Rakan is cleaning his club.
The weapon doesn’t need much maintenance. It’s a club. But it beehoves him to give some love to his oldest companion. The slice that the bandit bitch made is cast over, getting the scripts redone was a pain and a half though. He’s a little peeved by how easy it was for her to handle him. Sure, he hasn’t anchored, but his roots are deep, making him stronger than some cultivators in connection. But arrogance begets punishment, as someone said once in his life, he thinks it was his parents. He doesn’t really remember them. Anyway, point is he got a little confident, and someone stronger showed him what was what, if it wasn’t for master Jorin he likely would have faced a rather gruesome end.
He’s given more than a few so he’d probably deserve it.
“What do you want, girl?” he says to the kid behind him, “I’m kinda busy cleaning and contemplating.”
“I’m here about the offer you presented,” She says.
Rakan turns with an eyebrow raised, eyeing the girl.
She’s carrying a kanabō, much like his, that rivals her in size.
“That was three months ago,” he says amused.
“You never mentioned a deadline,” she insists, “I simply took my time.”
He snorts, “a vice all cultivators share.”
He gets up and shoulders his club, facing the girl.
“Well come on and swing, don’t leave me hanging,” He says.
She blinks at him, “just like that?”
“What, did you expect more pomp and fanfare? I offered, you accepted, now swing.”
“Okay…” She positions her club above her and swings.
Time doesn’t slow down, that’s not how improved perception works. A second is still a second, and an instant is still an instant. Even so, he can trace every inch of the club's arc as it goes for his head. The kid really doesn’t care if he gets hurt, does she? Good, that means he won’t have to do a show of force to get her serious. He takes a step to the side just before the club would have hit.
“The club may be a simple weapon,” he says, “but you still have to use the basic principles, put your whole body into it girl.”
She steps closer and swings again, this time from the side, it’s slightly faster than before, he shrugs off his own weapon and places it’s head to the ground, leaving the body to weather the blow. It doesn’t move so much as an inch.
“Not bad, could be better.” he says, “try to get used to swinging constantly, a weapon of this size is better at area denial and groups, not dueling.”
He demonstrates by bringing his club up to his shoulder, then swinging down diagonally, shouldering it to his other side and repeating the motion, making a figure eight. The girls took a step back so as to not get bludgeoned.
“Keep it nice and smooth, this’ll be the motion you have to memorise, got it brat?”
She nods, “yes master,”
He blinks, “don’t call me that, I don’t want to get rocked by Jorin just ‘cause you wanted to be all respectful.”
Tantra gives a sly smirk, “of course master”
-
She forces all her being to focus on one point, causing her whole body to sweat and her head to pound as she takes four threads of Qi and brings them together. They touch, they thread, and the beginning of a rope is made.
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Then it is lost.
Tantra doubles over and has to hold in bile.
She’s never experienced a physical reaction that intense during a control exercise. Sure, she knew it was theoretically possible, if willpower triumphs over what the soul can handle, but she never expected to experience it. It also means her soul’s too weak to even think about the other exercises, which is a shame.
She doesn’t care much for bottlenecks.
Oh well, so long as she keeps cultivating, her soul will grow in conjunction, so she’ll be able to do it eventually. Who knows, maybe this is even a good thing, if she can force herself through the same process over and over again. She shudders at the thought.
But it would be effective.
She shelves that for the moment and goes for the other matter of insistence.
Her second rib, and her soon to be sixth meridian.
There was a time when she didn’t believe she would ever free her meridians, possessing a soul so far from her body that it’s a wonder she gets any Qi at all. Now she has five, all anchoring her soul and providing what little stability minor meridians can offer. But now it’s time for another.
A fifth of her core contains the required Qi, but it is enough.
She sits in the lotus position and looks inside herself.
Well, feels inside herself, same difference.
She finds her second rib, and brings the Qi of her soul to burn the filth that it contains. It is not easy, requiring more effort to puncture the meridian than the times before, losing Qi to the lack of efficiency. But here she finds her control useful, she can grab the motes that disconnect from the thread and integrate them back.
Not all of them, there's much too many for that, but it helps reduce the burden.
Like every time before, she scours the impurities and connects the meridian to her soul. Six small anchors, barely anything at all, but it’s progress.
She’ll take progress
-
“If the Qi of the world is like water, then the Qi of the soul is like blood.
Pure, dense, and distinctly yours. It is pure, in the sense that it doesn’t carry with it the concepts of the world until one touches the dao, tailor made to the individual. It is stronger than the surrounding atmosphere, easier to manage, easier to use. What might be my point in saying all this? Well, my point is that one who has anchored, so flush with soul Qi, is leagues above one who has not. Yet you have challenged me anyway, little fools from your little sect.” Say’s the man with a short beard and a shaved head, he’s wearing robes of green with a gold trim, and the token attached to it is in the shape of a reptile's eye.
He’s surrounded by disciples wearing robes of white on black, one of whom he’s leisurely sitting on.
One of them, the one with a dented skull and definite brain damage, points at him with his broadsword.
“You trespass into our territory and disparage The Mouth Of The Deep, knave! Under the light of heaven and the gaze of the gods I will see you struck down, no matter the gap that lies between our cultivation!”
The man and green sighs, gets up, and manifests a scorpion whip in his right hand and a buckler of steel in his left. There are a few disciples on the ground, and a few readying their weapons, it doesn’t really matter to him though. Sure, he isn’t that far ahead, technically, but he’s had decades to refine his soul and deepen his foundations. Just because he hasn’t taken the next step does not mean a couple dozen purification brats can challenge him.
“You know I can’t let those kinds of words slip by without repercussions. Rikidan rules these lands boy, not your sect, and to threaten one such as I. Get out of my sight before I decide the dent in your head isn’t excuse enough to save you from my blade.”
The surrounding disciples pale, realizing their little brawl might turn into a legitimate bloodbath. The fool boy goes to answer but someone so dark they may as well be a void grabs the nape of his neck.
“That is no way to treat a guest Jorak,” says a suction of air as the color of the world is drained with every breath, the thing vaguely possesses a human shape, but taller, and lankier. With arms that could perhaps touch the ground despite standing at eight feet.
The boy pales and tries to speak, but finds the words taken from him before they can leave his mouth.
“No excuses now,” the thing says, “let's not embarrass ourselves further hmmm?”
The disciple clamps his mouth shut and the void let's go.
“Ilkar!” It says jovially, shifting its focus to the bald man in green, “what a joy it is to see you once more old friend, come come, I have the finest tea from Ralth waiting for your tastebuds to delight in.”
Ilkar chuckles, “always one for dramatics, eh old monster?”