Al offered no resistance as two Dawn-keepers bore down on him with such relentless force that it felt like his arms might snap at any moment. To the onlookers, who could not glimpse the heavenly monstrosities, Al appeared to be succumbing to an invisible, overpowering presence.
The Dawn-keepers possessed grotesque left arms that resembled tentacles. These twisted appendages ensnared Al's limbs, compelling him to his knees. With ease and little effort, they dragged him forward, mirroring the gestures and incantations of the two priests. To the assembled onlookers, the invisible force directly resulted from the two priests' prayers and hand gestures.
The two Dawn-keepers expanded their massive wings and blew the wind, which the onlookers felt as Al was slowly lifted some nine feet above the ground. In his etheric shell, a twisted dark knife was concealed within his robe.
"No need to resist," he whispered, his thoughts drifting to Kesha's unknown fate. "God, please, let her still be alive..." Memories from his childhood began to resurface, intertwining with his current predicament.
The two priests led the procession with deliberate steps, the Dawn-keepers following obediently. The sight compelled everyone, including the other clergymen, to fall to their knees in fervent prayer.
As they passed, every temple's main priest broke into fervent prayer, sank to their knees, and began a painful crawl toward them, self-flagellating as they went. Their agonizing devotion stood in stark contrast to the eerie procession.
Once they had moved roughly 60 feet beyond, the temple priests rose to their feet and retreated to their respective temples.
"How often have they apprehended cultivators to establish customs like this?" Al couldn't help but wonder as the sun's ascent painted the sky in soft hues, revealing a sight that sent shivers down his spine.
The sky teemed with Dawn-keepers, and a realization struck him like a bolt of lightning: "These priests can't even perceive the forces that have descended upon them," he thought, glancing at the two priests.
Eventually, the two clergymen arrived at a five-story building enclosed by walls adorned with menacing razor wire. Al strained to hear their words as they conversed with the figures at the entrance.
Suddenly, three guardsmen armed with shotguns appeared, their weapons trained on Al's head. They issued a stern warning: any sudden movement, and they would blow his head into pieces.
One of the guardsmen meticulously searched Al, discovering his etheric shell concealed within his robe. They took his small, dark, twisted knife, chain, and ring. "Shit," Al cursed silently. Without his Etheric Shell, he couldn't access his Stubborn Will, which had the power to make him regenerate from any injury.
Following the search, a single guard, shotgun pressed against his temple, guided him to the side of the looming building. They smashed his into the unforgiving wall and stripped him of every last shred of clothing. Standing there exposed, he felt an overwhelming vulnerability.
Kneeling, Al watched as a man approached him, brandishing a blade. He envisioned the razor-sharp steel slicing through his throat and the grim reality that without his Etheric Shell, he would be powerless to heal.
Fear clenched his heart, but in that harrowing moment, he let go, accepting whatever fate awaited him.
To his immense relief, the man with the blade didn't end his life; instead, he cut Al's hair. Meanwhile his heart raced wildly, he couldn't help but feel happy they weren't going to kill him. Next, they doused him with a cleansing spray from a hose and dusted him with dry powder. Finally, they tossed him an orange jumpsuit, and Al obediently dressed in his prison garb.
With his feet and hands shackled, they escorted him into the imposing prison building. Inside, the first thing that caught his eye was a priest with a beautifully adorned robe. The holy man exuded an aura reminiscent of the Exarch they had confronted in the Church of the Brotherhood of Light, all down in South America.
A resounding 'SMACK!' landed on Al, a shotgun's butt striking him forcefully. Though devoid of his Etheric Shell, Al had ascended to the upper trigram of the Physical Domain, rendering his body remarkably resilient.
Still, the blow left him disoriented, his right eye socket throbbing with the threat of a fracture.
"Keep your head down!" the guard's voice lashed out, a cruel reminder of his helplessness. With no option but to obey, Al pressed on until he reached a room where they demanded he expose his back. They brandished him with the indelible mark of that day's date: 05-20-2044, an imprint of his reduced existence, the time of 7:24 AM etched alongside it. His identity remained unasked, inconsequential.
Moments later, he was confined within a prison cell, sharing the space with another bald man. The man occupied the lower bunk, engrossed in reading a book that happened to be the holy book of the church that imprisoned them both.
This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.
The man paid no attention to the new roommate the guards had dropped off. Doubt gnawed at Al's thoughts: "There's no way he's bought their bullshit!"
As if able to hear his thoughts, Al's cellmate set aside his book and turned to him. "I suppose you're curious why a cultivator would bother with the myths of mortal men," he remarked.
The man, who appeared to be around fifty years old, rose from his bed and carefully set the book down. "Tell me, what's your name?"
Al regarded him with curiosity and replied, "I'm Alexander Adamos, but folks usually just call me Al." The man's smile exuded a soothing aura, and his eyes seemed to shimmer with a calming presence. "I'm Benjamin Byrne. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Alexander."
Al's furrowed brow softened. Benjamin struck him as peculiar but gentle. He observed as Benjamin moved to the sink, filled a copper bowl with water, and fetched a small towel. "Did you know your name is Greek for 'son of Adam,' or similar to 'Adam'?"
Al had vague recollections of his late father mentioning this when he was a child, though his father's name had been John, not Adam. Uncertain of where this conversation was headed, Al replied cautiously, "Yeah, so what of it? We're all said to be descendants of Adam, or so the story goes."
Benjamin nodded thoughtfully. "Very good. So, you're familiar with the story." With that, he knelt and placed the bowl beside Al's feet.
Benjamin leaned over and began untying Al's mismatched shoes, a gesture that might have provoked a defensive response from Al under different circumstances. However, curiosity kept him still. "There's no way he's about to wash my feet," he thought.
"Tell me, Alexander, how long have you cultivated your Will?" Benjamin inquired as he gently held Al's barefoot and started washing it with the water from the copper bowl.
Benjamin was washing his feet. The act seemed intimate to Al, but Benjamin's expression bore no hint of disgust or shame.
While Benjamin washed his guest's feet, Al considered his response before replying. "I've been cultivating for about 30 years," he asked. "What about you?"
Benjamin moved on to the other foot, his touch gentle and purposeful. "I've been cultivating for 146 years. I entered the Mental Domain a few decades before the Church of the New Light captured and imprisoned me."
Once Benjamin had finished, Al thanked him awkwardly and retrieved his shoes, heading to the top bunk.
Al, perched on the top bunk, couldn't help but blurt out. "What truly baffles me is that you're reading their fairytales while imprisoned by them," he admitted while observing Benjamin grab the copper bowl and meticulously clean it.
"Have you ever wondered why the Dawn-keepers and Light Acolytes adhere to the Church? Have you ever wondered about the nature of the energy and material planes or the origins of our etheric shells?" Benjamin posed.
Al thought momentarily, acknowledging the mysteries that had long ago crossed his mind. He had decided they were beyond his current comprehension. "Well, I have wondered, but it's like pondering the beginning of creation—some things remain beyond our current understanding," Al replied,
In response, Benjamin erupted into hearty laughter. "And you call yourself a cultivator!" he exclaimed amidst amusement.
The laughter vanished from Benjamin's face, replaced by a profound seriousness. "Understanding is the foundation of Cultivation," he emphasized, "but do not confuse it with knowledge or wisdom. The former is always limited, and the latter is subjective. Understanding, on the other hand, is universal and all-encompassing. Will is also universal and all-encompassing. Do you understand this?"
Al was genuinely impressed by Benjamin's knowledge and wisdom. "I think I do," he replied, reflecting on the implications. "As cultivators, we seek Immortality through mastering our own Will."
Benjamin responded with a small chuckle, gently correcting Al, "Yes and no. It's about understanding your Will in relation to the Will of the world. This means understanding the world itself, and as a reflection of that world, we gain insight by observing the points of inversion."
Al felt his brow furrow in confusion. "Points of inversion?" he echoed, but Benjamin fell silent, leaving Al to contemplate the cryptic words he had.
After a few hours of contemplation, Al shoved Benjamin's word to the back of his mind. His mind was now hung up on a different question, unable to contain it any longer. He turned to Benjamin and asked, "Hey, do you know where the female cultivators are being held?"
Benjamin, clearly taken aback by the question, responded with a touch of surprise: "Alexander! I thought you had more resilience than that." Al, realizing his question might have been misconstrued, hastily clarified, "No, no, it's nothing like that. I have a friend. Her name's Kesha Ambrose and she's supposed to be somewhere here."
Benjamin pondered for a moment before shaking his head. "That name doesn't ring a bell," he admitted. "They keep us separated, and the only time we ever see each other is when we're walking out into the yard as they're coming back in."
A guard arrived to open the cell doors, interrupting their conversation. "Time for some sunlight. Hurry up!" he barked. Al quickly put on his shoes, and Benjamin did the same. They joined the line of other prisoners, filing out into the yard.
The yard they stepped into was small, but Al's gaze was quickly drawn to another building entrance where the female cultivators were being led inside. He scanned through the multitude of heads, his heart pounding.
Amidst them, he finally saw his friend once again: Kesha. Time had etched lines upon her face, making it difficult to discern her exact age—somewhere between 35 and 40. "Kesha..." Al's silent thought resonated as he observed her disappearing back into the building.
At the inn, Cesar and the others remained concerned for Al's prolonged absence. "He's been gone for quite a while now," Jin noted, his tone weighted with unease. The possibility that Cesar had been avoiding loomed in the air. Ellie voiced what they all were contemplating, "You don't think the church could've captured him, do you?"
Cesar sighed heavily, wrestling with his thoughts before sharing his apprehension. "Knowing Al, that reckless fool is probably attempting to rescue Kesha alone."