Tyrin and Loras glanced at one another in mutual confusion but remained silent. Cyril tapped his thumbnail against the head of the soul figurine in consideration. The vision from Behemoth left him unsettled, but he had little time to consider the implication behind the memory. Still, the words echoed in the back of his mind: DO YOU UNDERSTAND?
Cyril shook his head and settled into the lotus position. Once more, he shifted through the information Loras had sent to him advising him on body cultivation. His investment into his Dominion of Knowledge made it easier than ever to parse the packet of impressions and ideas. The flavor of Loras’ mind and inherent biases colored the explanation, but Cyril grasped the underlying concepts well enough.
The process of binding a concept to his Body was nearly as simple as integrating the Dominion of Volcanoes into his Heart. Since he hadn’t acquired the Dominion as a result of his own personal experiences and meditation, the process wouldn’t be quite as smooth. On top of that, Adaptation was also more broad and abstract of a concept than Volcano, adding another layer of complexity.
Until the transformation was complete, he wasn’t sure how much a new constitution would help. Establishing a foundation for body cultivation was simple enough. Progressing to higher stages of refinement was far more difficult, and, ultimately, far more rewarding. In an ideal world, he may have spent years researching potential cultivations and finding superior natural treasures. Reality demanded other concessions.
Still, he found he wasn’t too conflicted over the choice. The foundational affinity linked to his body’s constitution would determine the nature of his development, certainly. But Loras had explained that his specific cultivation methods would further mold his body to align with his Destiny.
Nine was the upper limit of body refinements, presumably due to the same heavenly law that likewise restricted Dominion Spheres. Each step along the way would transform his physical form to better express the nature of his soul. An initial error could be corrected through conscious reshaping, though someone with a base Water constitution would find it difficult to completely alter themselves to a diametric form like Fire. Still, the world supported stranger mysteries than liquid fire, despite the risk of invoking paradox.
Cyril had made his decision. No more second guessing.
Having already established control over the soul figurine, he directed his will and a continuous trickle of Knowledge qi into its depths. A subdued, verdant glow seeped from it as his attuned energy conflicted with the rivaling Dominions within. Not much, but enough to throw off his mental harmony with the object. The figurine emitted a faint humming sound as it trembled against his palm.
Then Loras began to play his flute, a lively melody that filled the confined space, and the signs of dissonance within the figurine faded away.
After sending a mental note of thanks to Loras, Cyril allowed himself to settle into a trance, the figurine clasped in both hands. His consciousness trickled into the soul relic.
Within his mind’s eye, Cyril imagined himself standing before a colossal statue of Clear-Surface, painted in the same light, oceanic shades as the Ascended’s core. The metaphysical weight of the embodied concepts pressed down on him from all directions—the salty tickle of sea air; the copper tang of blood; reflective distortions that promised a glimpse of the infinite; and a vibrant, blooming energy that spoke of life and growth. Beneath it all, vague hints of other Dominions the Ascended had not bothered to cultivate made a feeble effort to catch his attention.
It took Cyril longer than he expected to narrow in on Adaptation. The other concepts displayed themselves with an almost desperate pride. Adaptation, on the other hand, blended in with them seamlessly—a subtle force woven through everything else, filling in the gaps as needed.
Cyril directed his will forward and began the process of excising the concept from its surroundings. It was a slow, laborious process, like a healer extracting debris from a wound while attempting to spare the surrounding tissue. Thread by thread, he unspooled the concept from the figurine, until he cradled a mass of prismatic qi in both hands.
Back in his physical body, he could sense a similar bundle of energy circulating across his hands, no doubt leaking out of the figurine itself.
Within his mind’s eye, his mental avatar settled into an identical position to his material body. Thus harmonized, the next step was to imagine the prismatic qi flowing up his arms and across his body. The rainbow hues shifted to match his deeply-tanned skin tone, flecked with the brown and earth-green accents of his core. Like a coating of oil, it shimmered along his body, then gradually began to seep into his skin.
Immediately, his entire being felt as if he had been set aflame. Every inch of his being prickled and stung, as if thousands of hands were pricking him with molten needles. Agony had become a familiar companion to Cyril over the course of his journey; all he had to do was endure. His teeth felt like they would shatter from the force of clenching his jaw. His spasming hands attempted to tear the figurine in half, but the crystallized soul held firm against his might.
While the pain would have no doubt left him whimpering and helpless before he had bonded with Behemoth, the sensation was almost boring to him now. Perhaps the radiant qi pumped out from his Magmatic Heart had reinforced his body enough that the first step of a common enough path proved a rather pathetic tribulation for his level. The average cultivator, with enough grit, could survive the tribulation of the first refinement and develop a constitution. With his advantages, Cyril found he wasn’t surprised by the dull nature of the ordeal.
The pain intensified, as if attempting to prove him wrong. Cyril’s mind flashed through a series of visualization exercises: a bronze kite shield, a looming world-tree, the vast desert, and so on, images of tranquility and quiet strength. His mind remained unconcerned as time dragged on for an indeterminable stretch. A vague ache suffused his bones, as if his entire skeleton was being compressed under some annoying gravity.
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A moment later, the unpleasant sensations transformed into a cool numbness. It felt almost soothing, contrasting against the heat emanating from his Magmatic Heart. The Adaptation concept must have taken root, he decided. What had felt slightly uncomfortable had turned into a slight balm.
An alteration in his perception? Probably not--his newly-acquired constitution was a physical enhancement. Most likely, some negligible amount of his qi had been burned to produce a pleasant sensation. Or maybe he had produced some sort of chemical that countered and overwhelmed the feeling of pain.
Cyril’s knowledge of anatomy was awfully rudimentary. On top of that, most cultivators were a unique entities. Two people could follow identical paths and still diverge in their development. How one person functioned and interacted with the material realm could vastly differ from another’s existence, especially in the upper echelons. It was hard to determine just how his constitution functioned without more experimentation.
Cyril suspected he would be able to delve into the mysteries of his own constitution in the future. For now, his personal introspection and understanding of his own soul was lackluster at best. More and more, he had been cobbling his powers together and hoping it worked. Fortunately, he was beginning to suspect that wasn’t the worst thing.
Most cultivators believed in trying to achieve some sort of purity, or unity behind their powers. By pursuing a singular path to its pinnacle, they would become perfect. But when that pure path met the real world, it would find itself unyielding. Unable to adapt. Though his various abilities had been thrown together out of necessity, they all represented useful means for surviving cruel reality. They had been tested against, and succeeded against, various challenges. Perhaps that was better than purity.
Smiling, Cyril stood up. He looked down at his hands, flexed them. It was difficult to tell what felt different. He was no larger than before. No horn or metal teeth or anything obvious. A subtle effect, then. Perhaps he needed to encounter stimuli before his body reacted to them.
Tyrin clapped him on the shoulder, then muttered something under his breath.
“What was that?” Cyril asked.
“It felt like I just slapped a spiked pauldron.” Tyrin examined his hand as if half-expecting to see blood dripping down it.
A bit of unexpected theatrics from his older brother? The man really had learned to open up a bit more over the years they’d been apart. Cyril was glad to see it. He brushed his shoulder, where Tyrin had touched, and found the flesh felt normal to his touch.
“Well, I didn’t do it on purpose,” said Cyril. “A passive response from my body? Temporary transformation? I’m not sure. ”
Loras cleared his throat, a sound like a gong being struck in quick succession. “Have you read your soul yet? Is there a name in the divine language for your constitution?”
Cyril blinked. “Of course I checked. There’s a new section added onto my soul. It’s called the Self-Forming Paragon - Clay.”
After a moment of pointed silence, Loras tilted his head to the side. “Did you just read your soul in the time it took to blink?”
Not wanting to admit that Loras was correct, Cyril shrugged and sniffed. “We should get out there and help.”
Loras and Tyrin shared another look. Best friends, those two. Neither of them bothered arguing. The three of them exchanged a few ideas through their mental link, including what to do with the obsidian-coated building they had created from the Pagoda. Satisfied, they readied themselves to join the effort once more.
Loras waved his hand and the wall dilated open, forming an exit to the outside world. The layer of obsidian over that section shattered. Cyril’s addition to the Pagoda had been an imperfect fusion. Loras’ mastery over the Pagoda appeared not to extend to the spiritual obsidian. Annoying, but not too unexpected.
Before he left, Cyril walked over to Clear-Surface’s brutalized corpse. Feeling a bit morbid, he retrieved a piece of cloth from his storage ring and draped it over the body. Then, he deposited the shrouded corpse and the soul figurine together in storage and hurried back to join the others.
As they had hoped, the conflict in their immediate vicinity appeared to have mostly been resolved. Here and there, civilians roamed about with dazed looks on their faces, clutching one another. Despite the wanderers, most of them appeared to have been shepherded into the remaining glass buildings of the central compound. Orderly lines of stragglers trailed from the entrances, though they must already be near capacity. The guards had also gathered a herd of people against the side of the Sunstone Hall--hundreds of them, huddled behind a bristling phalanx of cultivators.
Cyril took that as a promising sign that the area had been more than secured. It looked like reinforcements had come from elsewhere to bolster their force. Pressure must have died down on the frontier. Which meant, Cyril hoped, that they were winning.
A somber sight soon dashed his optimism. Off to the side, bodies of humans and monsters--mostly wyrms--were being arranged by grim-faced workers. There were hundreds of his people. Row after row of them, staring emptily at the night sky as it burned. More of them were being brought in by the moment, borne upon bloody stretchers and set down next in line.
His dead hopes tasted like ash on Cyril’s tongue. From what he had heard of Leviathan, even if the Titan himself was not leading this force, he demanded strength from those who served him. Even if they hadn’t expected Cyril, his involvement so far hadn’t been pivotal to the overall battle. Not enough to turn the tides. Had they really just marched in to be slaughtered by the Wandering Phoenix Tribe? Cyril might pray that his enemy was that stupid, but he couldn’t believe it was actually true.
Tyrin and Loras were only too happy to follow him deeper into battle. Perhaps the victory over Clear-Surface had ignited some of their fervor. They had also seemed rather pleased when he transmitted them the full information about his constitution that had been imprinted upon his soul.
[ Constitution: Self-Forming Paragon - Clay. ]
[ First stratum - acquire passive resistances to concepts upon exposure. ]
Beneath that was an extensive list of various concepts that his new constitution had already interacted with. Most of them, like Wind and Sand, were fractions of a percentage, while others apparently had started much higher as a result of his earlier experiences. Gravity topped the list at 15%, likely as a result of him being tempered by ascending the Trial of Seven Steps down in the Underdark. He had briefly considered forming a constitution based on gravity or mass after the tribulation had left an indelible mark on his body.
On top of already having innate resistance to his own Dominions, albeit minor, Water and Blood were at a respectable 6% and 5% respectively. One of the benefits of tempering himself with a natural treasure.
As he stood there, the environmental resistances from his surroundings continued to tick upward--very slowly, but a constant increase.
Not fast enough for his needs. Fortunately, the battle still raged on at the outskirts of the tribe. With a nod at his companions, Cyril leapt forward, eager to join the fray.
The energies of the battlefields themselves would help reforge his body.