Bors showed remarkable zeal in getting me equipped for a hunt, the Knight he'd slain earlier had been a dedicated hunter and had quite the selection of equipment. I managed to avoid grabbing too much, focusing mostly on the bow, quiver, a proper hunting knife, and the kit to properly clean and dress whatever I caught.

He did warn me his steed was somewhere in the forest doing its own thing. It was a fae beast and while he asked me to not shoot it he looked embarrassed when I asked questions. He fobbed me off, just saying I'd know it if I saw him.

It turned out he did have food, rations of something that someone dared to call bread. At first, I thought he'd passed me a club. The ‘bread’ was incredibly solid, and if my jaw didn't have enhanced strength a club is all it could've been. I understand now why Bors didn't consider it food. Having tried it once, I was extremely motivated to find anything that would keep me from needing to eat it again.

A few hours of walking downhill following the river got me to a bare willow, with slash marks on its trunk, his mark for the edge of the area he'd picked clean. It was apparently an hour’s travel for him, which is the furthest he dared go. The man was a monster to get so far so easily even without our differences in cultivation.

I started to settle into my role. I was still getting used to my Bronze level of cultivation, it was fundamentally the same stage as Wood, but so much more, by opening up the second gift I still had to condense and gather my glamour, but with the additional source helping me it was doubly easy.

Normally there was a long period of adjustment after that breakthrough, as the body was refined, glamour being used to rebuild muscle, bones and even the senses. Up until that point it was seen as wasteful to use the little excess glamour you could gather to do it, rather than pushing forward. Being stuck at peak wood I'd had the time to rebuild my body.

My captors had thought it funny, that me stuck at Wood due to the impurities that tarred my soul. I was preparing for the Bronze power I'd never have. Now it felt like I was at my best constantly, and that was helping me not totally hash up my hunting.

I was alright at hunting. The King of Albion was a massive fan, and the Harkley’s noses getting steadily browner pressed between his cheeks were at least as keen. So I could not afford to be too good. I also just didn't fundamentally enjoy it, I didn't object to killing some beast that had slaughtered mortals, but there was something fundamentally upsetting about kicking in some innocent beast's door and ripping out their core just for the fun of it.

That could perhaps explain why I continued to lean on what I did excel at. On my walk I'd gathered some herbs and medicinal plants from beside the river, we were much lower than we were before, and spring was already blooming. While my alchemy focused on perfumes it required an excess of knowledge about all sorts of ingredients. Many are edible in their raw form.

As I knelt by the river harvesting some very early shoots of Iron's Bane, a rust-coloured grass, I finally got a clue to my location. The clouds that had settled to the east parted revealing the White Mountain. The 'mountain' I was on merely one of its foothills. Horkenstone Keep and the town of Horken a small blurry smudge.

I had to be a hundred miles from where I lay down the night before. What the Lady wanted of me I didn't know but she'd dropped me here, miles from any possible pursuit. It wasn't a great burden, lute still scared me on some level, but the fact Bors didn't immediately sense it salved my worst fears.

Lost in my musings I was shocked as a skinny doe stumbled into my clearing. I stayed very still. My veil was up again, and I was downwind. My grey jacket matched the stones of the riverbed. I pulled out a bow and arrow when its poor luck multiplied, deciding to scan left for threats rather than right which would've spotted me.

With a single fluid motion, the arrow was strung and let fly, the bow bending with such ease I feared I'd destroyed it. The arrow thudded into the side of the doe and it collapsed with a short squeal. I dashed over to it, and with a slice of my knife ended it.

The burst of death glamour bloomed like a punch to the gut. It filled my spiritual sinuses like smelling salts. I began cultivating without even thinking about it, my bellows technique drawing it in. Death was all around in the forest, a constant low-level hum, but that was but rustling of leaves compared to the howl of the storm I was experiencing as I drank in that power. It was invigorating, overwhelming, and gone too quickly.

And that was just a deer. I shivered at what it would be like to kill something with some Cultivation under its belt. This is why death-gifted cultivators had such a bad reputation. I could see this becoming an addiction. Worse I knew that if I kept giving into that urge the grip of the unseelie would consume me.

Seeking a distraction, I checked on the bow. I should've really done some test shots, the luck of the fairies must've been with me otherwise all I would've caught were splinters. It was a recurve bow, beautifully finished with etchings while aggressively functional in actual shape. It was made of some kind of laminated horn that held the vestiges of earth glamour. It wasn't enchanted but made from some beast, its power still reinforcing its unnatural durability. I was impressed, it must've been built with cultivators in mind.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Bows were not a good weapon for cultivators, they were limited in speed and impact, and the smaller projectile was difficult to enhance. Even this one with its enhanced draw weight I could shoot Bors all day with it and unless I got him in the eye or ear he'd barely notice, and no attack would be lethal. That was if he even let the arrows hit him.

At Bronze it was still a threat, but more as an ambush weapon. It'd puncture my body, but my glamour-reinforced flesh would halt the attack quickly. You'd have to get lucky to do lasting damage, and a lethal strike was all but impossible. It's part of why I'd asked for it from the Knight Errant, it was like begging to borrow a toy sword for all the threat it posed to him.

Ignoring the lingering waves of death glamour I dressed the kill quickly. I was in the wilds proper and something would likely smell the blood soon enough. Fae beasts didn't tend to last long near civilization, but I was far from it, and I'd never have tried this if not for Bors' assurance he'd slaughtered everything worth a fight for miles. No point in testing my luck though.

Throwing the carcass over my shoulder I began to run back. I wanted Borsto like me so a quick return would be best. Plus I wanted some food that did not require glamour reinforcement to chew.

It was a genuine pleasure to make friends without the Harkley name hanging over me like a choking cloud. Especially after what he'd said about demonic cultivators.

The Harkleys were one of the bastions of ‘Divine’ cultivators in Albion. Known as demonic cultivators to most. Their worship included but was not limited to pledging themselves to the ‘divine’, burning ‘unclean’ mortals, blood rituals where they ate the body and drank the blood of demons, self-mutilation, and a host of other villainous acts.

Cultivators were pretty on board with doing extreme things for power, but at least none of them ever tried to claim they were doing everyone else a favour. Just like the Harkleys went around cursing their children with blood oaths, and called it ‘bringing unity to the family’.

My mind kept slipping back to my captors. Occasionally I'd find myself watching a patch of shadow just waiting for one of the minders to come out and drag me back. As the next hour passed, I couldn't decide if it was getting better or worse. I ended up tying the deer awkwardly over both shoulders freeing up my arms, Bors had insisted that I take some rope for which I was grateful.

That done I pulled out my lute. The wood was black, with a slight hint of grain giving it no texture at all. The fixings were in silver and shone in the weak sunlight. I strummed and continued on, occasionally tapping a rhythm, the hollow body giving a deep thud with each slap.

Between trying to ignore my habitual worry about being watched, and attempts to distract myself, it was no wonder I was ambushed.

The first I knew of it was the burst of air glamour from a bush. I dodged on pure instinct as a white blur passed through where my head had been not a second ago.

Rolling forward I left behind my burden and placed my back to an oak. My eyes tried to find what had assaulted me. I'd like to say it was a conscious decision to keep my trump card at bay, and not turn my lute into a sword. But the truth was I'd completely forgotten it was an option till I had my knife in front of me.

A pair of red eyes watched me. I could smell the cultivation of the fae beast, the glamour of air was thick upon it. I was underwhelmed by the form of the beast.

A white hare stood on its haunches watching me, coming up no taller than my knee. It would be almost funny if its fur wasn't stained with blood.

Before I had an opportunity the hare launched itself at me again. The air distorting around it. My off hand raised to block, as it arrived feet first aiming for my throat.

There was a reason that most spirit beasts grew in size as they cultivated, and mass made a big difference in fights. Most spirit beasts didn't move as fast as a high Bronze stage cultivator though. It was like it was using a Levity technique to enhance its speed. Even though it weighed next to nothing I was sure it would've broken my arm if I'd not had my new gear on to help spread the impact.

It bounced away, and so began the next chaotic minute of battle. It was a battle to just keep my guard up, each time it bounced off it'd come back from another angle. Each time accruing more bruises.

I was fumbling my cultivation, I had all these new resources but it'd been an age since I was in a tourney, and I'd had little chance to practice fighting in the last couple of years. Every time I thought I could get my thoughts together the blasted thing would slam into me from a new angle.

I was fast, faster than most, but the rabbit matched my speed and then some. Its tiny body always sliding out of reach.

I snagged it once with my blade and once with the lute. A sonorous slam that reverberates across the small clearing that hosted our duel. That seemed to irritate it further. It must've decided it was time to bring me down. The tempo of the strikes increased.

It attacked and used my guard to push itself straight down, kicking off the floor to catch me on the knee before I could adapt to the new attack pattern. I tumbled. As I fell I could already sense the air glamour gathering. It was coming in for a killing strike.

If I had one talent in a fight, it was patience. I looked up to see the hare launching itself at my throat, razor-sharp teeth first. It was currently dodging my ill-timed swing of the lute, its body just out of reach of my swing.

I grinned. My lute shifted into its sword form. I fought the change in the clothes, not wanting to lose the mobility if this went wrong somehow, and was pleased to find they obeyed my commands.

The blade had twice the reach of the lute. I saw the rabbit try to abandon its strike, gathering air glamour, the attempt in vain, as I sliced it in twain. The extra length caught the flop-eared terror perfectly. My vicious foe vanquished, I collapsed back against the tree, and let out a long groan of exhaustion.

I may have overestimated my skill in a fight just a bit.