructive capability of a man twice his size.

Stepping back and raising the saber above his head at the same time, Iskander let the beast land right where he had just been before bringing it down. The edge cleaved through the slimy skin and carved through its flank, spilling a cloud of red into the greenish-brown water at their feet.

Yes, Iskander didn't have speed, or an exceptional weapon, or much in the way of technique choice, but power? That he could bring to bear, if he played his cards right. He could cut through powerful enemies, so long as he cut them in the right way.

Lesson number three: Almost nothing in this world is uniformly strong; most can be divided into weak points and strong points. Striking the enemy's weak points will bring them down faster, and damaging the enemy's strong points will degrade their ability to fight.

This time, instead of dodging backward, Iskander dodged forward, stepping in at an angle to let its long, slippery fingers fly by him. There, the neck! With a snicker-snack, his blade bit into the monster's throat, sticking in deep. He made to pull the blade free and escape, but instead it held fast, and the amphibious beast pitched forward, knocking Iskander to the ground.

Filthy water splashed all around the pair as the monster hacked and wheezed, trying to spray poison out through its ruined throat. Shit, this was bad! Sword Arts to pull a blade free were a thing just about everyone learned, but not in the First Heavenstage!

Lesson number four: No real battle is ever clean. If the enemy is even remotely a threat, be prepared to take unorthodox measures, make imperfect strikes, and accept damage to deal greater damage in return.

Iskander stopped thrashing and calmed himself, despite the frantic situation. Even as the beast gave up on spitting poison in his face and instead pressed its forelimbs down upon his head and pushed it beneath the water, he didn't despair.

With one hand, he reached up and grabbed the demon's face. The gap in between their cultivation bases meant he lacked the strength to wrestle with this thing, especially from a disadvantageous position like this, but that was fine. He just needed to know by touch where its head was.

With his other hand, he extended his thumb and swung it as hard as he could, slamming into an oversized eyeball and popping it like an overripe grape. The throbbing pain Iskander felt in response told him that the digit would be sore and stiff for a couple of days, but it was worth it. The beast screeched, immediately jumping off of him and skittering backward.

Iskander sat up, gasping and coughing, to find his quarry fleeing the scene, and took off after it. The end result was anticlimactic; the demon bled out too much to run in just a couple of minutes, and he finished it off with a backup knife. And yet as undignified as the affair had been, this felt momentous. Iskander's first real battle, not a spar, was over, and he was the victor.

—-

Dragging the heavy corpse of the demon back out of the sewer, Iskander was filled with conflicting emotions that he didn't know how to describe. He'd won; actually succeeded in deadly combat against a true monster, and yet…

"I'm going to do things like that all the time, huh?" He sighed, looking off into the light of the sewer entrance in the distance.

"If you really want to get strong fast, you are." Lai Bohai replied curtly. "Only fighting things weaker than yourself unless you have to - that's how most people go through life. Rising from nothing to become a Nascent Soul takes far more than that."

"No, no, it's not that I'm scared, it's just…" Iskander screwed up his face, changing his grip on the demon to drag it more easily. "I dunno, monster slaying doesn't feel glorious, I guess."

The hilt remained silent for a moment, and Iskander worried it had gone back to sleep, but it soon spoke up again after formulating its thoughts. "Killing is killing. The sensation of slicing through living meat is the same regardless of whose meat you slice. Violence is nothing more than a tool of achieving one's objectives."

Iskander looked away and scratched the back of his head, voice coming out soft and weary. "That's a pretty cold way to look at it…"

Lai Bohai was thoroughly unamused by such indecisiveness, and made his displeasure clear. "The distribution of resources, the ordering of hierarchy, the dominance of one worldview over another, the borders of nations. These things can be decided through negotiation or through violence. When to use violence, and when to restrain it; that is one of many things I will teach you."

Then, without bothering to say goodnight, Lai Bohai went 'back to sleep' Or rather, the ancient ghost returned to the state of torpor in which he existed most of the time. That fact that he had retained his mind and most of his memories after so much time, even if only for one day a month or so, spoke volumes about the power the old Nascent had once possessed.

Shaking his head and sighing at his master's rudeness, Iskander turned a corner, prompting several Devils to jump or stumble back as an Aspirant dragging a fresh spirit beast corpse walked past them as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Hey, what was he supposed to do? Compression Pouches were too expensive.

—-

I totally, completely ran out of things to write for Gaius, or at least I have for the time being until my omake partners get back to me. However, I still have all this time at work that I can use to write. My solution: make a secondary character.

Some of you may remember that Iskander was a hypothetical "alternate character" that I had considered going with instead of Gaius. Well, I've decided that he's real now. I changed a couple of details, like making both his first and last names Greek instead of one being Roman and the other being Greek, changing Shen Zhihao to Lai Bohai because the latter felt better to say, and making it so Iskander doesn't know what his Dao will be yet. That last part hasn't been shown yet, but it's gonna be a thing, since that distinguishes him from Gaius.

This not only gives me a lens through which to interact with younger characters, it means I get to explore a character who is very different from Gaius. Iskander is a lot less cynical and a lot more kind than The Seeker, but at the same time he could also be said to have a somewhat inhuman way of thinking at times.

Another fun thing is that it's nice to go back to writing a character who doesn't have such a huge arsenal of overpowered abilities. Don't get me wrong, I like getting silly with it, but I also like more grounded combat, so having these two characters will let me do a bit of both.

 

[no.]

Iskander Pallikari 2 - He Laughed​

It had been about six years since he wasn't surrounded by buildings.

This thought hit Iskander out of nowhere as he trudged through the sand, bundled up tight against the chill of the desert night air. He hadn't really processed that, he supposed. There had been the occasional yearning for the wilderness, but he'd been so very busy training and cultivating day in and day out, first in the academy and then as a Junior Aspirant, that there just hadn't been enough time for frivolous thoughts.

The boy took a moment to just enjoy the silence and the fresh air, but it wasn't long before a familiar voice cut in.

"Hurry up, kid. The Dragonlines don't often resonate as strongly as they do tonight." Lai Bohai said from his hip. "And with Sword Qi too, that's a nice treat."

For the past six months, Iskander had been saving up 5% of the Contribution Points he made, while using the rest for his own cultivation. After all this time, he had saved up enough to purchase himself a five day vacation to Emporikipolis, where he was to go bar crawling with friends, cultivate for only eight hours a day instead of twelve, and buy himself some nice souvenirs with mortal money. And now of all times, in the middle of the night, that damn ghost had woken up, then woken him up, shouting that there was an opportunity out here which couldn't be missed.

"Alright, alright, I'm moving. I really hope this is worth it, Senior." Iskander sighed, picking the pace back up. Within the pack on his back, the rustling and clinking of dozens of low-grade spirit stones could be heard - every single stone in Iskander's possession, just as Lai Bohai had instructed him to bring.

"If you really are committed to 'rescuing me', then the least I can do is make you take advantage of opportunities like these." Lai Bohai insisted. "Don't know if it's possible for me to compensate you adequately, really…"

"Aww, what do you mean, Senior?" Iskander chuckled, patting the hilt like one might comfortingly pat a friend on the shoulder. "You've done so much for me already. I mean, who the hell gets private tutoring from an Old Monster once a month!?"

The ghost scoffed. "One, I told you not to call me that. Two, what that's worth is nothing next to the amount of trouble you're going to go through."

Something about that statement irked Iskander. Or rather, that statement was the last straw in a pile of similar cryptic statements. He stopped again, tossing his pack on the ground beside him and holding up the hilt of the Wailing Conqueror. "If that's really true, then just tell me already. What exactly am I going to be doing for you besides just cultivating?"

"It's nothing to concern yourself with." Lai Bohai snapped. "It won't be relevant to you for decades, and dwelling on it in the meantime will only sow doubt in your mind."

"I keep my promises, always have and always will." Iskander insisted, holding the hilt up to his face as if he were looking Lai Bohai in the eye. "Just tell me what it's gonna take, and I'll do it."

"Fine, if you're going to be so stubborn, then I'll be frank in turn and tell you what it will take." Lai Bohai sighed, as if even the prospect of explaining himself was making him weary. "Are you familiar with the Twin-Souled variant of the Nascent Soul stage?"

"Never heard of it." Iskander shrugged. "Wouldn't a person with two souls be two people?"

"Yes and no. I knew a Twin-Souled Nascent back home, and she did have two 'modes' depending on which one was currently dominant. The sword arm on her, let me tell you…" Lai Bohai trailed off into a nostalgic haze, before clearing his throat and continuing. "A-anyway, to become a Twin-Souled Nascent Soul, or just Twin Nascent Soul, one must ascend from a Twin Core. This involved cultivating to the limit of the Core Formation stage, then splitting one's Golden Core into two pieces. With enough mental strength, one can survive this ordeal, and the pieces will heal into two smaller Cores."

"Splitting your own Golden Core in half and living…" Iskander gulped. What kind of freak could possibly survive something like that.

"Insane, I know. The resulting Nascent Soul Tribulation would be twice as powerful, too. If you were to successfully become a Twin Nascent Soul and gift one of your souls to me, I could in theory transmigrate into an empty Nascent Soul body." Lai Bohai explained. As he did so, the possibility of Iskander fulfilling his promise seemed to be falling away from him, getting more and more distant.

As Iskander tried not to despair, the ancient ghost continued speaking. "Just one problem. Each Twin Core is obviously half the size of the original core, so each of the Twin Souls is only half the size of a normal Nascent Soul. Will either of us survive with such an underdeveloped soul? Will we be able to cultivate, or will we backslide until our bodies lack the qi to sustain us and we die?"

"I… I dunno, Senior." Iskander stammered. "I hope not. Is there a way to stop that?"

Lai Bihai chuckled cruelly at the despondent face of his only hope.. "Finally you understand the gravity of the situation. There is; in fact, there are two, and we'll be doing both. Completing the Twelfth Heavenstage strengthens the soul of a Cultivator when they enter the Nascent Soul stage, that will give us a better chance; we'll be weak Nascents, not crippled Nascents."

Well, that set a lot more of Iskander's future in stone, at least. The third of the famous Olympian Keystones, the Twelfth Heavenstage was said to take more than four times as long to reach as the Ninth did, and all but guaranteed that whoever made it there would be a Super Expert, towering over their peers.

Iskander sighed, lowering his head and taking a moment to absorb everything that had been dropped on him. After several moments of silence, he looked back up and once more raised the hilt to eye level. "And the other one?"

"The Eighth Pillar. I do believe one of your Clan's newer heroes famously achieved it a few decades back? What was her name, Mineral?" The ghost paused for a moment before giving up and continuing. "It will not strengthen us physically, but a deep well of positive karma will help us survive the risky procedure."

The Eighth Pillar, that mysterious achievement recently unearthed. If unorthodox stages were an ordeal in Qi Condensation, they were a true heroic labor in Foundation Building, where the gaps and the resource investment between small realms was so much larger. It was said that the gap between the Seventh and Eighth Pillars took as long to cross as it did to complete all four Olympian Keystones. Only true, genuine geniuses ever considered crossing that boundary.

Iskander furrowed his brow and began counting on his fingers. So he was to go from here to Ninth, then Ninth to Thirteenth, then build the normal Seven Pillars, then from Seventh to Eighth, then do whatever a Twin Core entailed. "So that means, uh… Lessee here, nine to ten is as much as one to nine, then ten to eleven is as much as one to ten, so that's like doing one to nine… six times? Or is it seven times? Then do twelve, which is as much as one to five, so that's like going from one to five… fifteen times? Er, wait, lemme go back…"

"Twice as long." Lai Bohai cut in. "The whole journey, from the First Heavenstage to the Twin Core stage, will take you exactly twice as long as going from the FIrst Heavenstage to the normal peak of Core Formation. And that is without factoring in the more powerful tribulations."

All went silent for a while. The wind whistled through the patches of dry scrub grass grass and the moon shone down, illuminating the pair in a mystical silver light.

"I'm telling you all of this because I need you to understand what your promise actually means." The ghost cut in after a while. "I am moved, I really am, which is why I don't want you to ruin your own chances by doing something you were not prepared for. At the end of all of this, you will be a weak Nascent Soul. In half that time, you could become a perfectly average Nascent Soul."

Iskander thought on that for a moment. A long moment, perhaps, but still just one moment. The First Heavenstager held the remains of a Late Nascent Soul in his hand silently. Then, he laughed. It was not a snicker or a chuckle, but the loud, almost violent belly-laugh of a person more amused than they had ever been in their entire life.

That was just the kind of luck he had, then? He was to be tossed about helplessly by fate from one extreme to the next, prevailing vibrantly and suffering deeply? All because he'd felt bad for a sorry old ghost and said 'I'll save you'?

Hilarious. Truly, deeply funny. His face turned red and tears poured from his eyes. He doubled over, laughing so hard he was worried he might pass out. Eventually, after a few minutes, it passed.

After he finished laughing, Iskander looked up at the sky and admired the constellations. "I mean, I get what you're saying, Senior. I really do. But the thing is, when I was little my mom took me by the hand. She looked me in the eye and said 'son, the worth of a man is his ability to some through for others. Always stand by your word, and when you make a promise, follow through."

When Lai Bohai next spoke, it was in a more haggard tone than Iskander was used to hearing from him. He sounded exhausted, spent, and unspeakably old. "Is that how it is? Then I suppose you won't be dissuaded. I dare say, if you betrayed yourself here, you'd be finished."

"Eh? Why's that?"

"Don't worry about it."

Iskander shrugged, then picked up his pack and continued his trek up the hill. As a Junior Aspirant, he wasn't even supposed to be this far out from the Dawn Fortress. Emporikipolis was an exception to that ironclad rule, with visits only permitted if one had the proper visa, and he was no longer within Emporikipolis' city limits. It wouldn't do to linger for longer than necessary. He'd do one twelve-hour cultivation session, then return to the Dawn Fortress before his visa expired.

Except when the young Devil approached the hilltop from which Lai Bohai had felt such a potent resonance of Sword Qi, he found it already occupied.

—-

"The moon's bright tonight." Xiuying murmured, her eye pointed towards the celestial object that hung in the night's sky. The moon held a kind of beauty that couldn't be matched by others. Beauty after all came in many different form. Even ugliness could result in a beauty of some kind. One could not compare the beauty of the moon to the beauty of a skilled cut after all. Pulling her eyes away from the moon, Xiuying turned her eyes to the horizon, her grip on her sword loose and unstrained in a way that only a fool would consider tender.

Xiuying had fought fought those who treat their sword like they would a lover, with both affection and detail. She killed them all without batting an eye. A sword was not a lover after all. A sword is but a tool for cutting, a tool for separating men from their vital fluids.

Tonight, Xiuying could not sleep, a common occurrence since she had formed her Core. The Dao of Sword Law was one that could not be walked without giving up certain things.

She did not hate noodles. Xiuying could still eat and appreciate a good bowl of noodle soup. But gone was her almost zealous reverence of the food. She no longer felt any real passion from cooking noodles nor did she felt the need to expound and demonstrate the wonders of noodles to those ignorant of the food. It was just food after all and as much as she liked eating and cooking it, it paled in comparison to what she felt when she cut.

It hadn't been easy to cut off her own love of noodles, to pare it down to something that no longer threatened to overwhelm her resolve to follow the path of Sword Law.

It had not been long since she had embarked on that mission with Minvera Barda for that garden project of hers. Infiltrating the Poison Maze had been an interesting experience and Xiuying had returned from that mission with new understanding of the sanctioned action that was to cut.

She had born witness to a droplet from the sleeping fangs of the great spider, the Mother of Poisons, cut a nearby Core Expert in half. It had been incomprehensible to her at the time and though she had meditated beneath the terrifying creature to try and understand what had happened. The idea had come to her after she had finished mediating and gathered the droplet of saliva that was able to cut.

Up till now, poisons were merely a slow and nasty way of killing to Xiuying yet discovering a poison that could cut had changed her mind. If there was a poison that was like a cut then would there not be a cut that was like a poison?

Thus, Xiuying was out here in the middle of night, swinging her sword and cutting down imaginary opponents, all while trying to figure out how to make her cut like a poison. To her annoyance, after cutting down the hundredth or so imagination opponent, her sword broke. Xiuying stared at the broken blade before shrugging her shoulders and continued cutting down her imaginary foes, ignoring the broken off blade as it joined several other much like it. Around her were the broken remains of the other half of others swords that hadn't been able to keep up with her strength.

These mortal made swords were simply incapable of handling her skills, regardless of how much she tried to keep them from breaking. For most of her life as a cultivator, Xiuying cared little for the swords that she wielded. What she sought after all was to master the art of Cutting and swords were nothing more than tool for cutting, expendable and replaceable, nothing worth getting all bothered about like she had seen with other swordsmen. She had to admit that she'll enjoyed the sight of young masters freaking out over an old simply made sword cutting through their incredibly valuable weapons that had dozens of high quality regents and material used in their creations.

That said, she was not yet at the same level of her master who could create breathtakingly beautiful Cuts with nothing but an old rusted blunt sword and Xiuying couldn't afford to keep having her weapon break beyond all use all the time, especially now that she was now a Core Formation expert with more responsibilities.

It was time to invest in some higher quality weapons, ones that could at least keep up with her cultivation.

Regardless of her sword's quality, Xiuying continued to swing her sword against an imagined opponent.

Each swing sung through the air, leaving behind trails of moonlight that reflected off the metal of the blade. Though the sword in Xiuying's hand may be broken, it still held a long and very sharp edge filled with Xiuying's Will.

—-

"Mm, not bad, not bad at all…" Lai Bohai mused appreciatively. "Pay close attention, boy. That one is going places."

The ghost need not have said anything, for Iskander didn't even hear him. His gaze remained utterly transfixed on the gorgeous motions of that woman's blade. She had to be an Elder, that much was certainly true. He'd seen Experts spar from time to time, and none of them had possessed this sort of profundity in their martial arts.

His brain seemed to speed up faster and faster as he studied the way this mysterious practitioner moved. The weapon in her hand didn't seem to have any meaning at all; it was simply the outlet through which her will and her martial arts were channeled. The fact that there was no wasted motion, of course, went without saying; every movement was without flaw and without doubt.

Little by little, other figures came into focus. Iskander saw the outlines of the foes this Elder was slaying. He saw the moonlight glinting off their imaginary weapons, and the arcs in which their imaginary blood flew as they were struck.

"This is what the way of the sword means, Iskander." Lai Bohai declared, as another opponent lost his head. "It carries not the might of the Body Arts, or the versatility of alchemy, or the destructive power of curses or elementalism. It is a unity of purpose, the perfection of combat."

The Twelfth Heavenstage, the Eighth Pillar and the Twin Core. That wasn't really so tough, was it? If his blade could sing so beautifully, then anything would be possible - Iskander could achieve all that and more. His determination, which had been threatening to crumble beneath his optimistic facade, rebuilt itself stronger than ever before in that moment, beneath the light of the moon.

Iskander didn't dare talk to that Elder, didn't dare ask her name, for to do so would mean she would stop practicing those beautiful forms. Instead he stood there patiently, and for the first time in his life, began to truly understand his own path.

—-

And there's Iskander's second omake. I'm gonna try and put out one more before the turn is fully over so he can go into his first fate roll with a wordcount of around 10,000 words. I'll aim for that number every turn from now on, since this guy is my low-maintenance secondary seed.

I was thinking on who to do a Trianing Juniors collab with, and found myself stumped for a bit. None of the current pool of experts were really clicking, but then I remembered Xiuying was around. I asked @shibosho if he wanted to do this and he graciously agreed. From there, I came up with an idea for how to frame the whole thing.

Iskander, as noted in the previous omake, is not a pure sword art specialist; his way of doing things is more flexible and scrappy, although still mostly focused on swordplay. Even so, seeing an expression of the Sword Arts so pure and profound that they cause the local Dragonlines to resonate with Sword Qi is the sort of thing that would have a major impact on any Sword Artist.

 

[no.]

Iskander Palikari 2 - Nostalgia Painted in Clouds​

Lai Bohai never got used to the air up here, no matter how much time passed. Twelve miles above the sea, the air got so thin that mortals simply could not survive at all, and those in Qi Condensation struggled to stay conscious. As a Nascent Soul, something like this did not actually affect his health, but it aggravated his lungs and made Lai Bohai yearn to return to the lowlands.

Looking out down from the seat of his power, he beheld a sea of clouds below, pierced here and there by similarly tall mountains. The winter brought an intense chill at this elevation which forced lesser Sect Members to bundle up in fur-lined robes had no effect on a Late Nascent Soul, and he had grown tired of pretending that it did. Thus, he wore only a pair of baggy pants and a loose-fitting robe more fit for the summertime.

Half a mile below, in a hollow opening in the mountaintop, lay The Crag, the fortress at the heart of the Unconquered Tiger Sect. All the way up here and protected on all sides, the heart of Lai Bohai's influence was impossible to besiege. The base was carved directly into the mountain itself and went down several sub-basements deep, then built up into the sky from that sturdy foundation. This whole organization was simply a means to an end, his way of rebelling against the status quo, and yet he could not deny feeling some muted sense of pride looking down upon it. That was why this particular spot at the highest point of the mountain offered the best view; not only could he see the things he had built, but the wildness of the outside world as well.

Picking up a loose stone, Lai Bohai tested the weight by tossing it up and down in his hand, before flinging it hard at one of the other mountain peaks. It sailed through the air before disappearing in the distance; a rather underwhelming result. That was foolish; obviously he wouldn't be able to see if it hit or not.

"But isn't that the point?" A woman's voice spoke up behind him. Every muscle in the old swordsman's body tensed up for an instant out of reflex, before he registered who it had come from.

The Green Sage, his old partner in crime, was as usual near-completely covered up. She wore a mask carved with abstract patterns, with a translucent veil over the mask and a hood over the veil. Her elaborate robes and gloves hid every inch of her body, and were, as the name suggested, mostly in green. She stood ramrod-straight, hands folded behind her back, and looked into the distance with eerie stillness.

"The point of what?" Lai Bohai asked, turning to face his second-in-command and tucking a long strand of hair behind his head.

"Life? Cultivation? All of this?" The Green Sage replied with a tilt of her head, her voice almost childlike in its friendly inquiry. "We cast stones out, and despite not being able to see where they fall, we aim for the right target."

"You're very good at pretending to be profound, friend." Lai Bohai sighed, though he couldn't help but let a small smile creep onto his face. "But why are you here? It's rare for neither of us to be cultivating at any given time."

The sage's tone lost any feeling of amusement as she got down to business. "Word has arrived from Greater Xing; the Imperial Army has put down their uprising."

Lai Bohai clicked his tongue and scowled. Greater Xing was a fairly large and wealthy province, thick with dense, humid jungles and craggy mountains alike. The rebellion he stirred up there should have held out much longer. "How in the world did they manage that?"

"Brute force, I'm afraid." His subordinate uttered disdainfully. "Four generals, two Late Nascents and two strong Mid Nascents, each with a few million soldiers. The emperor, it seems, wished to settle the matter quickly, rather than let that wound fester."

The Grand Elder muttered a curse under his breath. After all the attention he'd paid to Greater Xing, all the influence he had exerted for the past two centuries, he had expected them to stand for centuries in turn. "Did they at least put in a good showing?" He sighed.

At that question, the Green Sage nodded vigorously, some happiness quickly re-entering her voice. "Oh yes. Reports show that our revolutionaries killed three times their number. One Late Nascent and one Mid Nascent among them, and the other Mid Nascent was hurt quite badly."

Lai Bohai crossed his arms, mentally running through an endless list of economic calculations. "Then at least we got our money's worth. More, actually."

"That is all I have to report, Grand Elder. Shall I leave you to your quietude?" The sage concluded, having returned fully to that aggravatingly serene tone of hers. She punctuated her question with a bow.

"...no." He replied, after thinking on it for a moment. "I wasn't really doing anything anyway. Stay if you'd like."

The sage did indeed stay, but said relatively little from that point onward. She soon sat down to cultivate, and he did the same, and they passed a few months in quiet companionship in that way. There were very few people Lai Bohai trusted so much that he would fall into a deep trance right in front of them, but the Green Sage was one of the most dependable people he knew, and they had saved each other's lives more than once.

Only… this didn't quite feel right. Something was off, setting Lai Bohai's nerves a-jitter. A pervasive feeling of being ever so slowly crushed hung about the old sword master no matter how deep a trance he tried to enter. Finally, his eyes flew open and he shot up to his feet. The Green Sage quickly followed suit, no doubt worried that her superior had sensed some threat that she had missed.

Lai Bohai paced back and forth, drawing his sword and swinging it aimlessly. He must have looked like a madman in that moment, mumbling half-words under his breath and attacking nothing at all. He was burning up inside, too much energy trapped in a too-small vessel. He couldn't fucking breathe, the air up here was just too thin!

No, Lai Bohai realized, it wasn't just the thin air up here that aggravated his lungs. The air everywhere tasted more stale than it had in his youth. The power in the land was declining, and everyone could feel it. Some denied this phenomenon, believing it only a momentary cosmological downturn before the world returned to its natural state, but those with sense knew better. Already, only one Spirit Severing Cultivator remained in this Region.

Emperor Chang Guang held the Mantle of Heaven in these lands not through virtue or wisdom, but through might. As the only person in his empire to attain the fifth Great Realm, he was nearly unassailable, and any Great Circle Nascent who could potentially rise to challenge him was instead brought into the fold. Great Circles were flattered, they were given privilege, and they were provided any luxury they could imagine in the capital and its surrounding lands.

But that left the Great Cloud Empire's periphery weak. Chang Guang's fear of being overthrown ensured that only Late Nascents and below governed the vast majority of his territory, which meant an unusually strong Late Nascent like Lai Bohai could run rampant. So long as he did not cause such a huge fuss that the emperor himself left his throne unguarded to personally kill him, Lai Bohai could continue to amass strength, reach the Great Circle, and maybe even ascend to Spirit Severing himself.

"The higher you climb the more wrong it feels. The easier it is to know that it's all going to shit…" The Grand Elder muttered, slamming the Wailing Conqueror back into its sheath.

Suddenly, a hand pressed down on his shoulder, weighty and encouraging. "You must calm yourself, Grand Elder." Said the Green Sage, a soothing tone coming out from behind her impassive mask.

"If I knew how to do that, I'd have avoided so many mistakes." He scoffed in response, brushing off her silk-gloved hand.

It was too irritating; how could Lai Bohai possibly cultivate in one spot when his insides felt so dried out and each breath gave him not quite enough life? He had to move, had to exert himself, had to feel like a living being with blood in his veins again.

"I'm going out again, just for a few days." Said Lai Bohai, rubbing the pommel of his sword with his thumb. The edges of the inlaid jewels scraped against his calloused skin in a pleasing way, serving to calm his mind. "I need to cut something."

The Green Sage clicked her tongue disapprovingly "A Grand Elder shouldn't have so much bloodlust. It damages one's ability to lead."

Lai Bohai let out a bark of frustrated laughter at that remark. "What Grand Elder!? I sure don't see one around here!" He spread his arms theatrically. "We're just bandits with a political cause. You dress it all up too much."

"It is not important to dress things up?" The Green Sage asked, circling right back into her playful tone. "Is dressing up not the thing that makes men into more than beasts?"

"I was always bad at pretending to be human." The Grand Elder sighed, rubbing the pommel of his sword harder than before. "And nothing important is going on right now, nothing you would need my presence for."

Indeed, now that the Green Sage had recently elevated herself to Late Nascent, many things had been easier. Between the two of them and their Mid Nascent subordinate Zeng Pengfei, they were much more flexible in where they could go and what they could do. As such, Lai Bohai had grown anxious with seclusion more frequently than he used to.

The sage went silent for a moment, contemplating Lai Bohai's words. It wasn't just her hidden face that made her hard to figure out, but the way she moved as well. The sage was primarily a Soul Artist, but she was also an excellent practitioner of Body Arts. The flawless control she exerted over even the tiniest motions made her body language nearly unreadable.

Finally, she spoke again, shrugging her shoulders with a great heaving motion. "If taking a sabbatical will bring back the wise leader who has given us so many victories, then perhaps it is for the best. Be free for a while; should anything truly urgent occur, I shall send a signal."

"Thanks. I'll be seeing you." Lai Bohai bowed politely, then took to the air.

—-

It didn't take too long to find something to do. Exploring for a few hours a day and cultivating for the rest of it, Lai Bohai covered ground fast, moving in a spiral pattern around his Sect which gradually widened.

In the first year, he hunted a few Nascent-level Spirit Beasts, which provided some degree of entertainment. In the second, he discovered a deep canyon he had previously been unaware of, and went delving for secrets. There ultimately wasn't much down there that could be useful to him, but he sent a Thunder Hawk back to the sect to notify them of his discovery. It was not until the third year, however, that Lai Bohai truly found the kind of amusement he had been searching for.

Heading in the direction of the Heavenly Magnate Sect was a procession of wagons, each of them armored and carved in all manner of warding arrays. All in all, a very expensive production, probably worth more than whatever they were carrying. Well, that just wouldn't do at all.

The Unconquered Tiger Sect had been thorough in stopping any trade between the Heavenly Magnate Sect and the Imperial Capital, gradually weakening the group they had once seceeded from. It wasn't quite time for Lai Bohai to return to his old Sect and reconquer it - it would be wise to starve them for another century at least.

Crashing through the sound barrier and letting the shattering of the air announce his presence, the old sword master flew ahead of the procession and hovered above them in plain view. He surveyed them for a moment; A gaggle of Core Formation Elders, some with Foundation Building attendants, with a Mid Nascent at the front. Interestingly, he couldn't quite tell which was which - even this close, those wards were still greatly warping his senses.

Indeed, sending so many powerful Cultivators to guard a transport of supplies was obscene… were they not needed to power wards that would hide them from even the spiritual senses of a Late Nascent. "I have to say, this is a new trick. I only found you because I got lucky." Lai Bohai proclaimed, pointing one hand at the convoy to help direct his will. "Take that small victory to the grave."

The effect of the Soul Crush and its ability to instantly kill one's lessers varied between one Nascent to the next. The common consensus was that a Nascent could kill anyone less than or equal to exactly one Great Realm below them. Thus, Mid Nascents could crush up to Mid Core, and Late Nascents could crush up to Late Core. Lai Bohai was relatively unskilled with manipulation of the soul(though he was pretty damn good at cutting ghosts), so his Soul Crush was on the weak side.

As he brought his strength to bear, another's came to meet it. The two great wills clashed, formless and colorless but utterly immense in their magnitude. Anyone in Foundation immediately collapsed, as did a few of the weakest Cores, but the rest weathered it. Lai Bohai's attention shifted to the source of the resistance, a large man with a long beard almost entirely obscured by a thick, heavy cloak. There was the Nascent.

"I thought I smelled something funny around here." Lai Bohai chuckled, touching down in front of the other Nascent and flashing a savage smile. The subordinates quickly - and smartly - withdrew behind their superior. "The emperor really thought he could sneak this little convoy of yours right under my nose? Give the Heavenly Magnate Sect those much-needed supplies? That ain't how this works."

"You're the Vermillion Cloud Hunter, Lai Bohai?" The convoy leader asked, taking a deep breath and shrugging off his cloak to reveal a suit of heavy armor brimming with mighty enchantments. Immediately, the man's cultivation rocketed up into Late Nascent. Lai Bohai tensed up in response, immediately re-evaluating the situation. This wasn't the bullying he'd thought he was in for, it was a genuine rumble.

The other Nascent grinned, amused at Lai Bohai's reaction. "Really got one over on you, huh? I paid a lot for that trick." He laughed, carefully folding his cloak and handing it off to a subordinate. Tricks within tricks; no doubt the man's cultivation had been suppressed by that cloak to draw Lai Bohai in. "You're a lot smaller than I expected. A lot dumber too!"

The enemy drew a pair of large sabers from his hips, looking every bit as enthusiastic about this battle as Lai Bohai did. "My name is Tang Ying. The emperor promised me that if I killed you, he'd give me your Sect after it's conquered. Nothing personal."

The prospect of a fight to the death set his blood alight, long-suppressed energy boiling out of him. Lai Bohai drew his Wailing Conqueror in one quick motion, mist already swirling at his feet. "You're not the first person he's promised that to, you know. You won't be the last either."

This was exactly what he needed, exactly what he'd been missing for so long. A real slobberknocker of a battle, one that would test his limits once more. First he'd put this asshole away, then the Heavenly Mandate Sect, and then another chunk of the Cloud Empire after that. Lai Bohai keep his revolution going as long as he had any life left in him at all.

With a surge of preternatural power, his blade flashed–

—-

"Senior? Senior?" Iskander asked, tapping on the side of the Wailing Conqueror's hilt and making it wobble slightly. "Come on Senior, you said you'd make up today. I'm gonna stay down there longer today and get two kills. You said you'd be awake for that one."

The ghost's first few words came out so slurred, Iskander had no idea what was being said in the slightest. After a moment, Lai Bohai cleared his nonexistent throat, returning fully to the land of the living. "Right, right, I did say that, didn't I? Okay, I'm up."

Iskander picked up the hilt and made to fasten it to his side as he normally did, before pausing for a moment, then raising it up to eye level. "Senior, are you alright? You seem sad?"

"Sad? No, I wouldn't say that." The old ghost muttered. "Overthinking doesn't suit you, let's get going."

—-

This one is a little different; it's a flashback to Lai Bohai's life in the Great Cloud Empire. There's going to be plenty of these in the future, drip-feeding information to the audience as it becomes relevant. The version of events described in the original omake(the one which inspired Iskander's whole existence) is still broadly accurate but not completely, and there are many missing twists and details besides.

I ended up going with this because, to be frank, there isn't that much going on in a First Heavenstager's life. Iskander also doesn't have as much initial craziness going on in his life as Gaius did, meaning there aren't that many notable events to write about before his first Fate Roll.

This is fun because it gives me an opportunity to explore what it's like to be a Nascent Soul, particularly one who's not burdened by poor cultivation talent like Manuel is. Because of that, Lai Bohai has a bit more freedom than Manuel, who has to cultivate for an average of over 23 hours a day. It also helps that these flashbacks are set thousands of years in the past, when the qi was thicker, Spirit Severing was not quite as impossible, and more people became Nascent Souls.

Lai Bohai is also someone with a lot of depth who has lived long enough to be many different people at different points in that life. This omake takes place in what I call the Che Phase, where Lai Bohai is a rebel leader constantly working to undermine the Great Cloud Empire.

He's a lot less tired and mellow here than he is in the modern day. All those years being passed from one hand to another has long since worn down most of his pride and left him weary with the world.

 

[no.]

Iskander Palikari 3 - Riddles and Curiosity​

A pair of blades clashed again and again under the burning desert sun, their wielders unconcerned with the heat. Being Devils, they were used to it, or at least as used to the desert as any human ever could be.

Iskander's movements were sharp and purposeful, each strike carefully lined up and timed as a counter-hit. He never blocked straight on, instead deflecting incoming blows off to the side to open up his opponent. The body of a Third Heavenstager was a huge step up from one in the Second in its ability to process information, react to it and do so swiftly. To his previous self, moving this way would have felt dizzying and hard to control, but his body and brain could handle it without issue now.

Even so, the gulf between himself and his opponent was wide. His blows were batted aside, while hers were tough to budge. Inevitably, Iskander was forced back, disarmed, and knocked to the ground.

"The form you're using is pretty advanced for a beginner. You'd be better off starting with something simpler." Said Iskander's opponent, looming over him and offering a hand up which he gladly took. A tall woman with wild hair, Aurelia was a Legionnaire of the DCXXII Noble Fangs. She was one of a rotating circle of Seniors Iskander could occasionally rope into sparring with him.

Iskander bashfully looked away as he reached down to pick up his saber. "A, uh, a teacher of mine said the Saint of War Style suited me, and that if I stuck with it early on I'd master it sooner."

Aurellia rolled her eyes at Iskander's evasiveness. "Well, ask this teacher of yours if he'd like for you to keep both hands. You ought to pick up a simpler form, master that so your style is complete, then work on something advanced."

"I-I'll be sure to do that, Senior." He replied hesitantly. He shouldn't have brought up his teacher at all - the secret of the ghost who advised Iskander had thus far been kept under wraps not because of any particularly deft deception on the Aspirant's part so much as a relative lack of interest in his private life from anyone who would have had the power to pry into it.

The brief exchange of words over, the two got back to sparring, which consisted mainly of Iskander getting his ass kicked. He didn't mind in the slightest - losing fights was better practice than winning them, if you could keep yourself from getting too mad.

After a few rounds, though, the silence was soon broken again, this time by Iskander. "I wonder what kind of style Rina Callista uses. Is it true that she was super strong even as a baby?" He wondered aloud as he took a moment to catch his breath.

"Couldn't tell you." Aurelia shrugged. "I bet she masters any style she tries, that's how the drivers of history are."

"Drivers of history?" Iskander asked. "You mean like, national history? Isn't the way that history goes sorta… no one's decision?" At least, that was Lai Bohai's opinion on the topic, at least.

"Yeah well, anyone who says history is written by trends isn't seeing the whole picture." Aurelia explained, clinging her saber over his shoulder. "History is written by cheaters."

Iskander got to one knee, then slowly wobbled back up to both feet. "What kinda cheaters? Like, people who break the law?"

Auralia scoffed. "No, people who break common sense. People who can do things that ordinary people can't even dream of; people who look at life differently from you or me."

Iskander silently thought about that comment for a moment. Did he have something like that? He supposed Lai Bohai's advice counted as a unique advantage, but the old ghost couldn't actually help him do things. And while he only had his own viewpoint as a reference, the Aspirant wasn't sure he saw the world in a different way than most people did.

"They're cheaters because the things most people struggle with don't phase them, I suppose." The Legionnaire concluded with a shrug. "All people like us can do is try to survive in the wake they leave behind."

"But it can't be that simple, can it?" Iskander asked, taking up the stance of the Saint of War Style again and holding his saber at the ready.

The conversation was put on hold as the two of them went into another round of sparring. Inevitably, Iskander hit the ground again, but he took pride in the fact that as the rounds went on, he was lasting a little bit longer each time.

"If it was such a simple thing to overcome," Aurelia said between heavy breaths, kneeling down and holding out a hand to Iskander. "It wouldn't be called cheating. All we can do is hone ourselves and hope for the best."

Iskander took her hand and let himself be hauled up, already thinking about what he had just done wrong and how he could have rectified his mistakes. But even as he began yet another round, the words he had exchanged with his Senior Sister stuck around in his mind.

Xiao Yingzi, one of the greatest generals alive at just two hundred years of age, who some believed ought to be the Grand Elder someday despite not being of Devil heritage. Wei Feng, probably the most powerful Foundation Building Cultivator in the world, so much so he was already an Elder without being in Core Formation. The Invincible Idiots, a trio of Thirteenth Heavenstagers who all reached the stage before they turned one hundred and who intended to find the furthest possible limits of what cultivation could achieve. And that went without mentioning the Kings.

How would Iskander defeat a person like that, if he had to? He had his hands full enough just improving his sword skills and funding his cultivation. How could someone like him overcome someone who strolled through life with such wild success? As he was thrown to the ground again and again, he continued to ponder the riddle.

Eventually, the boy was too exhausted to properly maintain his form, and Aurelia commanded him to go do something else, as she had her own business to take care of. That day, Iskander's cultivation was unsteady, though he wasn't sensing any kind of physical bottleneck. Properly opening up each accupoint one by one and purging it of impurity was certainly more challenging than the much simpler cycling he'd been doing prior to the Third Heavenstage, but he had progressed at a decent pace thus far. No, he just wasn't working as efficiently as usual because his thoughts were still clouded.

The riddle soon followed Iskander to bed, where Iskander lay awake, questioning whether or not to bug his Senior and ask the old ghost's opinion. If Lai Bohai counted as a 'cheat', then it would only be smart to make the best use of him that he could, right? He reached toward the hilt, where it lay by his cot in a small cloth bag, then stopped.

He recalled an earlier lesson, where Lai Bohai had told him that one of the biggest risks for a Cultivator was the risk of becoming incurious. 'Curiosity,' he'd said, 'Can create danger, but it is also a Cultivator's greatest weapon against their own self. A mind with the capacity and willingness to grow is a mind more prepared to tangle with the intricacies of the great Dao.'

Curiosity, huh? It wouldn't be very curious to ask an old fart who'd lived twenty-eight hundred years as a human and five thousand more as a ghost. He'd approach this in his own way.

Iskander rolled out of bed and retrieved his Compression Pouch. Buying this had really made him wince, but Lai Bohai had insisted he get one so he wouldn't embarrass himself carrying around huge packs anymore. Pulling it open, he marveled at the way it swallowed up his hand, the way space distorted around his wrist when he plunged it in, and the oddly disconnected sensation of fumbling around in there.

After a solid minute of finangling, Iskander got a rectangular block of wood out of the pouch, followed by a large sheaf of parchment and a hunk of charcoal. He sat on the floor with his legs crossed, balanced the block on his legs and began to write.

Dear Little Creek,

I haven't written in a while. I'm sorry about that, it's just that not much has happened in a while either. Cultivators live really slow lives - you wait years for new things to happen, and the only way to get strong is to just train hard, be patient and keep at what you're doing. Though I guess it's not really that different from how mortals get good at stuff.

It paid off though, since I finally became an Aspirant; I reached the Third Heavenstage, which means I can leave the Dawn Fortress whenever I want. Well, I can technically do that, but since I need to keep making Contribution Points all the time so I can keep cultivating, it really just means that I can leave with one of the Legions. But I was getting sick of being in the Fortress, so I signed up for the Noble Fangs for the next five years, and now I do their chores. The work is harder than ever, but being around Legionnaires all the time means that sometimes, if they've got free time, they'll give you some training for free, and there's nothing I need more these days than free stuff.

I've been practicing my sword fighting every day, and I really do think I'm getting better at it. Recently I heard that it takes ten thousand hours to master a trade, so I tried to figure out how many hours I've been training for. I couldn't figure it out though; if there's a stage of cultivation that makes you better at math, I haven't reached it yet.

I'm writing because of something I've been thinking about today which has me stumped. My Senior Sister told me that some people are just plain better because they're cheaters. Not because cheating at a contest, but because they have things that make life a lot easier for them than for anybody else. I was wondering to myself; if I had to compete with someone like that, someone so far above me that they see the world in a different way, how could I do it? I'm pretty stumped so far, but I figure there's gotta be an answer.

I guess that's all I've got for you right now. I wish I could tell you that something amazing right out of a storybook happened to me, but it just hasn't. I'll keep at it, until I'm somebody who can make people smile the way that wanderer made us smile. So far though, I don't see many smiles like that from the Golden Devils. They'll laugh at jokes, they'll grin when they see something they like, and the mean ones will smirk at you, but they hardly ever share those genuine smiles from the heart. Maybe it's a Cultivator thing, or maybe it's just a Devil thing.

Much love,

• Iskander Palikari

Yeah, that seemed pretty good, right? Iskander wasn't much of a wordsmith, but that got across everything he was feeling pretty well.

The next morning, before running off to join the Noble Fangs on their next expedition, Iskander briefly put away all of his thoughts and worries to focus on the task at hand. This was a short and simple task, simply a scouting mission around the foothills of Turtlebone Mountain. The spirit beasts that dwelled on that ancient and massive mountain could grow very powerful, and every so often one or a few would wander down into the lowlands and cause trouble. The Noble Fangs were simply going to march around, have a look around and search for any signs of Core Formation or Nascent Soul level beasts approaching Golden Devil territory.

But of course, the details of the operation were something for the Legate and his Centurions to worry about, not an Aspirant like Iskander. No, the jobs of the lowest-ranked members of the Legion was simply to keep everything running on the ground level. They cleaned and polished the armor, they sharpened and mended the weapons, they prepared and cooked the food and, if they had the proper training and experience, they acted as assistants to the physicians of the Medical Corps. And of course, if they were not already busy with a task, an Aspirant could be ordered by a Legionnaire to perform any number of miscellaneous tasks.

The next night, as Iskander peeled his way through a giant pile of potatoes, he found himself thinking back to his riddle. What would he do against someone with a technique that could kill him in one hit? A sword could technically already kill him in one hit, right? So it wouldn't be that different. But what if they had an ability that attacked and defended, like… infinite super-hard sweat? How would Iskander deal with super-strong sweat?

Such thoughts continued through the next week, as Iskander performed menial tasks one after another, at the command of whichever Legionnaire currently needed him. An Aspirant's usual duties weren't really that different from a Junior Aspirant's. The main deviation was that they had both more and less freedom. When working as part of a Legion, they were to do as their superiors commanded rather than taking on chores voluntarily. The Legion needed a constant, unceasing stream of labor, which meant the Aspirants generally worked harder and for longer than they would in the Dawn Fortress, and so they made a lot more points than one would doing chores back home.

The other big change, of course, was that Aspirants had far more chances to get in over their head. When not acting as part of a Legion, an Aspirant could leave the Dawn Fortress whenever they wanted and take missions as they pleased. A mission asking for a single Legionnaire could usually be completed by a single Aspirant… usually. There was certainly some risk involved, and Iskander had thought long and hard about just jumping in before Lai Bohai talked him out of it. Better to be introduced to more advanced Cultivator combat as part of a group before trying it on his own, that had been the argument, and it wasn't one Iskander could beat.

The days stretched on, and soon the Legion completed their mission without anything out of the ordinary occuring. The only combat Iskander saw was when he accompanied a few different hunting parties. Even then, he didn't get to fight himself, as the Legionnaires who brought him along only needed the Aspirant as an assistant; a helping hand to harvest the kill, carry supplies and whatnot. When Iskander returned to the Dawn Fortress once more, he found himself bereft of both new experiences and answers to his conundrum.

How could the ordinary defeat the extraordinary? Was it as simple as pure skill, just honing normal abilities enough to overcome such gaps? But what if the enemy's 'cheat' was one that completely nullified the skill brought to bear? He supposed he'd have to outwit them into not using it, or using it in a way that couldn't stop him, as opposed to a way that could. But someone with a cheat would be more familiar with it than him, so surely they would see any manipulation coming. Every potential answer only raised more questions, and so Iskander abandoned the riddle temporarily, lest it consume him entirely.

While returning to Clotho's apartment to change his clothes and cultivate before heading out to his next mission, Iskander stopped by the post station and was handed a rolled-up piece of parchment, bound in simple, sturdy string and sealed with chunky wax. His face lighting up, he snatched up the parchment and ran home, kicking up dust as he ran.

As he entered, Iskander said only a few words of greeting to Clotho, who looked up from her breakfast to find him already dashing into the bedroom. As he closed the door, he caught her shrugging and returning to her meal. Thinking no more of his lethargic roommate, Iskander broke the seal off with the nail of his thumb - far easier to do than it was when he was a mortal - and began reading.

Dear Iskander Palikari,

This is Hu Jie, the current mayor of Little Creek. I am not entirely sure who you intended your letter to reach, as you merely addressed it to the town itself. You always did focus on grand, sweeping gestures and missed the smaller details. It is good to see that life as a Cultivator has not ground down your most charming traits. I would recommend that in the future you write to individual people, but I suppose it is expensive to send mail across such a long distance, and you have written in the past about your need to carefully budget.

It is good to hear of your success thus far; I have heard stories of people who went off to enter the world of cultivation, only to quit and return after decades, having achieved almost nothing. I can only surmise it is thanks to your own drive that you have found early progress, and all of us will continue to hope for your future.

As for your riddle, I was not sure myself what the answer might be, so I decided to have your letter passed around the town, and asked the residents to write their opinion on the riddle on the other side. Most of the answers were things like 'poison them before they have the chance to fight you' or 'negotiate with them if you have the chance', but I don't think such things got to the heart of the matter. However, Pan Ning, the wise old crone that she is, had something more substantive to offer.

She posited that the problem which you pose, of overcoming something inherently, fundamentally greater than oneself, is one that every Cultivator who ever lived has reckoned with. That looking up, beholding the majesty of the moon and the stars, that looking down and feeling the unfathomable mass of the world itself, seeds a deep frustration in the heart of humankind. Cultivation, she claimed, is the manifestation of that frustration, an attempt to overcome that feeling of smallness. Perhaps the answer to the riddle, then, is to understand why you really cultivate and who you really are in order to open the way toward victory.

As for bringing a smile from the heart to a Golden Devil's face, I don't know if I can do anything to help. They are a people who have been hurt many times, and hurt others many times in turn. Theirs is a blood-drenched history that has scarred their very culture, creating wounds that are passed down from parents to their children. I think they do smile that way in private, but I can imagine most of them are very reluctant to share such vulnerability openly.

I'm sorry, it seems that in the end, I have very little to offer you. It is said by some that the world of mortals is merely a cradle from which Cultivators must arise, and I can understand the sentiment. We do not live in the same world anymore, Iskander, but there is one thing I think will always be true: Do not lose sight of the feelings that brought you where you are today. Do what you know in your heart to be right, and don't let yourself be ruined by whatever power you may come to possess.

• Hu Jie, writing on behalf of Little Creek

Iskander scanned the letter several times, contemplating it intensely, before finally setting it down on the small desk he shared with Clotho. He didn't move, even though he ought to have already begun cultivating. Wasting time is a privilege of mortals, not something befitting a Cultivator - that was what his teachers had pressed into him at the academy, and while Lai Bohai was not as insistent as they, he was of a firm belief that time management was a cornerstone of a successful Cultivator's life.

But Iskander didn't begin cultivating yet, didn't do anything of consequence besides just… thinking. "To overcome a cheater, think about why you cultivate in the first place." He muttered softly, more mouthing the words than truly speaking them. Reaching into his Compression Pouch, he pulled out a spirit stone; it was oblong, about an inch long and half as wide, and glimmered in iridescent colors.

The stuff of creation, the essence of reality, between his fingers. On its own it held no meaning, it was simply energy. It was up to him to channel the qi inside, to give it meaning and make it a part of himself. "Why am I doing this?" He asked quietly. The stone said nothing at all.

—-

I ended up having more time to write than I knew what to do with, so Iskander got a fourth omake I guess. When I said I didn't know what else to do with him for now because a First Heavenstage has very little freedom, I forgot that, since I did Training Juniors, he's guaranteed to reach at least the Fifth Heavenstage this turn. Still, I want the fate rolls to play a big part in his development moving forward, so I don't want to set too many things in stone before his first turn.

Iskander is, as I've mentioned before, a very different character than Gaius. He's certainly a more heroic character, for one. I guess you could say that Gaius is a classical hero while Iskander is a modern hero, and that is the main source for their differences. Iskander is also a more flexible character, designed to be taken in any number of ways, whereas the broad strokes of Gaius' path have always been laid out before him, both in universe and out.

This omake is all about getting some balls rolling so that they can knock down pins down the line. How do you defeat someone with a totally paradigm-shifting advantage? Will Iskander be able to keep his innocence? What will his Dao become? Even so, they are broad, fairly open concepts, leaving this whole thing more about character-building than anything else.

 

[no.]

Iskander Pallikari 4 - Homework​

On the merits and demerits of various common weapons in Cultivator combat

This article isn't mine, I'm just writing down some stuff a friend is telling me. I'm not showing it to anybody, I'm just using it to study, so if you're reading this and you're not me, stop snooping through my stuff! Everything after this is his words, except for when a word is big and I don't know how to spell it; then I'm gonna ask him for another word. Okay go.

Weapon Arts, when taken as a whole, are the most common way for Cultivators to fight. The only real exception are some Body Artists who have refined their techniques enough to forgo weapons entirely, an approach to which there are advantages and drawbacks. Otherwise, any Cultivator, regardless of their specialty, will learn at least some basic Weapon Arts for the purpose of self-defense.

That naturally leads to a debate: which weapon is the best? An imbecilic question - there is no weapon which stands above all others, because there are many ways to end a life. What I intend to do here is simply a tutorial of sorts for new Cultivators who wish to specialize in the Weapon Arts. They say that the way you start your path will shape your future, so one must choose wisely.

Sword

There are three candidates for 'the king of weapons' which remain consistent in every culture: the sword, the bow and the spear. The sword for single combat, the spear for massed combat and the bow for long-range combat. That's not to say that other weapons cannot measure up to these three, but that they see the broadest use because of their broad and consistent capabilities.

The sword takes many forms, which determine how it is used: double edged or single edged, curved or straight, broad-bladed or thin-bladed, and so on. I personally prefer a nice double-edged straight sword with a sturdy guard, but my mastery is broad enough to adjust for any number of types. In most cases, a sword will be able to both slash and thrust, as well as bash with the pommel or guard, and these three types of attack make up sword fighting.

A Cultivator uses a sword much like a mortal would; parrying aside the opponent's blows and striking back in whichever way is most suitable. Superhuman strength and speed does not particularly alter the ways in which a sword is swung, with the exception of greatswords, which become more practical to use in one hand. The relative ease with which a sword can be carried on one's person and drawn when needed makes it a very popular sidearm for Cultivators not specialized in melee combat.

The appeal of the Sword Arts is in this versatility. Boosting one's attack power to the highest possible extent and having multiple ways of delivering that attack power, as well as a decent tool for defense, means that a Sword Artist is rarely without any effective tools to draw upon. That said, while a Sword Artist will have a somewhat broader range of capabilities, they will fall a bit short of the more focused, razor-sharp capabilities of more specialized weapons.

There is also, of course, the Flying Sword. Because a double-bladed sword is dangerous everywhere except the hilt, it makes a surprisingly effective ranged weapon… except for the fact it is not balanced for throwing at all. By acting as a vector for telekinesis, the Flying Sword eliminates that last issue, becoming a weapon which is dangerous both up close and at range. Some swords are even designed to be more aerodynamic, under the assumption that they will be used as Flying Swords.

The Flying Sword is a controversial weapon; while it does indeed add even more versatility to an already broadly useful weapon, some say that training in Flying Sword use alongside regular swordplay causes the artist to spread themselves thin. There is also the fact that using a Flying Sword for long periods of time can be draining for artists without robust qi reserves. On top of that, you're throwing your own weapon, leaving you empty-handed and thus weakening your defense. You could fight with a sword in hand and a Flying Sword(or even multiple!) at range at the same time, but now you're burning through qi even faster.

Some Sword Artists scoff at the Flying Sword as nothing more than a toy, while others fight with several at a time. Ultimately, it is another question of the generalist versus the specialist; broad applicability versus singular focus.

Spear

Another one of the 'kings of weapons', the spear is less varied than the sword in the number of attacks available. All spears are made to stab, and while some have heads designed to also slash, these slashes are inevitably more unwieldy than those of a sword. The haft can also be used to bash when the spear is held in both hands; a useful tool for when the enemy steps inside your range.

Speaking of range: that is the appeal of the spear, the ability to attack an enemy from far enough away that they cannot fight back. It is also prized for its ability to be used en masse with other spears - the thrusting of an entire row of spearmen is a truly fearsome thing. Finally, some spears can be thrown, though not all are balanced for throwing.

When used by a Cultivator, the spear suddenly becomes a more versatile weapon than before. Normally, only shorter spears are practical for throwing, but with the aid of a Cultivator's superhuman strength, even a pike can be thrown. Speaking of pikes, a strong enough Cultivator can even use very long spears one-handed, while also making use of agile moves that a mortal simply wouldn't be able to manage with a weapon that size.

The Spear Arts are focused primarily on the power of the thrust. Offensive power, focused into one point and maximized to the greatest possible extent. It would not be an exaggeration to say that, cultivation bases being equal, Spear Artists have the greatest sheer striking power of any Cultivator. There are also many techniques related to throwing the spear and calling it back, creating new spears after throwing them, or lengthening the spear. Finally, spears with heads designed for cutting can be utilized for some Sword Arts. Some Cultivators will use a glaive with a large blade, study both Sword and Spear Arts and use both at once.

If you plan to use pure spear arts focused just on thrusting, be careful. Having one vector through which you can attack will make you more predictable, and that could spell your doom.

Bow

The third of the 'kings of weapons', the bow is by far the most broadly-used type of ranged weapon. Weapons which rely on a type of propulsion other than the user's strength will fall off in effectiveness as the user themself grows more powerful, whereas those that do will remain relevant. The bow is also prized for the speed and efficiency for which it can be fired - by holding multiple arrows between their fingers, a masterful practitioner can fire them off one after another without delay, and their hand will not outspeed the string.

A bow does one thing: fire an arrow. There are many ways to make a bow, and it all comes down to a balance of range, accuracy and the ease of pulling the string. Every type of bow has a different balance, and no kind can said to be objectively better than another.

There is of course the other side of the coin: the arrow. The effectiveness of a projectile weapon depends upon the quality of the projectile as much as it does the weapon itself. There are as many types of arrows as there are stars in the sky, and they can be designed to carry all sorts of payloads and effects. This makes the bow the weapon of noblemen and soldiers, not commoners or lone operatives. The nobleman can buy as many arrows as he wants, and the soldier's arrows are provided to him, not bought with his own money.

The superhuman strength of a cultivator enhances the bow in numerous exciting ways. With superhuman strength, the string can be pulled far harder. With superhuman dexterity, multiple arrows can be shot at once with passable accuracy. With knowledge of Arrays, an Artist can craft their own ammunition and imbue it with all manner of enchantments. Cultivators almost never use compound bows(bows designed to make the string easier to pull) because they simply do not need any assistance. They will more commonly favor the longbow for maximum shooting power, or the shortbow for a blistering rate of fire.

The Bow Arts are a branch of Weapon Arts, but they could also be called a hybrid art of sorts, as working with enchanted ammunition is key to maximizing a bow's effectiveness. There are some pure specialists whose wealth means they can simply commission as many arrows as they want with whatever effects they want, but most Bow Artists must make concessions and learn how to make their own when necessary.

Bow Art techniques take many forms, such as boosting the velocity or penetrative power of a shot, granting homing capabilities or other unusual movement abilities to an arrow, creating arrows out of nothing or splitting one arrow into many. As expected, it is all built around ranged combat; the wise bowman will learn some Body Arts as well, for his incredibly strong fingers will make for effective claw attacks.

Axe

The axe is what happens when you take a sword and design it for cutting power until it stops being a sword. Coming in many forms, an axe is broadly categorized as a horizontal chopping head mounted on a haft, and the shape of an axe will change the way it is wielded. Nevertheless, the axe does not see combat as often as the sword because it is heavier and has fewer ways of striking, making it riskier to use.

The axe chops, chops and chops some more; that is all it does, but it performs the job with greater power than any sword. Some long-hafted axes are fitted with a point on the end and called poleaxes, allowing them to be used as both spear and axe, though the increased weight means it does not perform the job quite as well as either. Finally, small, single-headed axes can be thrown quite accurately. Some warriors will fight with small axes for the versatility this offers, though they lose out on the striking power of a larger specimen.

In some cultures, a one-handed axe is commonly paired with a moderately large shield, creating a good balance of defense and offense. The ability to bash with the shield compensates for the limited number of ways the axe can attack, and a timely parry can allow the warrior to land a devastating counterattack.

In the hands of a Cultivator, the name of the game is size: increasing the weight of the axehead directly increases the power of each strike, as does increasing the length of the haft. Throwing one's axe also becomes more practical, even if the axe is very large. Many Axe Artists also use some Body Arts to enhance their strength, swinging and throwing gargantuan weapons that can kill several men in one motion.

Axe Arts are designed as much to compensate for the downsizes of the axe as they are to enhance its strengths. They enhance chopping power of course, but also tend to include techniques which assist in throwing the axe and recalling it back. Those who wield poleaxes will of course use both Spear and Axe Arts in tandem, creating an arsenal that is both versatile and powerful.

Flying Axes are almost as common as Flying Swords, for obvious reasons; an axe is dominated by its head, which has a large, cutting edge, and many can be thrown. I've heard tales of a Golden Devil who resettled in another Sea and made great use of a Flying Axe.

Whip

The whip is not normally a weapon; not in mortal hands at least. Its primary purpose is more on the loud noise it produces and pain it causes and less on actually dealing heavy damage. Furthermore, an ordinary whip is laughably ineffective against armor. Just about the only advantages a whip can afford a mortal is range and unpredictability.

However, a Cultivator is far more versatile in the ways they can use a weapon. Through Weapon Arts, the path of a whip can be altered as it flies, and it can be manipulated to grab onto things. Furthermore, whips can be augmented with blades to produce an armament called an urumi. Most commonly used in the Fifth Sea, the urumi is extremely difficult to master and near-exclusively used by Cultivators, but in the hands of one who knows what they are doing, it can dance circles around conventional weapons.

Generally, a Cultivator will use a whip as part of a larger arsenal rather than their only weapon; useful for specific situations and pulled out when needed. However, there are many unconventional ways to use the weapon when aided by the techniques of other disciplines. Making the whip longer or shorter can improve the number of ways it can attack, and pairing a whip with a technique that applies an effect upon landing a hit will mitigate the weapon's downsides and play to its strengths.

Warhammer

Any description that applies to the axe can apply to the hammer to an even greater extent. Often wielded specifically to foil armored foes, warhammers come in all sorts of shapes. They often feature a sharply pointed beak, though sometimes they are simply blunt. The thing that differentiates a warhammer from another weapon, though, is its weight - even lighter warhammers will be heavier than other weapons, and while this weight gives it greater hitting power, it also makes it more cumbersome to use.

The benefit of wielding a hammer is its ability to destroy an opponent's defenses, creating an offense which cannot be denied. Bringing one of these things into battle means that the effectiveness of your attacks will always be about the same no matter what the other guy is bringing against you. The downside, of course, is that everyone knows what a hammer does, and there is no subtle way to use it, which means you will be predictable.

The superhuman strength of a Cultivator allows one to swing a hammer as easily as one would swing a sword, making it faster and less cumbersome than it would normally be. Of course, if one is willing to give that up, they can simply use an oversized hammer. There is no real limit to how large a warhammer wielded by a Cultivator can get aside from their own strength, and the large surface area of the head makes it a good surface for inscribing arrays.

What is there to say about Hammer Arts? They focus on striking. In particular, many techniques channeled through a hammer focus on striking the ground to produce various effects. The generation and manipulation of kinetic energy is what these arts focus on, and they can be more broad than you'd think. For example, I once knew an artist who would strike something with his hammer, then use a technique to manipulate the energy of his own strike. His hammerblows could cut like a sword, pierce like a spear or spread itself over an area a hundred times what it should have.

Meteor Hammer

No one uses the meteor hammer as their first weapon. If you remember using it as your first weapon, then you have brain damage from hitting yourself with your own meteor hammer. Difficult to learn, this abomination of metalworking might at first seem like an overcomplicated joke, but it ends up working surprisingly well.

Constructed from two round heads with a length of chain between them, this weapon is difficult to control, takes time to build momentum before a strike, and must be wielded carefully. The benefit, of course, is a weapon with the range of a spear and the defense-crushing power of a warhammer, plus the ability to attack from many angles. Not only that, but the chain can be used to wrap around targets. In essence, the weapon combines the best of all traits… if you can actually manage it. It is highly recommended that anyone bringing a meteor hammer into battle also carry a sidearm in case things go awry.

As stated before, Cultivators possess enough dexterity to render the weapon feasible for real combat instead of just demonstrations. A seven pound iron hammerhead swung with superhuman strength with the leverage of a ten foot chain will strike with obscene force, and many Cultivators use much heavier heads. In addition, due to the weapon's double-ended nature, some will put a different enchantment on each head, creating a weapon with two separate abilities.

Meteor Hammer Arts is a generous term, because the techniques used to optimize this exotic weapon are not numerous enough to consider their own form of Weapon Art. It is more like a combination of Hammer Arts with some techniques used through whips, plus some Body Arts to help control the weapon. The ability to wrap the chain around the target means the weapon also synergizes well with all manner of binding techniques.

Hook Sword

Distinct enough from the standard sword to be considered its own category of weapon, this–

—-

"Senioooooor!" Iskander whined, letting the little nub that had once been a large piece of charcoal fall from his weary fingers. "Come on, isn't this a bit much? Why do I gotta be the one to write all of this down?"

"Because I don't have hands to write it with, and you'll remember better if you write anyway." Lai Bohai said, unfazed. "Don't stop now, this is only the very basics."

"Is book-learning really gonna be any good for battlefield skills?" Iskander asked, stretching his sore wrist. "This is the kinda stuff you have to see and feel and do, isn't it?"

"Knowing things instinctually is good, but it will inevitably leave gaps. Academic understanding will fill the gaps." Lai Bohai replied immediately, unsympathetic to his pupil's exhaustion. "On the battlefield, the difference between life and death is miniscule. A great warrior stacks the deck in as many ways as possible."

Iskander shook his head in disbelief. How was the old codger this uptight about everything? Wouldn't all of that time being alive have gotten him to chill out a little? "Alright, fine, but can I at least let my hand rest? It feels terrible." He sighed.

"You've got two, don't you? Use the other one, it's good to build dexterity in the off-hand."

Iskander groaned, but did as the ghost commanded, picking up a new piece of charcoal and continuing to jot down his mentor's notes. He had to admit, writing it down as he heard it did help him remember it all better, but the sheer volume made his head hurt. There was no time to slow down, though; every day was a small step along an unthinkably long path, and each step made was a step that was over with and behind him.

—-

I threw this little thing together mainly because what Weapon Arts mean in this quest has been rather vague so far, and I wanted to try and codify them. It was fun speculating about how having superhuman strength would change the practicality of different weapons and approaches, but eventually I had to cut it off because it was getting too long for something this dry. I will probably make a part 2 though, so watch out for that if you're interested.

Some little notes: 1. The fact that Flying Swords aren't brought up often in this quest indicates to me that this is not a setting with a lot of Flying Sword spam, so I expounded on that topic a bit. 2. Some weapons are clearly more practical for mono-focus than others, which makes sense to me. Plus, Bai Lohai is trying to be unbiased here, but his own preferences are clearly sneaking through. 3. The idea of a character altering the kinetic energy of their own blows to change the shape of the impact they make is something I've wanted to write into a story for a long time but haven't found the place for yet. Might do that in the future.

 

[no.]

oh wow whats this

 

[no.]

Iskander Pallikari 6 - Flying​

The bar known as the Barking Boatman was a famously rowdy establishment. Built in Da Wan, an old city near the border between the Strength Purity Sect and the Sorrowful Blacksmith Sect, its walls were built of stone, as was much of the furniture. This had made it expensive to build and left it less comfortable than a wooden building. Indeed, sticking around in the cold dead of night in that poorly-insulated place was considered to be the mark of a true alcoholic, not a mere dabbler.

If you were to ask the establishment's owner why she would build a place like this in such an unorthodox way, she would give you a simple answer: it was made for Cultivators. Da Wan had no resources of its own, being mainly a manufacturing hub for materials mined in the mountains. Such materials would stop in Da Wan, be processed into goods, then shipped to the Strength Purity Sect, and so the city had a disproportionate number of Cultivator craftsmen. Mortals could be taught to work with Qi Condensation-level spiritual materials with some success, but to meet Strength Purity's massive demands, Cultivators were needed. This was not a place one commissioned for an incredible masterwork of craftsmanship, but one where you commissioned arms and armor for an entire army, or the tools to build an entire new town.

The uniting truth of all workmen is that they love a good drink after a hard day of fulfilling labor. The Boatman, one of the most popular bars in the city, was therefore patronized by over a thousand rowdy Qi Condensation-level Cultivators every single day, and was constructed to withstand said rowdiness. In fact, the chaotic atmosphere was practically advertised as part of the appeal. Should you tell someone you were visiting, Da Wan, a wild night at the Boatman would be one of the things they recommend you try.

The point being, Iskander had been well aware of the risks when he came to this place, accompanied by several comrades from the Plainswalkers. Granted a rare vacation after two years of difficult work, he'd intended to have as good a time as possible and refresh himself completely. Indeed, Iskander had been ready for things to get wild, or even slightly dangerous, because that was the entire point of coming to this kind of bar: to act like an animal.

What the young Legionnaire hadn't expected, though, was that it could get this bad.

In a far off corner of the bar, a large man beat on a smaller victim over and over, the violence mostly obscured behind his large frame. His blows were not the frenzied pace of a man fighting for his life or trying to win a contest of skill, but the slow and deliberate tempo of one delivering a punishment. Everyone else seemed to simply look away, making hushed conversation or just silently staring into their drinks, waiting for it to die down. Yes, bar fights happened in places like this, but that didn't look like a bar fight, it looked like a murder in progress - surely the owners would step in if it got this bad.

"Don't stare." A Legionnaire chided, knocking on the table to get Iskander's attention. Reluctantly, he tore his gaze away from the strange incident. "I told you the Boatman was bad news. Drink brings out your true self - barbarians get more barbaric."

"I think they're both Devils, actually." Said another, stealing a glance before turning away again and downing the rest of her cup. Iskander glanced again in turn - yes, the larger man did seem to have the skin and hair of a Golden Devil, and what little glances he caught of the smaller man showed the same. The bully's bulk and the horror of the situation in general had caused him to miss that at first.

"You think that's why they're not doing anything?" A third Legionnaire asked despondently, prompting a somber silence from all four of them.

That made an unfortunate amount of sense. The Golden Devils were in a politically precarious position at the moment; everyone knew that. Over and over again, they had assisted the Righteous Powers against the Demonic Alliance, to the point that it could be argued the Righteous Powers might not have had a chance to win the war by this point if it weren't for the many pivotal battles in which Devils had assisted them. And yet, a half-century ago, the Devils had used that good will to conquer the Jingshen Clan during a time in which the Righteous Alliance could not afford to intervene. With that business done, they had paid some small reparations to the Righteous Alliance and continued to offer assistance.

A blatant power play, alongside genuine help. Many in Strength Purity saw the Clan's continued status as an ally as a slap in the face. Many saw the Golden Devils as backstabbers, while many other saw the Jingshen as having been unworthy of the title of Righteous Sect in the first place and were glad to have them gone. At least the entire desert being under the control of a single power made things more efficient.

Not only were they controversial in a political sense, but they were also classed as a Demonic Clan. Their lives simply were not valued as much on average, and so, it was likely the owner of the bar felt an act of violence from one Devil to another was simply not something worth getting involved in one way or another. No one was going to do anything about this unless they absolutely had to.

Iskander sighed quietly, then got to his feet. "I'll do it." He said quietly.

This statement prompted looks of disbelief and concern from the others, who all stood in turn. "Don't do it, Iskander. It's not gonna go well." Said one.

"He was pounding them back earlier, he won't listen to reason." Said another.

"I'm not gonna just let him commit murder." Iskander shot back, shaking his head, before turning and striding across the stone floor toward the scene.

The man was not as brutish in appearance as Iskander had expected. He was large and muscular, sure, but his chiseled features and well-groomed beard didn't speak of the sort of dimwitted heavy drinker that he imagined he'd find, and the elaborate tattoos spiraling up and down his swollen arms only supported this notion. There was in fact a spark of intelligence in the man's eyes, if one that was drowning in booze a bit.

With his left hand, he held the smaller man up by his tunic and pounded his right fist into him over and over. The victim did his best to shield his face, but that didn't deter his attacker, who indiscriminately struck the chest, the flanks, the arms, and anything else he could reach. There wasn't any real strategy here, clearly. The big man simply wished to hurt this guy quite badly, and was doing so in a rather casual manner.

"Don't you think he's had enough?" Iskander asked, putting on as firm a voice as he could manage. The other Devil didn't acknowledge his voice, slamming a fist into his victim's gut which made one of his hands drop. Immediately, he struck the man's jaw, sending drops of blood flying out, two of which hit Iskander's face. "Come on, that's too much!" Iskander shouted, grabbing onto the big man's shoulder.

"Don't get involved." The man said in a smooth, deep voice. Iskander pulled, trying to get him to move, but he may as well have been trying to pick up a house. He realized immediately that it wasn't just down to size; this guy definitely had a higher cultivation base too. "He deserves it, so back off."

Unlike Iskander's own half-full Dantian, this man's was overflowing with energy. And yet, the stability Iskander was familiar with feeling from Ninth Heavenstagers wasn't there - that meant he was in the Eighth. Upon realizing this, he considered backing down as he'd been told. "You've already hurt him a lot, please stop this!" He shouted, prompting a scowl from the large man.

The patrons had been willing to ignore the commotion because none of them were willing to be the first to stand up for a Devil. Had it been a Righteous Cultivator being assaulted, they would have had more courage, but if the one being hurt was Demonic, then standing up for them just wasn't worth the risk to these people. Still, now that someone else had stepped into that unenviable position, they grew more bold, shouting at the big man to stop it and leave.

Veins began to stand out on the large man's head as he stewed with anger, and Iskander was scared he'd be swung at. After a moment, he let go of his victim, then whirled around to glare at the young swordsman instead. "I told you not to get involved, Junior. Now you've embarrassed me, and I can't let that slide!" He growled. "My name is Alexios Nikopoulos of the Silverine Bracers, and as the aggrieved party I challenge you to a duel. Name the time and place."

"Wait, wait, wait. I didn't mean–" Iskander stuttered, noticing the sudden quiet, as well as the eyes of everyone in the bar upon him. Shit, he couldn't say no with everyone watching, could he? He couldn't even let himself look like he was considering saying no. "Next mission is in seventeen days so, uh… t-two weeks? Yeah, two weeks!" He exclaimed, hoping he didn't look as freaked out as he looked.

Alexios crossed his tree trunk-like arms, looking thoroughly unimpressed. "And the place?"

Iskander wracked his brain for a location, any location, he could remember in Da Wan, still not fully processing what he had just done. "I dunno, by the river? Yeah, by the river, at sunrise! A-and my name is Iskander Pallikari of the Plainswalkers."

The giant nodded, his anger clear but contained, and left.

——

The following day, Iskander did everything he could to learn about the man he had so impulsively provoked. The Silverine Bracers kept their membership public for the most part, seemingly not having any secret elements to hide, which meant it wasn't too much trouble to simply look up information about Alexios on the Plainswalkers' portable Contribution Board terminal.

'Portable' was perhaps an exaggeration, considering the damn thing weighed five hundred pounds, but that was as small as anyone had managed to make one thus far. It had enough power to connect to the signal of the Contribution Board at the Dawn Fortress, but because of the distance, it took over several minutes to respond to a single command. This meant that the terminal was generally only accessed in urgent situations or to get paid. Good enough for Iskander, though, who would gladly spend an hour or two finangling this clunky hunk of glass and metal to learn about his opponent.

Alexios Nikopolous was an eighty-eight year old Legionnaire of the Silverine Bracers. He had served in that Legion for the past fifty years, and was in the Eighth Heavenstage, where he had been for the past nineteen. An above-average Cultivator, but his difficulty in the stage of Dantian Expansion perhaps suggested poor meridian quality.

Iskander was surprised to learn that his opponent was in fact an alchemist working for the Bracers' medical corps. A man that size, brewing pills? Maybe he did Body Arts and took his own medicine to bulk up. Still, if he was primarily a scholar of alchemy, that boded well, as his combat skills wouldn't be as polished as a frontline combatant's.

Still, he was eighty-eight, about three times Iskander's own age. At least, that sounded about right? Whatever, the guy had around six decades on him. Regardless of what his specialty was, the sheer difference in experience meant he would probably have more combat techniques than Iskander did, not less.

Okay, that was bad, very bad. Still, it wasn't 'the sun is exploding' type bad, the sort of bad you just had to survive. No, this was the sort of bad that could be fought back against. Step one: he needed the right weapon.

——

Lai Bohai had been painfully clear in the past that Iskander was not to get himself any kind of special enchanted weapon until he had killed five people, and thus fully understood the gravity of taking a human life up close. He'd intended to follow through on that agreement, he really had… but this was no longer the time to prioritize impractical acts of virtue. He needed a more effective weapon, or he was gonna get his ass kicked. Thankfully, being in a Heavenly Blacksmith city, he'd had plenty of options. Even if Da Wan wasn't the sort of place you'd go to commission a masterpiece, Iskander couldn't afford a masterpiece anyway - he just needed something better than the standard issue. And so here he was, browsing.

Weapon shops all ultimately looked the same, though in a competitive environment like this, many would use marketing gimmicks or unique set dressing to stand out. Building after building, the walls lined with weapons of all kinds, stretched out before Iskander's eyes like marbled cuts of meat before a dog. Any Weapon Artist worth their salt eventually fell in love with all weapons, not just the ones they wielded, and Iskander had done so almost right away. Lai Bohai had said that this was a good sign - to love weapons was to have a keen eye for them, and nothing was more important on the battlefield than a keen eye.

Spears fit to pierce through a boulder. Swords so sharp, the wind itself seemed to part before their edges. Axes that could split the ground and hammers that could shatter it. Bows that could shoot a hundred leagues and arrows that would fly straight the whole way. Some weapons included exotic materials, others were made with techniques built into their arrays. Iskander could stop and stare all day, and he kind of wanted to, but there just wasn't enough time.

Eventually, Iskander found himself drawn to a particular shop. It couldn't be said to contain the highest-quality works in Da Wan, but Iskander couldn't afford the highest quality. In terms of his own price range, this seemed like the best he could hope for. The place was old, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots and the paint on the walls smelling a bit funny. It had two floors, but he soon discovered that the second merely housed the discount items which the owner felt weren't worth displaying, and the first had the best stuff. Iskander's gaze soon found itself drawn to the swords, which took up an entire wall in their own right.

The shopkeeper, an old blacksmith with a gray beard and a scarred face, walked up to him and looked alongside him. "Good stuff, right? What are you looking for today?" He asked with a voice that sounded like a rockslide.

"Not totally sure." Iskander admitted, looking this way and that. "Something that'll turn the tables. I've got a fight coming up, and I'm the underdog."

"Something that'll take down an enemy stronger than you? In other words, a strong offense?" Asked the smith, nodding along.

"Yeah. And if it's got an array built in, it's gotta be something that won't burn me out too fast." Iskander explained, going over various ideas in his head. What about a sword enchanted with lightning, or one that could summon mighty cyclones, or one that could cut through space!? No, he didn't have the reserves to use something that flashy. "Oh, screw it, just give me a Flying Sword."

The smith cracked up at his resigned expression, guffawing a few times. "It's a classic for a good reason. An uncreative victory is still a victory, isn't it?"

"Guess so." Iskander sighed. "That's all I've got, so what would you recommend?"

The smith stood there quietly stroking his beard for a moment, then raised his hand to point at one sword in particular near the left edge of the wall. Iskander followed his motion and saw a single-edged sword with an unusual curve. The hilt was decorated with gold accents, and an array was carved along the side of the blade, but on the whole it wasn't overly flashy. After a moment of inspection, Iskander realized what it was he was looking at.

Though the dao saber was the most commonly used model of curved sword among the Optimatoi, some still swore by the kopis, a weapon of their own design. Rather than the curved backside of the dao saber, the kopis exhibited a straight backside and a curved front, which made it heavily weighted toward the farther-out half of the blade. This axe-like shape increased the chopping power of the weapon, but made it a little bit more fragile near the hilt than the dao saber, which meant Sword Artists often dismissed it in favor of a more low-maintenance weapon.

Iskander was the same, generally preferring to use the dao saber, and Lai Bohai had, in his life, favored straight-bladed longswords, though he told his pupil to use whichever model suited him the best, as the Saint of War Style worked fine with most kinds of swords. Thus, he would have let his gave pass over this kopis, if not for the fact that it was hung alongside several other Flying Swords, all of which were straight-bladed. "Why's this one curved?" He asked curiously.

"That type's becoming more popular these days." the smith explained, carefully removing the sword from the rack and presenting it Iskander, turning it this way and that to display every part of it. "The conduit arrays aren't aligned symmetrically, but that's the point. When you throw the sword, it spins, and the energy you put into it makes it spin faster, until it becomes like one giant circular edge. If the orthodox Flying Sword is a balance of attack and defense, then this is an attack-oriented Flying Sword."

An offensive Flying Sword? That could be just what he was looking for. He looked at the weapon more closely, observing its details and dimensions. It lacked the curved handle of the traditional kopis, which wrapped around the pinky and ring fingers. The weapon on the whole was also a bit under-sized, measuring two and a half feet in total length with a blade a couple inches short of two feet. "It's a bit small, and the hilt is straight." Iskander said. "Is that to help with throwing?"

The smith nodded appreciatively. "You've got a good eye for these things, kid. Yeah, the hilt's designed for throwing. Apparently, this model was thought up when its inventor realized that a kopis and a curved throwing knife have similar shapes. If it were any larger, it would be cumbersome to throw, regardless of the wielder's strength."

Iskander looked some more, imagining himself swinging the thing. How it would move, how it would cut, how it would rebound if it struck something hard. The first eight inches of the blade, he realized, were thicker and sturdier-looking than the standard kopis. Rather than a guard followed by a narrower stretch of blade, the guard was absent entirely, allowing the blade to start off broader. "Looks tough too. It could take a pretty good beating." He nodded appreciatively.

"You're damn right kiddo." The smith replied with grim satisfaction. "The guard's useless when the sword is in flight, so it's been done away with entirely to make the blade sturdier. A Flying Sword can't be fragile, since it's gonna crash into all sorts of stuff. On the other hand, not having a guard means it can't block as well; high risk, high reward."

A spinning Flying Sword, designed for offense and able to be thrown even if no qi was put in. On top of that, it could chop with power almost equal to an axe, while still allowing for thrusting attacks. This was exactly the trump card Iskander needed. He smiled giddily, the dread of his current situation beginning to melt away. "Alright, how much for this one?"

—-

"Last time I was awake, I had a student who didn't cause trouble, worked diligently, and was smart with his money." Lai Bohai mused, not bothering to hide his annoyance. "Now I wake up and I have a student who starts fights, disobeys my orders, and spends years' worth of savings on fancy toys. Iskander, have I transmigrated to a different timeline, or did you hit your head and lose half your brain?"

Iskander endured the tongue-lashing because, to be honest, he basically deserved it, and tried instead to focus his mind on the task before him. He stood, bare chested and covered in sweat, beneath a large mulberry tree, leaves glistening with moisture. It had rained less than an hour ago, and droplets frequently fell from the branches above him. Each time one fell, he attempted to cut it with his sword.

Though it could be interpreted as a cooldown exercise of sorts, since the swordsman had endured hours of grueling exercise before walking under the tree, this training was every bit as difficult as the rest of it, if not moreso. It was a traditional training exercise for the Saint of War style; striking the droplets as they fell honed a practitioner's ability to put their blade precisely where it was needed at precisely the right time. Mastering it was the key to developing both a perfectly unflappable defense and an irresistible counterattack.

The Saint of War Style didn't require large blades, only fairly sharp ones, and in fact was best served by a single one handed sword and a free offhand. The purpose was, in a word, efficiency: defending against powerful attacks while putting in only a fraction of the qi the opponent did. By concentrating the qi coating into one spot at the moment of impact, then releasing it in an outward burst, the practitioner could parry aside just about anything. They would stride across the battlefield like a saint, performing martial miracles with an unearthly calm.

Though the style focused on defense, the fact that it allowed the practitioner to turn away any weapon with just a one-handed sword meant that speedy counterattacks could be launched immediately after defending, quickly turning the momentum of a battle in their favor. Finally, the need to rapidly move around the qi coating their sword meant that simply training in the style promoted good qi control.

In that sense, Iskander was well equipped to face an opponent stronger than him, so long as he could read said opponent's moves well enough to intercept his attacks. The Eighth Heavenstage was twice as strong as the Fifth(not to mention the obvious gap in baseline strength between Iskander and Alexios), but enough precision could remove such an advantage. Alexios wasn't even a combat specialist: he was a crafter and an alchemist! However small it was, Iskander had a chance.

Finally, a droplet fell, in front of Iskander and to the right. He reacted with a horizontal forehand slash that landed right on target and felt immensely satisfying. "It's not great, I know. But will you please give me some encouragement here, Senior? Or maybe a secret technique that can bail me out?" He asked contritely.

"Secret techniques? None you could learn in two weeks, boy." Lai Bohai laughed. "And speaking of two weeks, it seems I won't be awake to see the duel. I'll cram in all the advice I can think of today, then. But first: why?"

"Why'd I pick a fight with Alexios?" Iskander asked, missing a droplet by just a hair. Reacting immediately, he quickly crouched down to intercept it lower on its descent. This time, he successfully hit it, then returned to a neutral stance. "I didn't, he forced me into the duel. I couldn't run away with everybody staring at me like that."

Lai Bohai's tone seemed completely unimpressed with that answer. "Why couldn't you? He's in the Eighth Heavenstage; it wouldn't be like turning down a challenge by an equal. You would lose a little bit of face, but so would he, for challenging someone three small realms below him."

Iskander was about to answer the ghost's question, only to see another droplet falling. He cut off his train of thought, focusing his entire mind on delivering an ascending diagonal slash. It landed, and the swordsman allowed himself a momentary feeling of triumph. "Okay, I guess I didn't want to run away. I was mad, I wanted him to leave that guy alone, I…"

He stopped again to take aim at another droplet, but swung too early, causing it to land on his wrist. If that was an enemy's sword, Iskander would have lost his right hand. "I don't have any one reason, Senior, it just felt right to fight." He sighed glumly.

"I'm sure you understand the difference between the Fifth Heavenstage and Eighth Heavenstage in an academic sense, but the reality isn't something you're prepared for." The ghost noted grimly, losing any sort of amused tone he had previously. "He has twice as much strength as you; twice. Although given how you describe the man, it's likely a lot more than twice. If you could bench press one ton, in the Fifth Heavenstage, you could bench two tons in the Eighth, and this motherfucker can probably bench four tons. Do you know what kind of difference that makes in a fight? He's faster too, and has deeper qi reserves..."

"Shouldn't you be encouraging your pupil right now?" Iskander grumbled.

Lai Bohai let out a bark of bark of haughty, sarcastic laughter. "Strategy comes first, encouragement second. You need to fully understand that gap you're trying to cross. Do you?"

"Well, I'm hoping you can help with that." Iskander shrugged.

"Hmph, I suppose I ought to. Well, good news: the strength and speed disadvantage you'll be facing is oppressive, but not impossible to overcome." The ghost explained, and boy did that slight amount of reassurance put some warmth back in Iskander's chest. "The gap in experience is what I'm more worried about. You won't be able to overcome his greater strength with pure skill alone. You'll need wit too."

And then it was gone again. "Well, I did pick up something that might be useful. Like I told you, I bought a new sword; it's sturdier than a standard issue Legionnaire weapon - more like something a Decanus would use." The young swordsman rambled on, hoping he might somehow convince himself to not be so nervous. "So I know I'll be able to hurt him at least?"

"Yes, yes, the new sword. Soon enough you'll be another mediocre swordsman obsessed with getting the highest quality blade possible." Lai Bohai replied dismissively. "Negating his toughness is indeed an important advantage. What does the new sword do?"

Iskander gulped, then spoke hesitantly. "Well, you see, it's sort of a… an enhanced sword that can attack at different sorts of angles? It–"

"You bought a Flying Sword, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

"After I specifically told you not to."

"Yeah."

"Without consulting me."

"You see, if I had consulted you, you would have said no."

"Because Flying Swords are shit!" Lai Bohai shouted, suddenly breaking out of the calm he had maintained thus far. "They're shit weapons for shit swordsmen! It's not even swordplay, you're just moving some shit around from a mile away, it… gah, whatever! What's done is done. Just don't get too reliant on it."

"Can you please just give me some advice?" Iskander groaned, before turning to slash another droplet.

"I'm just glad I stopped you from picking one up when you were an Aspirant." Muttered Lai Bohai, who was decidedly not done rambling and not ready to get to the advice yet. "The Flying Sword isn't practical at all before the Fourth Heavenstage; you just don't have enough qi or qi control before then to make one worth using. An actual telekinesis specialist could perhaps make use of one at the Third, but those are very rare."

"You ever know one of those, Senior?" Iskander asked, trying to cut two nearly-simultaneous droplets one after the other and only managing to get one..

The ghost hemmed and hawed for a bit, fumbling around through millennia of memories as if his mind were a disorganized bag. "A few, I suppose. They were potent in the right circumstances, but never amounted to much. It's too narrow a field of focus. I want to avoid that sort of thing with your training. It's been an hour, by the way. Three minute break, then it's time for speed training."

Finally done with this latest drill, Iskander walked out from under the tree and tossed his sword into the air. To pass the time, he tried doing some tricks with the spinning weapon, making it move in an elaborate pattern. When that was done, he almost tried catching it without looking, but found that he didn't yet have the nerve to do so. Instead, he slowly brought the sword to a halt a few feet from him, then reached out and grabbed it. "But weren't you pretty focused on the sword, Senior? You said you were a specialist." He asked.

"Mm, I was, but the sword can do a lot of things. You'll be a sword specialist too, but less so than me." Said Lai Bohai.

Iskander stopped, sheathing his Flying Sword and picking up the Wailing Conqueror from where it sat on a nearby rock to look it right in the… well, to look right at it. "What do you mean exactly, Senior? You said you would make me a sword master. Are you saying I can't do it?"

"You will be a sword master, just not a 'pure' one. I wasn't only a swordsman either, you know. You're not an insect, you're a human." Lai Bohai scoffed. "A man ought to have lots of skills, a Cultivator moreso. Besides, when it comes to your inherent instinct for sword fighting, you don't measure up to me."

A pit opened up in Iskander's stomach, and he went silent. After a moment, he slumped over and sat against the trunk of the mulberry tree, looking down at his hands. They'd grown quite rough in recent years from all the time they spent gripping swords or weights; were these not the hands of a Sword Artist?

"Eh? What are you doing, kid? It's time to start the speed training!" Lai Bohai asked incredulously. "I feel like I'm putting my foot in my mouth here. Even after eight thousand years, there are some things I just never pick up."

"Nah, you're right." Iskander sighed. "You were a Nascent Soul, and I'm really not anything special. It's blasphemy to compare myself to you. I just hoped… I dunno, I was just hoping that with your help, I could become pretty cool too."

Iskander had nothing that made him actually special; he had never been under any illusions to the contrary. Lai Bohai had latched onto him as his last hope, and it was for that reason alone that he was the old ghost's student. Most likely, he wouldn't even make it to the Eleventh Heavenstage, let alone anything in Foundation building, because he ultimately just didn't stand out. Even so, despite these things being obvious, hearing the words directly had stung in a way that caught Iskander completely off guard.

Lai Bohai made the sort of conflicted noise that Iskander had only ever seen old men make. As far as he could tell, that particular grunt translated to 'this young person is saying nonsense, but it's probably meaningful to them.' "Oh, come off it, boy. No one is 'cool' in Qi Condensation, you're just throwing around tiny sparks of qi. Really, Qi Condensation Cultivators are just mortals who have the potential to become more; no kind of spiritual center yet."

Iskander shook his head vigorously. "No, it's not that. I mean that… well, you said it yourself, right?" He sighed. "I don't got the kind of raw talent you have, the kind that makes a Nascent Soul."

"When did I ever say you didn't have talent, you nimrod!?" Lai Bohai shouted, shocking Iskander out of his momentary despair. "Raw talent this, inborn trait that, natural genius this, heaven-defying ability that, nobody ever shuts the fuck up about so-called talent! It's not real!"

"Not… real?" Iskander cocked his head, baffled. "What do you mean talent isn't real? A person with eyes is more talented at seeing than a person without eyes, aren't they?"

"That's not talent, it's a biological advantage! 'Talent' covers a thousand different factors, most of which can be manipulated in your favor. Your brain isn't as hard-wired for sword fighting as mine, so you will put more focus on secondary skills than I did. You're bigger and stronger than I was, so you'll use more Body Arts. I had a strong affinity for Water and Metal, but your best elements are Fire and Wood, so your foundational techniques will only get more different than mine." As Lai Bohai ranted on, he got faster and faster, until Iskander could barely keep up. "All of these things must be accounted for, but all you wanna hear about is 'raw talent'. I fought prodigies who understood the sword better than I did plenty of times in my life, and you know what I did? I beat them because I was smarter, because I figured out their weaknesses, because I cheated, because I had more experience, and on and on! Is Alexios gonna put his foot up your ass because he's 'talented', or because he's got a foot, a hundred pounds and three Heavenstages on you?"

Iskander stood up, backing away from the sword hilt as if it were about to start smacking him upside the head. "Okay, okay, I'll stop talking about talent, I'm sorry!"

"Don't be sorry! It's not your fault; how could a child like you know any better, when that meaningless word is all anyone in this world wants to talk about?" Something in the air seemed to change as the ghost finally paused his rant for a moment, and though the Wailing Conqueror had no eyes, Iskander knew for sure that Lai Bohai was looking at him in a way he rarely ever did. "If you try to become a copy of me, you'll be an inferior version. If that means you're 'untalented', then the thing you're untalented at is 'being Lai Bohai'. I'm not here to make you a shitty version of Lai Bohai, I'm here to make you the best version of Iskander Pallikari. Work your ass off, follow my teachings, and never say the words 'raw talent' to me again, and you'll succeed in the end. Do you understand?"

Iskander felt a blazing determination spark in his chest. If someone as great as his teacher could believe in him that much, then he had nothing to fear at all. "Yes, Senior!" He shouted, getting back to his feet and slashing through another droplet without even turning to look.

—-

This was supposed to be a single chapter, but the length quickly got away from me and work got very, very busy. So, since I don't know when the rest of this is going to be ready to post, I decided to instead split the little story into two parts.

This… I guess it's a mini-arc, now, not a chapter. But either way, it technically serves two purposes. The first is to set up something down the line which previously was up to the whims of Iskander's fate roll. I've now laid enough narrative groundwork that I can transition into that plot more easily under most potential fates. The second was to try and solidify, both for myself and for the audience, how Iskander fights.

As I've stated before, Iskander is the opposite of Gaius in many ways, and one of those ways is that he himself is not inherently super gifted at anything. Gaius, on the other hand, is a character who can excel at most things because he is metaphysically cheating via a superhumanly strong, artificially enhanced will and an extremely deep connection to his Dao. Iskander's narrative is one that is far more skeptical of the idea of inherent gifts. As Lai Bohai states, the word "talent" covers so many different things that it is effectively useless.

Iskander is, in a sense, an underdog in a way that Gaius will never be. His style is one built on careful strategy, calculated risk-taking and unorthodox moves. If pure swordplay won't get him the win then he'll throw all sorts of random bullshit at you until something works. There is a sort of Joseph Joestar energy to him in that sense - the roguish hero who booby-traps the battlefield ahead of time and isn't afraid to look like a clown as long as it gets him the W.

Man, I sure keep stumbling into more things to write after running out of things I can write, don't I? Thank god for the Teaching Juniors bonus, if there was no indication that Iskander would even make it out of Junior Aspirant there'd be hardly anything at all to explore.

 

[no.]

Iskander Pallikari 7 - Flying, Part 2​

And so, for the next two weeks, Iskander trained like a madman. He wasn't close enough to the Sixth Heavenstage to reach it in time, so he cut his cultivation time down to a mere six hours per day so that he could put fourteen hours into training. By traveling a dozen miles out from Da Wan to find a secluded enough spot, he had allowed himself to forget about everything except this conflict.

Frankly, Iskander couldn't say precisely why he felt so motivated here. Obviously he didn't want a big scary guy to break his bones, but some minor humiliation at the hands of a Senior wouldn't really scar his reputation too badly. This was a three Heavenstage difference after all; the underdog losing would be the expected outcome. It would be painfully ordinary, just an unpleasant memory that would fade away with time.

But that just didn't feel right. His loss wasn't certain, really. Iskander had been a perfectly average Cultivator, with the exception of his very strange teacher, for fifteen years now. He wanted to break that up and do something special. Perhaps it was just youthful hubris on his part, but Iskander wanted to be extraordinary for just one day.

There was no moment of sudden inspiration that struck the young Legionnaire as he split his time evenly between polishing his sword forms and practicing controlling his new Flying Sword. It was just ordinary, mind-numbing practice, in which he improved by microscopic steps that would show their worth only in aggregate far down the line. The time slipped between his fingers like grains of sand, even as he put everything he could into improving.

Had Alexios ever trained with a weapon in such a whole-hearted fashion? Probably not, right? The guy would have been too busy burying his nose in old alchemical texts and running chemical experiments. But Alexios was a lot older than Iskander. He had actually gone to war, for one. He had almost certainly risked his life in deadly combat far more than Iskander ever had. Formal training versus experience - which would win out?

Normally, fourteen hours of intense physical training a day would be too much for a Qi Condensation Cultivator. They could train like that for a few days at a time, but fourteen consecutive days would simply destroy their muscles and joints. That said, situations in which intensive, continuous training was required were something many Cultivators would encounter down the line, and so medical solutions existed.

Elixirs to energize the body and keep it moving under great fatigue. Pills which helped the muscles and bones heal from the wear and tear of training faster. Special teas which put off the need for sleep for an entire week, before causing the body to crash and sleep for an entire day afterward.

Much of this time was spent gaining proficiency in the Flying Sword, which was easier than he had expected. The whole point of the weapon was that it was very easy to direct the patterns in which it flew, so it was really more about doing so efficiently, not allowing more qi than necessary to drain out and pushing it with just the right amount of force. Channeling simple Sword Art techniques through the blade while it was at range was the truly hard part, and infuriatingly enough, there was no trick to mastering that aspect. He simply had to keep doing it, over and over, until he could do it without thinking and without waste, and while he never reached that point during his self-inflicted crash course, he improved enough to perhaps be called competent.

Twelve of the fourteen days of his training were occupied with six hours of cultivation, fourteen of training and four hours of rest. The other two were twenty-four straight hours of sleep. That meant one hundred and sixty-eight of training. Iskander wasted more of his rest time than he would care to admit trying to figure out how much of his usual training that was worth, before finally Lai Bohai answered it for him: it was equivalent to four weeks, five days, fourteen hours and twenty-four minutes of his ordinary training regimen, which took five hours per day. In other words, he had squeezed in almost three weeks' worth of bonus training; a drop in the bucket, but still a drop that hadn't been there before.

It would have to do.

—-

Da Wan was, like many cities, built near a river. Proximity to the mountains, a river and the plains meant that the residents generally didn't depend on trade for any of their own needs, and thus their imports and exports were based solely around the generation of profit. This particular river, the Lesser Xintiao, was fairly unremarkable, save for the presence of several large bridges which served to allow foot traffic, horses and wagons alike to cross with impunity, what with the city's constant trading.

One bridge in particular, a sturdy, ungraceful thing of stone with tall handrails to prevent pedestrians from falling over, was occupied when Iskander arrived. Alexios waited patiently, dressed in a sleeveless tunic which showed off his muscular arms, with his feet planted firmly and his arms crossed. Iskander, frankly, felt a little bit overdressed by comparison, having come wearing thick, hardy traveling clothes that could almost be considered armor in their own right. On either side, a few people stood, both preparing to watch the duel and making sure no one used this particular bridge for the moment.

Fuck, he really was huge - Iskander didn't remember Alexios being quite this large before, but maybe that had been his own wishful thinking. With each step he took closer to the bridge, his anxiety only seemed to grow, like a heat rising inside him and eating away at his insides. He affixed a neutral look on his face as best he could, but feared he would look like every bit the nervous rookie he was.

"So you came. That's good, you've got courage." Alexios said flatly, quietly assessing his opponent. He looked more put together than he had at the bar, obviously, better-groomed and more aware of his surroundings. Frankly, despite his towering size, he looked more like a philosopher than a killer. Well, he was an alchemist, Iskander supposed.

"Why wouldn't I come? I'll have you know I never go back on my word!" Iskander smirked, squeezing past a pair of coldly glaring Devils - friends of Alexios', he supposed - and stepping onto the stone bridge proper. It was a little bit smaller than he'd hoped, about twenty feet across. Normally that would be fine for fighting on, but against an opponent this size, he'd be taking a risk every time he tried to move around Alexios.

Alexios looked at the determined expression on the face of his smaller, weaker opponent and sighed. "I don't have anything against you, but you undercut the message I was trying to send, so some discipline is needed. I respect you for showing up."

"You think you can just talk to me like I'm your underling, you jerk?" Iskander shot back with a scowl. "We're both Legionnaires! What you should respect me for is preparing for this whole production when money's so tight right now."

The big man's eyebrow lifted at that comment. "Burning the candle at both ends, I take it?"

Iskander smiled proudly, pointing at himself with his thumb. "You bet your ass. I don't have any Cultivator relatives to support me, and I spent most of my savings on all sorts of pills so I could train as long and hard as possible. I'm here to win, even if it leaves me broke."

Alexios winced in pity upon hearing the comment about Iskander's savings, which only irked the swordsman more. "That was a dumb waste of money; you know two weeks isn't enough to catch up to me." He sighed. "Look, no one will look down on you for losing an unbalanced duel like this. Do your best, but once you're too injured to keep going, just yield. I don't want to cripple you or damage your potential."

So Alexios wasn't as committed to the fight as Iskander was - another small advantage in his arsenal. The swordsman was like a parched man out in the deep desert, ready to drink any bit of water he could find, no matter how small. "I don't half-ass things, and I'm getting mad now!" He boasted, drawing the kopis at his waist and holding it blade-out for inspection. "It's blunted for the duel, check it if you want."

When Iskander bought his new sword, which he hadn't yet thought of a name for, he'd asked the smith to spice it up a bit, since he was spending so much money after all. The arrays had been highlighted with gold inlays, a small spike had been added to the pommel, and an amethyst glittered at the bottom of the hilt on either side. Luxuries for a mortal, but compared to the cost of the Flying Sword itself, those little add-ons were a pittance.

Alexios obliged his younger opponent, slowly approaching before gently grasping the blade in his meaty hand. He ran his fingers down it gingerly, then pulled them away for inspection. Two fingers sported tiny gashes in through which blood could be seen, but it did not seep out. "What about the other one?" He asked, pointing to the second sword as Iskander's hip, which he drew in response.

This other kopis was unadorned, mostly simple steel with tiny arrays carved into the blade for reinforcement. His backup weapon, meant either to be used in tandem with his flashier sword or to replace it entirely should it be taken out of commission. Alexios ran his fingers along this blade as well, and only a single drop of blood was drawn. "Mm, even blunted, they sting; good craftsmanship." He muttered as he released the blade.

As much as raw durability varied wildly between Cultivators, it wouldn't do for them to simply swing lethal weapons at once another full-force, and so dueling etiquette generally made allowances for such things. Essentially, the more durable party would assume that whatever weapon the opponent brought to bear would, if not blunted, be lethal enough to kill them. In some cases, such as when a duel involved a party with powerful regenerative abilities, exceptions were agreed upon. In complimenting their craftsmanship, Iskander understood that Alexios was agreeing to concede should a decisive blow be struck.

As much as that brought a small comfort to Iskander, it didn't truly lighten the mood. It was broadly understood that while duels to the death favored Weapon Artists, less-lethal duels of this nature naturally favored Body Artists; Weapon Artists blunted their tools for such contests, whereas Body Artists who fought bare-handed were under no such handicap. Another coin was placed upon the scales, tilting them further in Alexios' favor.

"Alright, it's go time!" Iskander shouted, stomping away until he stood about ten paces from Alexios.

"So stubborn. Fine, let's get it over with." Alexios muttered, cracking his neck. Just as Iskander had, the alchemist also took ten paces, leaving the pair twenty paces apart and equidistant from the center of the bridge.

The amount of time that passed before the pair of them moved again could not have been more than perhaps ten seconds. Even so, those ten seconds of analysis, planning and preparation seemed to stretch out far longer than they really did, time itself slowing down as Iskander took in every little detail he could notice.

It was clear to everyone present who the underdog was. Iskander could only claim victory here through clever tactics, pulling some kind of trick that his stronger opponent could not see coming. Alexios certainly knew this as well, and would try to end the fight quickly via a straightforward clash. Even so, his offensive would not be all out - he would keep an eye on his younger opponent the entire time, searching for any sign of a hidden plan. And so, Iskander was left with only one recourse: think multiple layers deep. Plans within plans, to confound even someone who knew he was scheming.

Alexios wasn't carrying any weapons; it seemed he really did focus his combat training entirely on Body Arts. That made sense, considering combat wasn't his main focus, but it was certainly worrying. Iskander wouldn't be able to rack up much damage here, and so not only was a trick necessary, but it had to be a trick which decisively put an end to things. He had to make Alexios concede with an undeniable checkmate.

How do you overcome someone who's cheating at life? Someone so much better than you that they see the world in a fundamentally different way? That riddle still troubled Iskander, who thought on it often. Granny Ning had said to think about why he cultivated, but he wasn't sure why he did it yet. He wanted to use his strength to bring people joy, but that wasn't a guiding philosophy, just a general direction.

Alexios Nikopolous was not cheating at life; he was older and stronger than Iskander, but he was still pretty ordinary. Clearing this gap was not as daunting, nor as seemingly impossible as the kind of gap Iskander imagined when he thought about his riddle. Still, even if this battle wouldn't solve it, perhaps it would get him one step closer.

The first exchange was short but intense. Iskander slashed at his opponent repeatedly, only to be rebuffed each time by Alexios' huge forearms, his sword bouncing off the giant's flesh with no meaningful damage. In return, each of Alexios' strikes was like a natural disaster, making Iskander's instincts scream of terrible danger with every blow. The first glancing blow he took felt like it nearly dislocated his shoulder, and the direct punch to the liver that followed soon after made him want to vomit.

It was terrifying, but Iskander stuck with it; he needed to go back and forth with this guy for at least a minute to know what he could do. Thus far, only rudimentary reinforcement techniques had been shown; perhaps that was all Alexios had?

Of course not; that would be way too easy. Stopping his assault for a moment to take a deep breath and channel a flood of qi into his leg, Alexios launched a side kick at Iskander, who blocked the blow with his left arm. This turned out to be a bad idea, as a small but powerful detonation went off at the point of impact, blowing Iskander backward and sending shockwaves of pain shooting up his arm.

Iskander dug his feet into the ground, skidding to a halt and crying out in pain. His arm could still move, but something in there was definitely fractured. There was no time to dwell on the pain though, as Alexios was back on Iskander almost immediately, restarting the exchange of blows.

Though not as great as the gap in strength, the difference in speed was also starting to become a clear problem. Against a quicker opponent, especially one who didn't need to bring a weapon to bear to block an attack, launching counterattacks was difficult. Each time one of Alexios' limbs was knocked aside, Iskander would attempt to strike his exposed body, only for a different limb to intercept the blade. Dealing damage with this blunted weapon was hard enough when Axios was unprepared, but when he was prepared for the hit, the blade bounced off, never going deeper than the skin.

Alright, time to try something different then. Dodging a side kick from Alexios, then parrying aside a chop, Iskander drew the sword sheathed at his left hit, retaliating with a lightning-fast reverse hand slash. For the first time in the fight, he raked his qi-coated blade across his opponent's flesh in a clean hit, drawing a deep cut against the man's chest. Alexios stumbled back, slashing with his main hand sword whilst re-sheathing the one in his offhand. Another exchange of blows ensued, but soon the two of them pulled back again.

Iskander couldn't help but grin: he'd landed a clean hit! This fight wasn't unwinnable, far from it. As expected, Alexios was strong and skilled, but his arsenal of high-level techniques wasn't that large. His fear growing weaker, he pressed his opponent, going blow for blow with him. Any strike that landed ran the risk of breaking his bones, but he could not allow himself to fear them if he wanted victory.

Rotating on the ball of his foot, Alexios threw a perfect roundhouse kick. Raising his sword in response, Iskander concentrated his qi into one spot at the moment of impact, then let it burst out. The giant's leg rebounded back, putting him off-balance, and Iskander drew his ornate sword in another reverse grip slash, this one aiming for the belly.

But it wouldn't work this time: Alexios had become wise to that move already. Trapping the offhand blade between his elbow and his knee, the behemoth of a man struck Iskander in the chest with an exploding punch, sending him flying back a dozen feet and crashing onto his back. The ornate sword was wrenched from his grip at the moment of impact, remaining in Alexios' possession.

"With a sword, you can only parry blows that come at an angle." The alchemist mused, rolling his neck and tossing the sword behind him. "A shield can parry stabs, straight punches and other head-on strikes, but a sword can't. That's your style's weakness, right?"

"I'm a little bit offended you figured that out so fast." Iskander chuckled, using his remaining sword to prop himself up and get back to his feet. He coughed painfully; no blood came out, which meant his ribs were just cracked a bit and not outright broken. If he caught another hit in the same spot, it might not stay that way.

Alexios went back on the offensive, assailing Iskander with a rain of blows that he just barely dodged. He gave ground generously, unwilling to match his opponent in such a direct clash, and soon found himself backed up against a railing. Deftly sidestepping around Alexios to avoid a devastating middle punch, he saw a small explosion blast out a chunk of the railing where his chest had just been.

Iskander deflected several more blows, only to be knocked off his feet by a low kick. He backflipped away, but Alexios pursued immediately, smashing a punch into his guard that pushed him to the edge of the bridge. The giant seemed like he would press the attack, only to stop when he saw the fearful expressions of the people right behind Iskander.

Relaxing somewhat, Alexios began to walk backwards, beckoning at Iskander to follow him. "Come on, back to the center." He sighed.

There, now was his chance! Not letting his excitement show on his face, Iskander followed whilst calling out to the fallen weapon behind Alexios with his will. It rose into the air, began to spin, then flew at his opponent, aiming to strike him in the neck. That would do just fine; a clean hit that would have beheaded him if the sword were sharp. Alexios would have no choice but to concede on the spot.

Just before the sword made contact, Alexios' eyes grew wide with surprise as he heard the whirring blade. At the last possible moment, he turned to the side and shielded as much of his body as possible with his arm and his leg, causing the blade to embed itself into the meat of his forearm.

Cursing under his breath, Iskander went on the attack, but Alexios was already retreating, swaying back to avoid the next few slashes as he wrenched the ornate sword out of his arm. He jumped backward, putting further distance between the two as Iskander attempted to wrench the sword from the larger man's grip from a distance.

"I see now; you wanted me to knock your sword away, because it was a Flying Sword, so you used a technique that left you vulnerable." Alexios explained, holding the sword tightly with all of his strength and flexing his wounded arm to assess the damage. "That was pretty good, Junior. But I've been fighting with the Bracers for fifty years; did you really think I hadn't seen Flying Swords in the Great Battlefield? I've had that exact trick pulled on me before." Finished speaking, he flung the sword at Iskander, who dodged it, then guided it back into his offhand.

"Oh, come on man!" Iskander growled in frustration. "I spent every point I had left on that thing. Every last one, and you won't do me the kindness of getting tripped up?" His momentary griping over, he reared back before throwing the sword again, sending it whirling around his opponent while he charged in from the front. "Ah well, let's do this!"

His first series of slashes was contemptuously knocked aside, but it was little more than fodder to distract Alexios to an attack from the rear. The older Legionnaire jumped and rolled to the side to avoid the Flying Sword, which came back around again to hound him right away. As the independent blade went high, Iskander went low, scoring a gash along Alexios' leg and narrowly dodging a retaliatory kick. It went on like this for some time, Iskander's aggression driving back his opponent, who approached the fight patiently and cautiously.

Fighting in tandem with a Flying Sword was not quite as overwhelming as one might think, considering ease of use was one of the things considered when designing them. Even so, it was certainly more mentally taxing than ordinary melee combat. He had to remember where his own whirling sword was at the same time as his own body, make sure not to hit himself or strike his own weapon, and maintain his Sword Art techniques on both weapons at the same time.

But it was working. Alexios caught Iskander's blade between his palms, only for it to erupt in flames and force the goliath to let go. He swung a roundhouse kick at Iskander, but his leg was deflected away, leaving him open to a simultaneous attack from both swords. He stumbled backward, shallowly bleeding from two new gashes across his chest, only for the Flying Sword to pursue him, slicing into his shoulder.

He was doing it; he was winning! He could–

Alexios threw a chunk of stone from the broken handrail at Iskander, who hastily blocked it just in time. That momentary distraction was all that was needed for the alchemist to charge at Iskander. He ducked under the Flying Sword as it tried to cut his neck from behind, powered through Iskander's own awkward strike(taking a glancing hit to the side in the process), and slipped behind him.

Shit, the Flying Sword was useless against anything directly behind him; with his level of training, he was just as likely to hit himself as the target. Iskander tried to turn around, but Alexios was already wrapping his arms around the swordsman's midsection.

With power he couldn't hope to match, Iskander was lifted off his feet and suplexed onto solid stone. For a moment, he thought he was dead, but consciousness returned within one second when his instincts told him something was coming. He threw up a messy block, which partially stopped the impact, but he was still knocked back by Alexios' kick, bouncing several times before he got his hands and feet under him and skidded to a halt.

Fuck, where was his sword? Iskander glanced around as best he could, fighting through the pounding ache in his head to perceive the world around him. There it was, under Alexios' foot, being kicked behind him. Damn, that wasn't ideal.

"What are you standing around for?" Iskander shouted, straightening his back and trying to stop swaying on his feet. Holding out his hand, he summoned the much fancier of his two swords to his hand, a cocky smirk on his face. "You haven't put me away yet!"

Scoffing at the swordsman's false bravado, Alexios cracked his knuckles and approached cautiously. "You're a glutton for punishment, but if you insist, I'll give you some more."

Iskander couldn't hear much over the ringing in his ears, and his vision was swimming as well. Even so, he wasn't out yet. Alexios suddenly accelerated, closing the gap in what seemed like the blink of an eye. Blocking a devastating kick with the flat of his sword, he was blown back several feet by the resulting explosion, rattling his bones but creating some much needed distance. Alexios charged again, but Iskander jumped onto the railing, then leapt over his head, aiming to slash him from above.

Instead, Alexios jumped as well, grabbing ahold of Iskander's ankle and allowing his wrist to be slashed in return. In a real battle, he might have lost his hand, but blunted as it was, Iskander's sword could only bite through the flesh before stopping at the bone. The giant's grip held firm, and he slammed Iskander to the ground, driving the air from his lungs. This time, he did cough up blood.

As he rolled out of the way of the stomp that followed up that attack, Iskander dimly noted that Alexios could have killed him there if he had been crueler. If he'd been slammed onto the railing instead of the flat surface of the bridge, his back would almost certainly have been broken, and then he would have drowned in the river. Maybe the guy wasn't such a monster after all? A question for another time.

"Don't get up." Axios warned, his voice ominous but tinged with a hint of worry. "You've taken all the remaining blows I was gonna give that guy. More actually. We're square now. Concede, and we can both walk away."

"You really don't know me that well, huh?" Iskander chuckled, rising to his feet and spitting out another glob of blood. "Maybe you're done, but I'm not!"

It was about time, right? No, not quite.

Alexios silently sunk into a low, aggressive stance, reminiscent of a tiger about to pounce. "Okay then; I won't deny you your pride. Just remember that you insisted on this."

What followed could not be called tactical or intelligent martial arts. Indeed, the time for such things had passed, as Iskander had been weakened enough that he could now simply be beaten down. Alexios' blows came relentlessly and in many variations; palm strikes, bent-wrist strikes, finger strikes, elbows, knees, kicks with the ball of the foot, the side of the foot, the toes, the heel. Iskander's blade moved with amazing swiftness to weather the storm, probably faster than it had ever moved before, but it wasn't enough.

Elxcios committed to the offense further and further, determined to put an end to the fight before Iskander could pull any shenanigans, - and, perhaps, to incapacitate him before he put his life at further risk.

Was now the right time? No, not now, but almost.

Iskander's guard began to fall apart, each block coming later than the last, until a fist broke through his guard and crashed right into his face. Knowing what came next, Iskander was already rolling with the blow and turning away when the resulting detonation went off, which ablated some of the damage. Even so, he was flung through the air, spinning several times before he managed to get his feet under him.

He staggered back, breath hard and heavy, his offhand reaching out to the railing to prop himself up. Alexios approached implacably, his face fixed into a glare, ready to deal a truly finishing blow that would knock Iskander out for sure.

Now.

Alexios' fist lashed out, tensed in frustration but still expertly placed. Iskander thrust his blade to meet it, and the loud ring of a steel blade against bronze flesh echoed keenly. In that moment, as that sound rang out, several things happened at once.

The point of the blade sunk two inches into Alexios' large palm, splitting his hand partially in half. The blade may have been blunted, but it was not entirely without cutting power, especially with all of Iskander's remaining qi wreathed around it. But that was as far as it went - Iskander was overpowered, and the sword was wrenched from his hand.

Though most of the energy of Alexios' punch had been dissipated in the initial clash, it still had enough momentum to strike Iskander in the solar plexus, doubling him over and cracking the railing behind him. It was then that the pain struck Alexios, and he stopped moving for an instant. But, a fraction of a second later, his other fist was chambered, ready to finish his foe off.

Except, the battle was already over, for at the alchemist's throat was a sword, suspended in midair; it was the unadorned blade that had fallen earlier.

Everyone went silent. Alexios' jaw dropped in shock, causing the blade at his throat to nick him and draw a drop of blood. He blinked over and over, his brain trying to put together what made sense with what was happening right now. "Two… you had two flying swords… but when did you…" For a moment, he seemed angry, then impressed, then simply resigned.

The truth of his gambit seemed to dawn on Alexios' face after a moment of silence. The ostentatious detailing on the first sword, which made the second look more unremarkable by comparison. Iskander's multiple comments about money before the match, to make him look like a cheapskate. Iskander griping during the duel about how much his Flying Sword had cost. All of it, designed to plant the idea in Alexios' head that Iskander had only one Flying Sword, and that the other was ordinary. Finally, that final clash, in which the goal had been to make as loud a noise as possible, so that Alexios wouldn't hear the sword coming.

"I can't believe it; you're actually really smart…" Alexios said in a breathy tone, still reeling in shock. Then, he slowly raised both hands above his head and spoke the words everyone had been expecting to hear from the other guy on this bridge.

"I yield. You win."

What few spectators had bothered to show up cheered enthusiastically, greatly entertained by that sneaky underdog win. Even the ones who had shouted words of encouragement to Alexios before couldn't help but be thrilled. With shaky steps, Iskander limped away, retrieved both of his swords and sheathed them at his left hip before making to leave. Lai Bohai was right, he barely had enough qi to make a Flying Sword worthwhile; if he treated them as casual ranged attacks as he was now, they would kill him.

He made it about ten steps before his legs gave way and he fell, but before he could hit the ground, something arrested his fall. Through the rapidly blurring vision of his swelling eyes, the young Legionnaire saw Alexios at his side, slinging Iskander's arm over his shoulders to help him to his feet. Iskander couldn't process what was going on anymore; whatever burst of hysterical strength had kept him on his feet for that last stretch of the fight was fading, leaving him all too aware of how far he had pushed past his limits. "Alexios? What are you doing? Fight's over." He mumbled.

"Yeah, it's over, so it's time to take you to a doctor." Alexios said, in a tone that would brook no argument. Well, that was fine, Iskander didn't have the energy to argue anyway.

—-

The next… ten minutes? Twenty? However long it was, it was a blur that soon faded from Iskander's memory entirely. By the time things started to make sense again, he was seated on a cot in a small room that smelled faintly of incense, getting some kind of green paste rubbed onto the swollen parts of his face. Which was most of his face.

"We never actually set any terms, did we?" Said Alexios, who was apparently still here, sitting on the other side of the room and looking a lot better than Iskander, the supposed winner. "Guess it was just an exchange of pointers then. I'll pay for your treatment too."

Iskander wasn't sure what to say to that, so he just lay back for a while and let the nurse finish tending to him. Once she departed, he finally spoke up. "Man, why are you so darn sad?" He blurted out.

Alexios looked immensely confused, and frankly Iskander himself felt even more confused than Alexios looked. Why in the world would he say something like that? "Uh, pardon?" the alchemist asked, squinting and crossing his arms.

"The, uh… the way you carry yourself, it's… you weren't beating on that guy that way you beat on somebody when you're mad, you know?" Iskander asked, mentally flailing around trying to connect these sudden thoughts of his in a way that made any sense at all. "And when you fought me today, it was like you were just doing a chore. Were these things you felt like you just had to do or…"

"He called us a 'parade legion'. I was mad, but I wasn't doing it for me."Alexios said abruptly, avoiding eye contact.

"Parade legion? What, you mean the Bracers?" Iskander winced, and not just because all this talking wasn't too good for his broken ribs. "That's a harsh thing to say, no doubt. So it was about your legion's honor?"

"Something like that." Alexios said quietly. "You're still young, you wouldn't get it. You don't know what it's like to serve in a Legion for fifty years, then see it get insulted by somebody who doesn't know anything at all."

"I guess I can see why you wanted to get back at that guy." Iskander sighed. "But… like I said, you don't seem like an angry guy, you just seem sad. And you're not that violent either; you kept worrying about me while we were fighting."

"Honestly, I don't even like violence." Alexios muttered, leaning forward and resting his face on one hand. "You've seen it yourself; I'm strong, but I'm not that great of a fighter. I'd much rather help people with medicine then hurt them with my fists. But I had to; in these circumstances, I won't let anyone insult her, or anything that belongs to her."

"Her?"

Alexios hung his head in despair. "Legate Rina Callista. The Golden King, the Shining Hope. She's dying."

And what did you even say to something like that? "...oh. Um. I don't…"

Suddenly, Alexios stood, heading for the door. "She hasn't told us, but we know. She's distant from almost everyone, so her Legionnaires have learned to tell what she's thinking from the small interactions we get."

"W-wait, wait!" Iskander tried to follow after, but failed miserably, as the pain across his body flared up, making him nearly fall out of the bed. "Where are you going, man?"

"The cheap medicine these Blacksmiths make is no good; they're better with tools than people." The giant muttered, dipping down to get through the doorframe and turning to look back at Iskander one more time. "I'll whip up something better and mail it to you. I'll be in touch."

And just like that, Alexios was gone, and Iskander was alone. It was finally, actually over, sort of. He looked around the room, making sure all of his things were accounted for and sighing in relief when he saw that they were. "What the heck was that all about?" He sighed, laying back and feeling nothing but uncertainty over what to feel.

He looked to his Compression Pouch, where he knew the hilt of the Wailing Conqueror was stored, and smiled. "I know you're asleep right now but I just want you to know: I think I've gotten stronger, Senior. Just a little bit."

—-

And there's the second half of that story. As I stated before, it was supposed to be one chapter before it was split due to me being a lot busier than I had expected to be. I did my best to make them not feel like they started and ended abruptly, but I feel like there is still some of that there.

When deciding what Iskander's first big trick would be, I knew that it needed to be the right kind of trick. I needed one that foreshadows the ways in which he'll grow as a character going forward, as well as one that demonstrates the sort of tactics he uses. Iskander is academically dumb and tactically smart, and the reason his schemes are effective is that he always goes a little bit farther than you think he would. Therefore, I decided on 'he secretly has two Flying Swords'. It's a relatively simple trick, all things considered, but it's delivered in a devious way that makes Iskander look smart, rather than making his opponent look like a dumbass for falling for it.

Alexios started out as a relatively throwaway character, more meant to serve as an obstacle than anything else, but I feel like I ended up fleshing him out somewhat in the end, and I'm considering doing more with him later on. He's an intimidating and intelligent antagonist, but is ultimately bested because Iskander plans multiple layers deep and is willing to go to greater extremes to make his plans pay off than most people would expect. He's also intimately not that bad of a guy, though he's not particularly friendly either. I'll probably do something more with him down the line.

I would say more, but the rest of what I want to say here would spoil future developments that I'm currently setting up. I guess all I'll say is that this story had an important purpose, not in what directly transpires here but in the unintended effects of this duel.

 

[no.]

Iskander Pallikari 8 - Burning At Both Ends​

Yesterday, Iskander hit the Fourth Heavenstage.

There had been no great philosophical awakening, no intense feeling of sudden understanding, just the breaking down of a barrier that had, for months, felt so agonizingly close to falling. Attaining a new Small Realm was an exhausting ordeal, one that Iskander was not sure he would ever fully get used to. It took hours before he finally felt clean and presentable again, the black gunk of human weakness clinging to him stubbornly even as he scrubbed like a madman.

Some particularly cynical scholars felt that the black impurity that cultivation expelled was the purest form of humanity; the anonymity that bound all people together before they diverged from one another and grew beyond human limits by cultivating. Iskander didn't like to think of it that way; defining people only by their negative qualities really didn't sit right with him. Sometimes goop was just goop.

After that physically taxing experience, he'd taken the rest of the day off, other than cultivating in order to stabilize his cultivation base once more. Iskander figured he owed himself that much; one day to settle into a changed and renewed body. He ate heartily, spent time on leisurely walks, met with friends, and otherwise took it easy, before settling into an indulgent six hour-long sleep.

The next morning, Lai Bohai shouted at him to wake up immediately, surprised that his pupil had already reached the Fourth this month instead of the next. Now that he was in the Fourth, there was no time to waste; the next thing Iskander needed to learn was better internalized before the Fifth Heavenstage, and would take a few years to truly get down.

Apparently, one day was all Iskander was getting.

Next came the hard part: getting someone to rent out their basement for cheap. Or rather, getting someone to rent out their basement for cheap who would tolerate some screaming, and possibly other loud noises. Iskander put out an offer on the Contribution Board, largely expecting to get no buyers whatsoever, given he didn't have that much to pay.

What actually happened was that someone accepted the offer within days, no questions asked; some Decanus about to leave on a years-long mission, for whom this was essentially a trickle of free Contribution Points. Iskander wondered, in the pit of his stomach, if the penny-pinching phase of his life was in fact not a phase, but something he'd have to do for the rest of his days. Perhaps it was only the children of the wealthy who got to be careless before they died.

And so it was that within two weeks of reaching the Fourth Heavenstage, Iskander found himself standing in a home a great deal larger and better-furnished than Clotho's apartment. It was no king's dwelling, to be sure, but it was the sort of place that was more than just somewhere to lie your head down at night. Simple but well-made oak furniture, small sculptures on pedestals and paintings on the walls. A kitchen with a large stone oven, a washroom with an actual bath, a tiny plot of land outside that was probably a modest garden when the house's owner was around. The first word that came to mind was 'cozy'.

"Man, I'd love to have a place like this." Iskander sighed. "A big mansion? That's not really my style; it would drive me crazy. Nah, this is perfect."

"Eh, it's not bad. Could use a pond outside." Lai Bohai replied noncommittally. "You shouldn't lounge around the place; we're only renting the basement."

"We?" Iskander snorted. "It's my money, I did the work to make it."

"Bahahaha, ungrateful child! If it weren't for me you'd still be scrubbing chamber pots in the Second Heavenstage!" Lai Bohai laughed. "Just get down there, it should be all set up now."

Reinforcement arrays were carved into the door leading down into the basement; specifically, ones beyond Iskander's ability to break. That part was important. It creaked slightly as it opened, leading to a staircase down into darkness. Iskander gulped and began shedding his clothes. "Guess this is where we part ways for a bit." He said, breath hitching.

"Indeed it is. You'll be down there for eight hours; any more and you'd risk meridian damage." The ghost's tone, rather uncharacteristically, carried a slightly apologetic note. "Perhaps you'll hold a grudge against me for this, but it wouldn't be any less unpleasant if you'd waited. This is the ideal time."

"I know, gotta get this done before I start opening new meridians, right? You told me." Iskander replied, setting down the Wailing Conqueror along with the last of his clothing. "Gotta make it like, settle into my body and stuff."

Lai Bohai was either not particularly bothered by Iskander's apprehension, or he felt that a clinical tone was the best way to fight against it. Either way, it wasn't comforting. "In layman's terms, yes. Your meridians will already be adapted to the changes before opening. Accomplishing that after they were already open would prove more difficult."

"'Because healing meridians without hurting the person's ability to cultivate is the hardest part of mending an injury.' I said you told me already!" Iskander snapped, scowling.

He immediately felt guilty - why in the world was he taking his fear out on Lai Bohai? The ghost had no power over the physical world whatsoever. If Iskander refused to go along with this part of his lesson plan, he would have no choice but to roll with it. "Ugh, sorry, sorry, that was rude. I just have some jitters, that's all." He said, bowing to the hilt. "I'll just go now."

"Just remember boy, this is the first of the two foundational techniques from which the mighty Green Sage built her career. It takes time to grow, but it's no lightweight gimmick." Lai Bohai explained, voice thick with nostalgia. "Ah, what a woman she was. She'd have liked you. Passing these two arts onto you is one last act of remembrance for me. They'll take you very far."

The young swordsman wasn't sure what to say to that; he hadn't lived long enough to have the sort of 'old friends' that elderly people like Lai Bohai talked about. It was an emotion foreign to him thus far, thick with grief and joy in equal parts. He simply gave the hilt a respectful nod, picked up the bulging sack at his side, and descended the stairs, shutting the door behind him.

The heat hit him more and more the deeper he went. Iskander had already been sweating just standing outside the basement, but with each step it seemed to sink into his skin, as omnipresent as gravity or time. The source of said heat soon came into view: in each of the basement's four corners was a huge steel box filled with smoldering coals, next to which were several large pails of water. Aside from that, anything that had been in the basement before had been removed, leaving it more bare than a prison cell; just an empty hollow space beneath the earth.

Not only was the heat already beginning to eat at his skin, but it was incredibly dry. In moments Iskander felt the moisture being sucked out of his flesh, and he hurriedly grabbed a pail and poured its contents onto the coals. Immediately, a flood of steam emerged, blanketing the air. He repeated the process three more times, once in each corner, and soon enough he couldn't see more than a foot from his face.

This was a sort of therapy, he was given to understand. A modern alternative to the bathhouse for those who didn't wish to actually submerge themselves, called a sauna. Of course, normally the temperature was around a hundred degrees or less, not two-hundred fifty. Rather than therapeutic, the heat ate at Iskander's skin, scalding his body all over. He soon doubled over, crying out in pain as the outer layers of his skin began to boil away.

It was, by any definition, torture; designed to be painful but not do intense damage. Moreover, it was a constantly source of low-level damage, which was the perfect way to practice what he was learning. Forcing his lungs to enter a steady cycling rhythm, Iskander turned his qi into restorative energy, spreading it throughout his whole body. The pain abated a little bit, just enough to think straight, as his skin began mending itself as it was destroyed.

The Blood-Root Restoration could be mistaken for a dime-a-dozen Wood-aspected healing technique. Overflowing life, stimulating the cells and forcing them to repair damage to the body. Such a shallow observation failed to grasp the technique's sophistication, the way it could be applied to any area, big or small, and had no upper limit on how potent the healing could become.

Yes, it could heal anything, though the more complex the system the more qi it took, and speeding it up only multiplied the cost further. A jack of all trades healing art which avoided the pitfalls of specialized ones, but in turn lacked the efficiency that came with specialization. If he could get a handle on this, he wouldn't need any other healing technique, as this one would always be useful.

Time passed, its length impossible to determine in that foggy hellscape. Iskander yelled and groaned again and again, pounding at the floor and crawling about aimlessly. His qi drained out, growing thinner and thinner until it began to gutter. Reaching into the sack at the center of the basement, he pulled out a few spirit stones and began drawing upon the energy within.

Cycling qi inward and outward at the same time was a tricky thing. Several times, the Blood-Root Restoration stopped working, reducing the Aspirant to an agonized frenzy as he tried to get it working again. By the time Iskander's reserves were filled up again, his fingertips were bloody from clawing at the stone beneath him. He watched in morbid curiosity as his fingernails reformed into their proper shape and the skin gradually sealed back up.

The steam was getting thin, and Iskander was rapidly dying up again. That meant some time had to have passed, right? He stumbled, zombie-like, over to the nearest pail of water and dumped it on the coals, feeling refreshed immediately as the steam grew thicker. Walking back to the center of the room, Iskander slipped on the lines of blood he'd clawed into the ground, sending his weary body crashing down painfully.

"Lai Bohai, you nasty old fart! A curse on you, a thousand curses! How could you do this to me!?" He screamed in the approximate direction of the stairs, his throat already hoarse and only aching more with each word. "I don't care! I don't care about the Green Sage, or the Blood-Root Whatever! This is awful!"

Iskander did not beg to be let out; Lai Bohai couldn't do that if he wanted to, no one could hear his voice, and he himself already knew that even at full strength, he could not break down that door. Thus, it would be pointless to beg. Instead, he flung insults until he couldn't bear the pain of shouting any longer.

The point of this training wasn't merely to learn how to use the Blood-Root Restoration. Such intense torment wouldn't be necessary for that, he would merely have had to go about his life and use it whenever he was injured, and that would be training enough. The point of using it constantly, with such immediate and painful consequences if he could not, was to imprint it into his own subconscious mind; to turn its use from a conscious action to an automatic response. When the technique was mastered to that extent, a Cultivator with a strong enough Wood affinity could internalize the technique into their very body, creating the Deep Root Constitution. Like a tree whose roots were buried deep beneath the earth, they could survive and recover from even the harshest of storms, gaining accelerated healing even in their sleep.

True regeneration was a prize many Cultivators sought, and one that most gave up on. Massive, risky and expensive modifications to the body were the most common way to achieve such results, and usually had downsides. Certain powerful bloodlines or unique mutations could grant a form of self-healing - the legendary expert Wei Feng was perhaps the most extreme known example. But for the common man, blessed with neither the riches to modify himself or the extreme fortune to stumble upon a great blessing, the only remaining option was sheer determination.

More agony than most people could stomach. A sound enough mind to take all that pain and remain sane. A solid enough technique to form the base. All of these things were necessary, as was a great deal of time. In the desert, where elemental affinities skewed toward Fire and Earth and away from Water and Wood, it was even less commonly undertaken.

But Iskander had a strong Wood affinity. He had a teacher who could pass down a first-class technique. He was stubborn, and he kept his promises. When it came to developing a regenerative technique the hard way, he was in a very good spot .And still, it was hell. The idea of burning like this, over and over, until he got so used to being hurt that making himself while became an immutable part of his body? That was unthinkable now.

Feebly, Iskander reached out, his fingertips brushing against the bag. After several attempts he got it to tip over, spilling its contents toward him. He grasped a few spirit stones in his hand and began to cycle inward once more. Why was he even doing this?

Really, why? He could just say no. Why did he have to be so stubborn? What was it that made him so bullheaded, when he had no real dreams of his own? His lofty ambitions were solely for the sake of another, a quid pro quo where he and his teacher both stood to benefit. Did he even have a reason of his own to become a Nascent Soul?

He dropped the Restoration again, and moaned weakly as the pain doubled in intensity, curling up on himself and trying to start it up again. Nascent Soul cultivation was horrible, according to Lai Bohai; much more painful than a physical discomfort like this. Why bother at all if this was what it meant to move forward like that?

"Why? What is my reason?" He muttered, turning over onto his other side as the technique once more took hold. "Come on Iskander. You've got a brain, use it. What's the reason? What's the reason? What's the reason?"

—-

Seven hours had passed, which meant the boy was nearly done. The array on the door would wear off on its own when enough time had passed, so Lai Bohai didn't really need to keep track, but honestly he could not help it. This sort of training was something terrible to inflict on one so young, who had not yet grown accustomed to the torment of high-level cultivation.

The ancient ghost cut off that line of thought, or at least tried to; there was no room for sentimentality here. A Nascent Soul wasn't made out of half-assed training, but by those who were willing to go farther than anyone else. With no wealthy benefactors to fall back on and no institutional support beyond the basics, he needed to stack the deck as much in Iskander's favor as possible.

Constitutions were easier to integrate into a Qi Condensation body than any other, and the earlier the better. He'd have been boiling that kid in the First Heavenstage, if not for the fact that his body wouldn't have been able to handle the cost of using the Blood-Root Restoratiion. The Fourth, which had far deeper reserves than the stages before it, was the absolute lowest stage at which integrating a technique like this into one's body became feasible in the slightest. Even the Green Sage, who used this very same technique, had not mastered it at such a low realm.

The sooner the integration, the more effective it would be; the boy had to be perfect. There was no time left, not more chances. If Iskander couldn't improve Lai Bohai's situation, it would be the end of him, and while he hadn't been overly frightened of death as a man, the idea of fading away into nothingness like this disgusted him. No, Lai Bohai would not die, not before he had seen his home again.

"I can't make you stay, kid. You can walk out of my training at any time and leave me to rot." He mused bitterly. "Perhaps this was a step too far, and will make you give up. If it does, then I'll have done you a mercy. If this suffering is too much for you, then the big leagues will break you, and you're better off living a simple life. You're the sort who'd be happy that way anyway."

He doubted Iskander could hear him. The kid hadn't moved much in the last couple of hours, the need to conserve energy having finally overcome his emotional response to pain. That was a good sign - losing the feeling of pain left one vulnerable, because they risked not noticing their own injuries. Being able to process pain without distress or irrational thought was the ideal.

And look at him, celebrating a youngster for slowly getting better at withstanding torture - torture which Lai Bohai himself had subjected him to. It would have been better if a piece of work like him had died completely and a true visionary like the Green Sage had remained. She had been the heart and soul of his revolution, turning it from the raw anger of the put-upon into a cause worth dying and killing for. He was nothing more than a guilty dog licking the wounds his own claws had inflicted.

"My friend, what would you say if you saw me now, so old and feeble. What little koan would you recite for me?" He asked, trying to picture the face beneath that mask as he had so many times before. Each time, it was a little different - A round face, or a narrow one? Full lips or thin lips? What about the eyebrows - were they bushy, thin, round, slanted? What color and shape were her eyes? He'd never once asked her about any of that; the idea of doing so felt strangely taboo.

Pathetic. He really was pathetic. Thick-headed Lai Bohai, who couldn't talk to people and spoke through his sword instead. It was only fitting, then, that in his current state he could do nothing but talk. Perhaps it was some kind of divine penance for the life he had lived.

The array inscribed on the door to the basement stopped glowing, and a keening sound started to blare in and out, signaling to the prisoner that he could now leave. There was a sound of scrabbling, followed by frantic footsteps as Iskander forced himself up the stairs before flinging the door open.

He looked terrible, obviously. His skin was various shades of red and pink, his body was letting off a great deal of steam, and he clutched the half-emptied stack of spirit stones in the sort of death grip that came from sheer hysterical strength. He barely made it six steps out the door before he collapsed, crying out as the exposed flesh of his knees touched the floor.

"Regenerators are crazy, they're all cracked in the head. Heard that once." He mumbled, voice hoarse and scratchy. The pain still wasn't over yet, and so he maintained the Blood-Root Restoration, shivering as his skin fixed itself yet again, one layer at a time insulating the raw red flesh beneath. "I know why now, I guess. That's so awful…"

Lai Bohai elected not to pester Iskander, but instead to leave him be and observe his expression. The young Devil's eyes were unfocused, but not blank in the way a truly broken man's were. His expression was one of vivid and intense discomfort, rather than catatonic apathy. Yes, very good, he hadn't lost his sanity at all!

Once the worst of the damage was fading away - much of Iskander was still dark pink, but there was no more red - he decided that the pain had probably receded enough to hear him. "Congratulations: the first session is over!" He announced, half-sarcastically. "I did warn you that this training would be more harsh than usual. From all of that shouting, I take it you weren't as prepared as you thought you were?"

Iskander gulped nervously, before struggling to his feet and bowing deeply to the Wailing Conqueror. "I'm sorry! I really am sorry! I didn't mean what I was saying when I was down there, it just hurt so much, and it made me mad and…" He rambled on, shifting his weight from one leg to the next. "Please let me continue this training. I've come this far, so let me complete it!"

"Frankly, I thought you'd say worse." Lai Bohai remarked nonchalantly. "You speak informally to everyone, but you've got such a clean mouth…"

"So uh… tomorrow we just do the same thing again? We keep doing it every day until my body heals on its own?" Iskander asked, rubbing the back of his head. "That really stinks, but I think I'll survive."

"The first and second sessions are the most traumatic and difficult to get through. The first because you're unprepared for the pain, and the second because you understand the pain, but haven't yet adapted. After that, each successive day will be a little bit easier, so if your resolve holds strong tomorrow as well, you should be in the clear. At the end of it, you'll develop the Deep Root Constitution; your body will automatically deploy a weaker version of the technique whenever and wherever you've got any damage. Far more practical than the actively-maintained version." The ghost explained. "You must have found quite a well of strength to endure the pain so well; did you have any revelations or insights?"

"Nah." Iskander shrugged. "Tried as hard as I could to figure out why I was going through with this, but I just didn't have the words. I guess what kept me going was wanting to know my reason."

"Wanting to know your reason…" Lai Bohai repeated quietly, marveling at the sheer simplicity of the notion. "Well, if it works then it works. I'm glad to see you've banished your fear."

"What? No, I'm really scared, I'm shaking in my boots here." Iskander laughed, holding up his hand and watching as his skin continued to return to its normal hue. "But you said I could do it, right? If I couldn't do it, it'd be one thing to run away, but if I can actually do it, then giving up would be a waste."

The answer was so simple that Lai Bohai couldn't help but let harsh barks of laughter slip free. "That's good, that's damn good! That's the spirit, Iskander!"

"I'm gonna keep my word. Let's do this tomorrow, and the day after, and however many days it takes!" Iskander smacked his fist into his palm, only to wince and spasm as he tore open his still-healing skin, deflating his boasting immediately.

Lai Bohai didn't like so-called prodigies. Those who took to some aspect of life too well inevitably developed a warped perspective on life, and that warped perspective created weaknesses. In his mind, the good kind of student was one with enough capability to comprehend every aspect of their master's teachings while maintaining a clear and accurate view of the world. Iskander was not without flaws, but he fit that mold perfectly, which gave Lai Bohai the slight hope that this wasn't entirely for naught.

But perhaps he'd sold the boy short by thinking of him as more than just 'good'. His tenacity, his creative streak, his mental flexibility… There was true potential here. The kid was like a piece of complex machinery: it would be easy to misalign a part and make him fall off the path, but if everything came together just right, something miraculous might occur.

"Yes, let's. I was almost considering going easy on you, but that moment of weakness has passed!" Lai Bohai laughed, excited in a way he could rarely muster in himself these days. "You keep your promises, so let's seal the deal: promise me you'll do this training every day until the next time I wake up. We'll knock the whole process out in one month!"

"W-wait, a whole month?" Iskander stammered, counting on his fingers as a helpless expression came over his face. "But that's like, uh… all? Like, all of my savings, probably!"

"Gotta spend points to make points. You get stronger, you'll make more points down the line. Get used to it."

"Aaah, you mean old goat!"

"What was that about not meaning your insults?"

"This time I do mean it! You're a jerk!"

"And don't you fucking forget it!"

Yes, this boy would do just fine. After such a long time, Lai Bohai's luck really had turned.

—-

After coming to the conclusion that Fire and Wood are the elements that Iskander's personality embodies best, I found myself wondering what sorts of techniques to give him within those elements. Hardly any good seeds use Wood techniques as far as I'm aware, so I've long since headcanonned that elemental affinities can be affected by your surroundings, and so Wood and Water affinities are rarer in the desert.

Wood is often seen as just being a plant manipulation thing, but in a lot of ways, it's about living things in general. It's a restorative element, so I imagine that most healing techniques involve Wood to some degree. And so I decided that I'd give Iskander a healing factor, since that ties in with the feeling of scrappiness that pervades his way of doing things. That said, this early on the Deep Root Constitution(which is less powerful than Blood-Root Restoration as a downside of always being on) is less 'combat-relevant regeneration' and more 'heals about twice as fast as a normal Golden Devil, who themselves already heal faster than baseline humans'.

But that lead me to another thought: how do you train a regeneration technique? It must be difficult, since otherwise everyone would want one. And so I decided that in this setting, true regeneration(as in, healing that works on its own without you needing to focus on it) is a very difficult thing to attain, usually being inborn rather than learned. And since it's easier to make drastic changes to yourself early on in your cultivation path than later on, internalizing a technique enough to make it into a constitution would best be done very young.

And so, I concluded, this is why regeneration is rare: it really, really fucking sucks to learn. Internalizing even a relatively weak healing technique is a hellish process requiring you to be tortured, ideally at a time in which you're young and inexperienced, and is even more difficult to do if you don't have a strong Wood Affinity. Iskander basically had the stars align here, but it's still incredibly awful.

Something I've been trying to do with Iskander, though I'm not sure if I've managed to be totally consistent about it, is that he never swears. He speaks informally, even to his superiors, and yet his language is squeaky-clean, which is an interesting dichotomy that reflects his carefree nature.

He's also, despite not having a strong central motivation or Dao yet, surprisingly willing to go all-out on things he finds compelling. As shown with this training and with the duel against Axios, when Iskander is personally invested in something, he's ready and willing to go all-in. After all, his two best elements are Fire and Wood; he'll happily burn himself if you give him a reason.

 

[no.]

Iskander Pallikari 9 - The Big Cheese, Part 1​

Iskander was, by and large, not particularly built for solitary contemplation. Working to understand the Great Dao was something he'd forced himself to get pretty good at, but being alone, without any immediate task to set his mind to, made him feel restless - like there was a bug crawling on his skin somewhere that he couldn't quite pinpoint. Not for the first time, he wished that his teacher could keep him company more often; it was a little bit pathetic that one of Iskander's closest friends could only speak to him once a month.

'Go pick up a thing over here and then move it over there.' was probably, by sheer man-hours, the most common type of mission a Cultivator could take on. The one Iskander had taken was perhaps a bit more large in scope than most, but fundamentally it wasn't that different from going to fetch a bucket of water. From the Plains he had been operating in, the newly-promoted Decanus was to ride south into the mountains, go into Sorrowful Blacksmith lands to purchase seven spirit beasts, then bring those beasts further south into Golden Devil lands, where another Devil would pick them up and take it from there.

As one day blurred into the next and the fertile abundance of the plains gave way to rockier, harsher terrain, Iskander found himself overcome with a sort of quiet sadness. He'd spent too long in the north, he thought, if he was becoming melancholic to leave it behind. Golden Devils were a people adapted to harsh living; a proper Devil could subsist on meager portions of food and water, trek through an endless wasteland without faltering, or maintain their morale through a hundred year siege. Perhaps glimpsing his desolate home at the end of his mission would correct this yearning and re-orient him.

For the first three weeks of the journey, Iskander's only company was the horse beneath his hips. A Qi Condensation-level stallion whose coat must have once been white or silver, but which in his old age had curdled into a sort of grey, yellow and brown-spotted mess, Cinis had been chosen by Iskander on a Centurion's recommendation. In a solo mission, what mattered most in a steed was reliability, and Cinis was nothing if not reliable; utterly unflappable in the face of danger and able to adjust to any rider. He was not the strongest horse in the Legion's possession, nor was he the fastest, but he had lived forty years in a profession of frequent combat for a reason.

'Fear the old in a profession where men die young' was a sentiment held in just about every culture; it was just common sense. The same went for horses, Iskander supposed; he'd seen Cinis stand around calmly as formation practice was conducted not ten feet from him. Half the time, the stablehands didn't bother to secure him to anything or lock his stall in the stables, because there was simply no risk that he would ever run off. Indeed, rather than the rider's calm soothing the steed, Cinis' own utter sturdiness served to quiet Iskander's own nerves.

After twenty-three days, after the Plains had long since transitioned fully into the mountains, Lai Bohai once more returned from his deathly slumber to converse with his pupil. As a disembodied spirit, he didn't yawn, exactly; more of a wordless vibration of unstructured thought, as he once more adjusted to having awareness of the world around him. "My, I see the journey is quite a bit underway already." He remarked.

It was a little odd; the way that telepathic voice did not fade no matter the distance, nor was it muffled when the Wailing Conqueror was inside a bag or locked in a chest. It was a synchronization, as Lai Bohai called it, rather than traditional telepathy. Physical distance or matter could do little to affect that connection, so long as the Wailing Conqueror itself was not tampered with.

"Yeah. Nothing too crazy so far." Iskander said back with a shrug. "I've been practicing when we stop for the night, when I'm not sleeping, but I can only do so much."

"Eh, it is what it is. Your skills are reaching a point of reflection anyway." Lai Bohai replied dismissively.

Iskander furrowed his brow at his teacher's words. "Reflection? You mean I gotta reflect on them? I do that every time I train; that's the point."

"No no no, they must be reflected back upon you by another." The ghost explained, voice perking up now that he had something to talk his pupil's ear off about. "The only way to truly grasp your shortcomings is to see them in battle, see how they hinder you, and thus how they can be fixed. Sparring only does so much."

"Really, it's gotta be in real combat?" Iskander asked skeptically. "How's that more useful for training than sparring with fake swords? You're doing the moves at full speed either way."

Lai Bohai sighed, as if not being immediately understood was some grave injustice put upon him. "To an athlete, managing the mind is as important as managing the body. The inherent risk of a real fight makes it impossible to bullshit yourself."

"Literally 'do or die', huh?" Iskander sighed, hanging his head. "You really drive me hard, Senior..."

"You're not rich enough that you can afford to give it anything less than your all." Lai Bohai shot back with a bark of laughter. "The first step is to learn determination in the face of pain; you've figured that out. After that comes determination in the face of death. You've seen combat, but you have yet to grasp that."

"Come on, you're calling me a coward, after all I've done?" Iskander groused, crossing his arms.

"A coward? No, you're far from a coward; you've got a moderate amount of fear - that's good - and you've got bravery far above the norm - also good." The ghost hummed with approval. "But you can't yet bring out 100% of your abilities when your life is in danger. If you can truly keep a cool head under deadly circumstances, the risk will force you to grow whether you like it or not."

"Oh, that's pretty scary, huh?" Iskander mused. He might have said more, but he was forced to pause and steady himself as Cinis crested a hill and descended down the other side, causing a brief lurching sensation.

"Let's say that right now, you fight at 80% capacity across the board in deadly combat. In reality, it would be more like 70% when attacking and 90% when defending - fear blunts the offense more than the defense, but I'm keeping it simple." Lai Bohai continued, never one to pass up an opportunity for a lecture. "If you can truly cool your head and reach a calm, tactical state without any hesitation, you'll fight at 100%, or very close to that. Even moreso than that, you'll come to understand and correct your flaws, in a state where error could mean the end. You'll grow past 100%, all the way to 120% of your previous capacity!"

"Sheesh, it's really that much?" Iskander said - not exactly to Lai Bohai, perhaps not to anyone in particular. He sat back in the saddle, looking up into the afternoon sky above him, painted with a layer of gray clouds. It hadn't rained yet, but it probably would at some point. "From 80% to 120%, that's like... it's like..." He scowled, trying to wrap his brain around the numbers. "Gimme a minute. Half of 80 is... is it 30 or 35? So if you take that and add it... wait, do you add or do you multiply at that part?"

"Half again." The ghost said after about a minute, during which Iskander had made no progress at all. His tone seemed almost impressed, weirdly enough - impressed, perhaps, that Iskander was still this bad with numbers. "Half again, or a 50% increase in relative combat effectiveness. Call it what you want, but it matters a lot. When you truly get into the zone, you'll be fighting on a whole different level."

"Wow."

"Mhm."

A moment passed. Cinis reached the bottom of one foothill and began to climb another, his pace as steady as the passing of days on a calendar.

"Senior, I'm bored."

"What do you mean bored!?" Lai Bohai snapped. "Do you have any idea how much my time is worth!?"

Iskander shrugged off the ghost's annoyance, continuing. "There's nothing to do right now. Hasn't been anything to do this whole trip. Can you tell me a story?"

Lai Bohai let out the sort of weird, extended grunt that only cranky old people seemed to ever make. Perhaps there was some kind of handbook you got when you turned 80. "Hmph, how insolent. Well, perhaps that quality is another reason why you've as well as you have. Alright, I'll tell you a story from my youth. Yes, I must have been less than four hundred years old at the time, since I was still in Core Formation. I was on a vacation, visiting my home in Meteor Valley, when all of a sudden..."

——

Lai Bohai fell asleep again long before Iskander reached his destination, but that bit of company did quite a bit to restore his spirit. Another two weeks, and Iskander found himself upon the particular mountain that had been marked for him. Though a pebble compared to Turtlebone Mountain, it was still a harsh, tall thing to navigate, especially on horseback. Still, this was not a fully wild place; there were winding roads which led inexorably upward, even if they were too narrow for Iskander's liking.

The question which rang louder and louder in the Decanus' head as he approached his destination was an inevitable one: what kind of psychopath builds a ranch on a mountain? Because that was where he was headed: a ranch, where he would be picking up cattle. Sure, these were spirit beasts, not mortal animals, but how were they being fed? How was there enough space to house them?

When Iskander got there, he found himself more confused; what was before him looked nothing like what he might describe as a ranch; more like a fortress gate hewn into the stone. Climbing off of Cinis and walking him up to the intimidating facade, he saw a large bronze knocker, carved into the shape of an upside-down hammer. The Devil took hold of the knocker and lightly tapped it against the door, only to hear no sound at all. It was thick stone, of course; even the harsh clang of metal on metal would need to be loud to penetrate.

Pulling it back much farther, Iskander struck the door as if he was trying to break it down, producing several loud, satisfying clangs. After half a minute, a low grinding sounded out as gates opened up halfway - more than wide enough for the man and horse to get through. As he entered, he found himself in a huge hall, well-lit by enchanted torches and False Sun Crystals, the ceiling supported by tall, thick pillars, each one several feet wide. The floor was smoother than he expected, (though there was still, inevitably, some roughness) and on the whole, it felt more inviting than the inside of a mountain ought to.

Several people were present; most male, but some women as well. They were the sort of hardy-looking folk that Iskander would associate with daily farm labor; thick-limbed and broad-chested, tough bodies and rough hands built for strength and endurance. There were some wary looks, inevitable for a Golden Devil, but on the whole the mood was neutral. Iskander's eye was quickly caught by one man in particular, who was leading one of the strangest animals Iskander had ever seen.

A seven-foot tall, fifteen-foot long quadruped with dark, rocky skin, it was like a statue of a beast carved from obsidian. Behind it trailed a long tail which ended in a blunt, hooked barb like a warhammer's beak, and upon its head was a pair of large, magnificent horns which curved forward. The face was particularly unusual, more like an insect's than a mammals, with large pincers, crushing mandibles, and thick, blunt teeth beneath all of that. It had one small eye on either side of its large head, like a whale might, though from how its gaze briefly flicked backwards to look at Iskander, he imagined it could see just about anywhere between the two of them. Its thick legs terminated in proportionally-large hooves the size of small anvils. It must have weighed at least four tons, possibly more.

Looking at the animal from a certain angle, Iskander could understand why it was called a Rock-Crunching Mountain Bull, even if the resemblance to a normal bull was in silhouette alone. "That's what I'm here for?" He muttered nervously.

"I don't know, is it?" Said a voice behind Iskander, causing him to cry out and jump backward. This prompted an immediate, short-lived burst of laughter from the voice's owner.

Huge, bald and grey-skinned as she was, Iskander was surprised to hear a woman's voice coming from her mouth. She dressed in simple fashion similar to the farmhands, but her robes carried enough subtle ornamentation to indicate that she was of a higher rank. "I take it this is your first time in a stone-farm, right? It must seem strange." She asked, clearly amused.

"Uh, yes, it is. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare." Iskander stammered out, remembering to bow only after a few seconds of awkward silence had passed. "I'm Iskander Pallikari; I was sent to pick up seven Rock-Crunching Mountain Bulls. You got the letter, right?"

"Mhm, I saw your letter alright. I wanna see something else too." The stony woman - probably the owner of this farm, if she was being so forward - asserted, sticking out a brawny hand with her palm upturned.

"Oh, right. Yeah, got it right here." The Devil answered, reaching into a Compression Pouch attached to Cinis' side to pull out an unmarked, tightly cinched sackcloth bag. When it was placed into her hand, the woman weighed the bag carefully, then opened it and took a peek inside. The glimmering colors of many spirit stones lit up her face as she tilted the bag this way and that, shifting them around to look for any irregularities.

Finding none, she cinched it back up tight and tied the string to her belt. "Alright, pleasure doing business. Isn't it nice, when business is simple? Not all this paperwork, all this hemming and hawing; just 'I give you this, you give me that'?" She asked, gripping Iskander's hand in a firm shake. "From the way you walk and talk, you look like a fellow who likes to keep it simple. A person of the earth, like us."

"Hehe, you've got good eyes. Something like that, I guess." Iskander couldn't help but smile back, even in an unfamiliar place like this. There was a solidarity to be had between common folk that often transcended culture; universal feelings that only those who grew up working with their hands every day to make ends meet could understand. Cultivator farmers, he supposed, were still farmers.

"Then in that case, let's dispense with ranks and titles and just talk straight." The owner commanded, walking off. Iskander had to jog to match the pace of her long strides, and she didn't seem to care enough to slow down. "Don't get your hopes up; that big guy back there is our prize stud, the biggest bull we've ever had. He's in Foundation, has been since he was born. You're getting one bull and six cows, all in Qi Condensation, and they're all a lot smaller than him."

Iskander breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm kinda glad to hear that, honestly. I don't know if I could wrangle seven of him... or one of him."

Soon enough, the young Devil was led through the main hall, down a long staircase, and through a complicated series of halls. At the very least they weren't narrow - all of these chambers and halls were very spacious, so that a whole herd of animals could be led through any of them. It almost felt like he was a small child, being led through a normal-sized house and marveling at how big adults and their things were.

As the pair went, the owner explained more about how these sorts of ranches worked: some spirit beasts were so heavily Earth-aligned that they literally ate the earth, in one way or another, and breeding and training such animals was vastly different from how one might traditionally care for a beast. As such, ranches which worked with earth-aspected beasts were literally carved into mountain faces, and the consumptive habits of the beasts themselves were used to expand the ranch. A sort of symbiotic relationship, one which saved on the steep costs of traditional excavation.

As the pair approached their destination, a faint rumbling could be heard and felt, one which grew louder as they approached. "Ah, they're feeding now, huh?" The owner remarked in a blase tone. "Good, it's nice to have a meal right before starting a journey."

Sure enough, when the heavy gate to the... barn? Holding cell? What exactly would a room used to hold animals be called, when said room was carved into the ground? Well, when that gate was opened, Iskander's eyes grew wide at the sight. Seven beasts, smaller than the one upstairs but still likely weighing around two tons each, took turns ramming their heads into the dense, dark stone of one of the walls. Each time, their horns vibrated, and a chunk of it shattered. Some of the time, a few glittering raw spirit stones would fall alongside the mundane rocks, and they would bring their heads down to bite into them.

The way they shared their food was surprisingly peaceful for such loud and cumbersome things, though occasionally one of them would shove another or bat them with their tail if they were hogging the meal. They ate carelessly, gobbling down mundane rocks alongside actual spirit stones, producing a ceaseless grinding the likes of which Iskander had never heard before. The bull looked distinct from the cows, but not by that much - it was bigger and heavier, and boasted larger horns, but on the whole, the species had little in the way of sexual dimorphism.

"They don't need to do that for every meal, you know." The owner explained. "Most of the time, we just feed them some spirit stones directly. But they need to do this at least once a week so they don't lose their instincts or get depressed. Beasts gotta do what they were meant for, same as people."

"Mm, I get what you mean." Iskander replied. "If only we could all be as content with our lives as these guys are headbutting rocks."

The owner let out an enthusiastic laugh at that, causing several of the cows to turn and look to the source of the noise. "You're a smart fella, Iskander, you really are! I know they'll be in good hands with you!"

The Devil could only hope she was right.

----

Grind. Grind. Grind. The whetstone ran along the blade of Jia Liwei's axe with a steady, soothing rhythm. There were Metal-aspected techniques which could instantly sharpen a weapon with no tools required, but he had declined to learn such things, as he enjoyed this little ritual.

Grind. Grind. Grind. Each pass of the stone brought him back to another battle. Successful jobs, successful hauls. Unsuccessful jobs, running away to lick their wounds. After enough time doing banditry it all began to blend together, one decade into another into another. The phantom ache of his missing eye had never fully subsided no matter how many years passed; the ache of betrayal, when his Senior Brother left him for dead and took his treasures for himself.

Grind. Grind. Grind. Jia Liwei never returned to his Sect after that day. Perhaps if he had, if he pleaded his case, justice might fall on his side, and his stolen items might be returned, plus additional compensation. Despite that, he simply could not bring himself to walk back into that den of snakes, like a dog crawling back to a master who kicked him; no, better to rule over the scavengers than return to that place.

"Boss! Boss!" a young man's voice called out, followed closely by the beating of wings and the padding of paws. Jia Liwei sighed, putting down his axe and standing up from the rock he was sitting on. He was an imposing specimen if he did say so himself, a big hunk of scarred muscle and white hair clad in a simple cloth tunic and leather pants, off the job as he surrently was.

The man who approached him couldn't be more different; a lean, dark-haired young man with a somewhat delicate face, accompanied by several odd-looking spirit beasts. He wore a vest, bracers and boots of boiled leather at all times, in case one of his pets got too rowdy and bit him. He was breathing hard, having evidently run straight here.

After taking a moment to catch his breath, the youth held out his hand, and one particular bird, a large raven with a scar on its chest, landed on his wrist. "Jibber came back, she says seven bulls have left the Shen Family Ranch!"

"Seven." the bird in question rasped. "Seven. Seven bull. Seven bull."

Jia Liwei's eyes flew wide open at that remark. "Seven of them at once, really? You'd better not be bullshitting me, Sheng Meng." He barked out in disbelief. "Who's got them?"

"Just one man! A Golden Devil in Qi Condensation!" Sheng Meng exclaimed, laughing joyfully. "It's right there on a platter!"

"One Devil, one Devil." The raven repeated in turn. Another one of Sheng Meng's companions, a big shaggy wolf, picked up on the excitement and began barking happily in turn. The Beast Artist cuffed it across the ear, causing it to whine quietly, then quiet down.

"Change of plans then; we're starting a new job right now. Gather the men!" Jia Liwei commanded. Sheng Meng complied, running off to inform the rest of their gang. Meanwhile, the old bandit ducked behind a tree and disrobed - he needed to change into something more authoritative.

----

Jia Liwei's gang was known as the Bloody Tusks. Not the most inventive name, but they arguably weren't the most inventive people. Their numbers had grown and shrunk over the years as they took losses and hired new members, but they rarely went above ten or below five. Currently, there were seven, including Jia Liwei himself.

In order to make sure the men remembered who was in charge, their leader always made sure to dress the part when giving them orders. He now wore black boiled leather armor with iron pauldrons, gauntlets and greaves. His beloved axe, Helm Splitter, was secured at his back, and a sword was at his waist just in case. He even had a knife strapped to each of his thighs, just in case. He'd oiled his facial hair, and finished off the ensemble with a fur collar, making him look like a lion. Oh yeah, he was the coolest ever.

At his side, pacing frantically and followed by his many pets, was Sheng Meng, and arrayed before him around a campfire were the other five. Qin Duyi, a massive bald imbecile, barely aware of the world around him, looked around in a way that could almost be called innocent. Guo Shi, thin and wiry, his greasy brown hair tied into a messy ponytail and a bored expression on his face. Zeng An, short, stout and ugly, leaning against a rock and drinking home-made liquor from a gourd. Xiong Lei, well-built and handsome, his long hair done up in a topknot and a sword at his side even in the most casual of situations. Zou Shen, barely old enough to be called a man at all, small cloth bags tied to his belt that Jia Liwei knew were full of a wide selection of noxious-smelling substances.

"I see everyone's here. Good, because I've got an announcement to make!" Jia Liwei barked, clapping his hands to make sure Qin Duyi was paying attention.

"Is it really so important, boss?" Guo Shi sighed, rolling his eyes. "We just got a new haul last week. Can't we relax a little?"

"Yeah, we ought to roll into a nice, quiet town. Get some whores, some wine, have a nice little party." Xiong Lei concurred, nodding assertively.

"And I need another week to replenish my special ammunition." Zou Shen raised his hand and spoke up hesitantly, emboldened now that he wasn't the first one to talk back. "I've got some new stuff I want to experiment with and-"

"Talk your nerd shit to somebody else, this is important!" Sheng Meng cut in, sneering at Zou Shen as he slowly put his hand down and looked down. "We've come upon an opportunity we can't pass up, even if it's a little inconvenient." He continued, walking forward and standing next to Jia Liwei, only to be swiftly struck upside the head.

"I'm the one who makes the announcements, not you!" The bandit leader growled, before glaring down at the animals accompanying Sheng Meng. They quickly backed down, making various gestures of submission even as their master was berated. "Do you think you're the leader of the Bloody Tusks, Sheng Meng? Is that what you believe?"

"Oh come on, why don't you let me tell 'em, sir? I know all about those bulls. Know all about just about any animal in the mountains, I do!" Sheng Meng laughed nervously, taking a few steps back and breaking into a smug grin. "You know, I'm the only one here who knows how to read; if you just let me teach that to everybody, it'd be easier to make plans."

"They don't need to worry about book-learning when there's more important shit to do." Jia Liwei scoffed, shoving Sheng Meng aside. "And you aren't gonna tell 'em because you don't make the plans, I do. Stand aside and let me handle it."

"Alright, I got it, I got it. You're the boss..." Sheng Meng muttered bitterly, wandering off to go sulk somewhere. Whatever, he'd get over it once the good times rolled in after this job - if he was truly ambitious, he would have tried something already. People like Sheng Meng could be easily kept in line through superior force and a little bit of preferential treatment.

Turning to his assembled subordinates, Jia Liwei cleared his throat, then began to speak. "Our quarry today: six Rock-Crunching Mountain Cows, plus one Bull. Biggest catch we've ever had, if we can pull it off. Do you remember why?" He called out with a well-honed, effortless confidence. Several of them nodded or gave vague verbal affirmations, but others didn't answer. Qin Duyi, as was to be expected, did not react at all, instead focusing all the attention he could muster on messily chewing a hunk of salted meat.

That humongous thing didn't need to understand the intricate details of what was going on around him; only what to kill and what not to kill. But the rest of these nitwits were, unfortunately, more complicated than that. Jia Liwei sighed, shaking his head. "You all ought to know this shit, we stole two of them five years ago. Fine, let's start from the top: The Rock-Crunching Mountain Bull eats spirit stones and other minerals. It uses its sharp qi senses to find ores, then breaks boulders and mountainsides with its horns to get to them. It digests the qi right out of the spirit stones, and stores the excess in its..."

Jia Liwei paused, snapping his fingers several times. In response, he received only slack-jawed stares, head-scratches, or some combination of the two. Zeng An raised his hand, causing everyone to turn to him. "Um... I-is it the udders?" he muttered nervously.

"Don't just guess randomly, idiot!" Guo Shi shouted, kicking Zeng An in the knee and breaking into mean-spirited cackling as he toppled to the ground.

"Idiots lose booze privileges." said Xiong Lei, who snatched the gourd from Zeng An's hand as he fell and took a big swig. As the shorter man tried to take his gourd back, Xiong Lei lifted it up too high for him to reach, and soon enough the two began tussling over it.

Jia Liwei growled, veins beginning to bulge and throb in his temples. Did he really have to remember everything around here? Bunch of losers and drop-outs; he should have ditched them years ago and tried to join a Sect. Not his old one of course, a different one without so many schemers. Maybe his crimes would be forgiven if he turned the others in. But now wasn't the time for such thoughts. The old bandit took a deep breath, re-centering himself and pushing down his anger.

"In its horns!" Jia Liwei shouted, causing Xiong Lei and Zeng An to stop fighting and turn back to their leader. "When the bull's qi channels are full, it stores the excess in its horns, as a reserve supply when there's no food to be found. If a bull is well-fed, it can store up a huge amount."

He smiled wickedly, rubbing his hands together and already fantasizing about his prize. "Enough to be a damn good cultivation aid. And the mark we'll be tracking down, he's all on his own with seven of them."

Realization began to dawn on the faces of his men, so Jia Liwei made sure to keep speaking before any of them thought to finish the thought for themselves. "That's one for each of us. With any luck, all of you will advance a full Heavenstage or more. And me? I'm gonna be hungry after I ascend, and that sounds like damn good eating."

----

This seems like a good point to cut things off. This'll be a relatively simple story, one that can be cleanly split into a three act structure. I'm mostly just covering the events of Iskander's first fate here, since there's a lot of really cool stuff in there, and I'll be expanding upon it with my own interpretation of events.

The Rock-Crunching Bulls weren't described much at all in the fate text, so I decided to go buck-wild here and get weird with it. They're partially inspired by the Fallingstar Beasts from Elden Ring, and partially inspired by my ideas of what a large mammal that's evolved to eat magical minerals would look like, and how their bodies would work.

The Bloody Tusks are a fun comedic villainous group to write; low-ranking idiot jobbers can be very entertaining, especially when they're actually pretty competent despite everything. Jia Liwei in particular is really fun to do stuff with because he's so delusional about his place in the world's pecking order. Since there are seven of them, only some of them will get significant focus, but I'm still trying to give each one some unique traits and a different personality. Some of them got more focus in this first act than others, but all of them will get their moments in this arc.

No one is allowed to make this chapter into a threadmark besides @Kaboomatic , You'll find out why later.