Sadly, cultivation manuals were jealously guarded by sects and powerful martial families. More often than not, one had to be close to a minor noble to ever hope to glance at one.

The princely main character had been well into his cultivation journey at the start of the web series. Way past the starting line, where Myrkas currently stood. The Imperial Scion had benefited from tutors and abundant resources at all steps before the Betrayal.

The lucky not-bastard even possessed the famed Imperial Bloodline, a true cheat in and of itself. All reasons why Myrkas could not just copy his technique. It was enough to make a reasonable person green with envy. Myrkas would have hated the royal brat if not for the fact the princeling would later fall to betrayal.

Figuratively stabbed in the back by his own brother to boot, so sad. Myrkas could sympathize, similar memories coming to the fore of his mind. Of his grandparents' rejection, leaving him alone and surrounded by strangers in uniforms. Another of a dismissive father and a cold mother, Cealessly comparing him to his older, more talented half-brother. Of being replaced by a brand-new little brother.

Myrkas clamped down on his feelings, ruthlessly shoving them away. He had no time to waste on half-remembered sob stories. They were dead anyway, or not in this world.

He had Nirsa now, that was all that mattered. And his uncle too, if they ever managed to get closer. Myrkas needed to talk to him anyway, feelings or no feelings involved. He had to ask for help with his soap.

No need to deal with unresolved family drama. Repression worked best, it was known, even in a magical universe.

Resolved, Myrkas re-centered himself. He reprised his lost "lotus" position and started again. Inhale, exhale: an unending cycle of life. This time, he also visualized energy moving from his lungs to his heart, then through it, pumped along with his blood to every corner of his body. Myrkas strained to feel it, to sense the Qi he knew was there, thrumming along his pulse. He pictured his blood coursing through his vessels, delivering life down to his toes and back to his heart. The boy was so entranced he forgot to "hum." Damn it all.

Myrkas tried again, this time lasting three full minutes of near-perfect meditation before getting distracted.

A wayward bee had taken advantage of his quasi-immobility to rest on his hand. Myrkas dared not move. He was not scared, of course not. He deeply respected the bee. A wonderful insect. Only, Myrkas did not fathom himself as a "bee cultivator." The Dao of the Bee was not for him. Black and yellow were decidedly not his colours. A sting would set him back on his meditative journey.

It was not that Myrkas was afraid of the pain, not at all. He was only concerned about his cultivation, his budding path. To avert any interference, the boy engaged his secret defensive technique: "to be as a statue." He took slow and shallow breaths; the air flowing the slightest breeze. Myrkas concentrated on slowing down his heart rate and his metabolism with mitigated results. Sweat ran down his brow, evidence of his tremendous effort and not of a mere feeling like bug-induced terror.

Myrkas stayed still for an untold amount of time. Luckily, it worked. The bee flew away 'peacefully'. Of course, this outcome was thanks to his flawless technique. The bee did not just realize Myrkas was not of the floral kind. The bee truly believed the boy was made of stone, and not a tasty snack or an enemy.

Relief and pride flooded Myrkas. He had overcome his first ordeal. He was not being dramatic for this situation could have ended in blood and tears, for both of them. Bees were not to be underestimated.

Myrkas had learned a great lesson today: to let "bee" be. More proof he had staunchly embarked on the treacherous Path of Mysticism.

His future as a revered sage was more or less guaranteed. Myrkas could already see his future self with a long, distinguished white beard. Or maybe he would aim to keep his youthful looks, surprising those seeking his infinite wisdom. A decision for later. He did have to go through puberty first. The "child immortal" trope was not amongst his favoured ones.

And so Myrkas kept to his meditation. By noon, he could almost feel the changes. A subtle tingling sensation ran along his limbs. Although, it might also be caused by stiff muscles, for the tween had not moved much in the past few hours.

Myrkas so wished for there to be a convenient, objective way to assess his progress. With numbers and experience points, just like a videogame. It would make everything so much easier. Oh well, he would figure it out eventually. It was no use crying over what-ifs. Especially since Myrkas had a nagging feeling something similar existed in this world. A system-like assessment and training tool anyone could use.

He remembered the details little by little. Those artifacts were rare and incredibly hard to find. They were monopolized by the powerful, mainly the Imperials and the Empire's Army, a few noble families, and the most prominent cultivation sects. In addition, those tools were very specialized. One focused on sword arts would be of little use to a cultivator who only used staffs or, even worse, to a musical arts adept.

It was the same for craft-focused ones. And those limits didn't even take the differing quality between artifacts. They were not all made the same. Looking for one in this moderate-sized town was a fool's errand. Myrkas would have more luck with trying to enter a school or a sect as an outer disciple.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Those two types of training centers were briefly mentioned in the novel. They served as a way to attract and polish new blood for crafting guilds and sects. The web series did not dwell on it though. No school arc as the prince, being a prince, never needed them.

Another reason to talk to his uncle. There were so many things Myrkas had to learn. Still, he could not help the smile that spread on his lips. Myrkas' future was choked full of possibilities.

***

Two nonats—the nine-day span used in the Holy Allrin Empire instead of the seven-day week—passed as Myrkas dedicated all his free time to advancing his meditation and his soap-making, in no particular order. His results were quite mixed. His soaps were inconsistent, notwithstanding their inadequate curing time due to the boy's impatience. The resulting misshapen bars were either too strong, leaving the skin red and irritated, or too weak, struggling to remove traces of dirt, and hopeless against tough grease.

Myrkas longed for simple, accurate measuring instruments such as thermometers and pH strips. The temptation to secretly break into his uncle's workshop grew day by day, as while Myrkas did not wish to bother the man, the boy did want to take a peek at all Koriss had available. But Myrkas resisted so far. He did fear the consequences of getting caught. No smart dog bit the hand that fed him. Not that Myrkas was a dog... Whatever.

To add insult to injury, most instruments in this world needed a modicum of Qi to function. And regardless of all his meditation, Myrkas had not an inkling of Qi-sense. His dreams of bending Qi to his will seemed so far away.

He felt scammed. It was completely unfair. Where were his protagonist's shortcuts? His lucky power-ups? Myrkas feared he might not be as much of a main character as he had thought. Maybe not even a side character. He felt more like an extra, a side note. Possibly the subject of a random side story.

Myrkas did miss the usual "important character" traits. On top of his ordinary hair and eye colour, the boy was bereft of a mysterious bloodline or spirit beast ancestry. His meridians were not even crippled!

Myrkas wallowed in his misery for a bit.

Woe is me, the poor, unfortunate orphan utterly lacking in free overpowered cheat-like abilities.

Myrkas sighed heavily and nestled further into his fluffy nest, leaning back on his favourite tree.

He took comfort in his meagre successes these past nonats. His "return to routine" had not been all smooth sailing. He had ingrained muscle memory to thank for not being in a more battered state. Myrka's "normal" martial studies had almost killed him a few too many times. Hand-to-hand combat training was no joke.

Unfortunately, muscle memory did not help as much with his scholarly studies. On the bright side, Myrkas' permanent dark circles and various stages of bruising had helped illustrate his crucial need for animal therapy to his dear Nirrina.

This novel concept had been harder to sell than initially planned. In Myrkas' humble opinion, his recent charred state and transient catatonia should have been enough on their own. Myrkas blamed the cultural deficits regarding animal therapy and its benefits to mental, and soul—might as well butter the toast thickly–recovery.

The deal had been sealed when Nirsa herself witnessed the healing power of fluffy cuteness. It had only taken a few minutes of her snuggling with baby animals to drive Myrkas' points home.

It all culminated in the boy's current living fur nest. Three goats and two rabbits happily cuddled with him. Each animal had been specifically chosen for their incredible fluffiness. They were the fluffiest, softest little bundles of cuteness, as it should be.

In Myrkas' vast(ish) experience, provided by his two—short—lives, nothing helped more to soothe him than warm and fluffy cuddles. They were a living balm for his soul. The next-plus-ultra for optimism regeneration. Only liars did not appreciate soft and cuddly critters, and Myrkas was no liar. He might omit a small fact here and there, play with the truth sometimes but he would not utter direct lies. Those were too hard to keep straight. Myrkas' precious brain power was better used elsewhere.

Like on problems such as figuring out this Qi and cultivation thing. It was not as simple as it looked. Myrkas' only visible success was in bonding with his new animal companions. The five of them loved to huddle against him when he meditated. Particularly if Myrkas provided ample grass, vegetables, and fruit snacks during his sessions.

First a bee, now fluffy goats and bunnies. Myrkas would have been more excited if he was trying to become a beast tamer.

Regrettably, that was not his goal. Myrkas was still invested in creating his own, amazing, meditation technique. He had tried different approaches since the start of his path. None were a certain triumph, but one felt effective. Myrkas had added intent to his mantra. He had changed it from the ever-classic "hum" to a new, catchier one: "harder, better, faster, stronger." Simple, but evocative.

As Myrkas repeated his line, a growing rhythm seeped from deep in his being. He felt as if his soul sang with him. It had to work. His goats and rabbits nodded along for Heaven's sake—a fact he should have found more strange as Myrkas only spoke with his inner voice during his meditations.

In spite of his probable progress, Myrkas stood at a wall, a metaphorical one of course. While it seemed his meditation technique had improved, Myrkas did not feel any different. Meaning he did not feel stronger in any meaningful way. Something needed to change.

Of course, Myrkas could ask his uncle for advice. It was a very sensible idea. His uncle was the closest thing to a cultivation expert that Myrkas had access to. But the boy didn't dare. Myrkas did not want to bother him. As Nirsa had said, they were lucky Koriss had accepted them so readily. Myrkas did not want to jeopardize their position with his inane questions. It was a better plan to figure it out on his lonesome. Much more satisfying, too. Who needed help in life? Myrkas' ego screamed: "Not him!"

Which meant Myrkas had to do something drastic, something bold, something grand. A legendary feat, no less. No pain, no gain as they said. To put his everything on the line.

Martial arts protagonists always made progress when faced with life-or-death events. Myrkas would do the same. He was living too peacefully to advance. He had hoped his routine hand-to-hand combat training would suffice, to no avail, despite them leaving the youth black and blue on the regular. The stakes were not high enough, the fights too meticulously planned for his sake. They brought minimal surprise, seldom the need to think on his feet.

Similarly, the dreaded weapons training, scheduled to start this winter after Myrkas turned thirteen, should not bring the needed spark. Myrkas could feel the broken bones in advance. Pre-emptive phantom pains cursed him.

He snuggled his rabbit, Lilac, closer. Her silvery fur caressed his cheek, comforting. Without contest, a harem of fluffy female beasts was the best, Even if some—"cough Margoat cough"—tried to chew his hair.

Deepening his respiration, Myrkas steeled his will. It was time to put himself to the test. To venture forth and show his mettle. To toe the line, survive pain, and transcend his limits.

Tomorrow. He would do it tomorrow. Beyond question.