Many are the cities that grace the lands of Rikidan, each resting near at least one foci, to reap its bounties. Barakan is an outpost city on the western end of the Boreal Pass, acting as a bulwark against the armies of Okham-Khal, in case the northern outskirts fall. It houses perhaps one million souls, perhaps two. Tantra doesn’t really remember it from her geography lessons but that sounds about right.
There’s a decent amount of traffic, mostly from monster hunters and foragers, but there are a few cultivators among their number. Luckily, being a cultivator means they get to use the line reserved for nobility. People don’t make space for them here, seemingly desensitized by the presence of cultivators, but they don’t go so far as to bump into them, so there’s still some weariness.
They approach a guard lounging by a counter in the comfort of the city's walls, he barely spares them a glance as they walk up to him.
“Names?” he grunts out.
“Rakan,” says Rakan.
He raises a brow, “no last name?”
“No.”
He shrugs, “and the kids?”
“Tantra sol, Etra Sar, Kisrin Cao, Yorin Ghal, and Erick Khal.”
The guard stares at Rikidan, “Sol and Khal,” He muses, “I’m getting all the interesting ones today, you sure that’s what you want on the record?”
Rakan shrugs, “It’s their names.”
“Alright honoured cultivator, just don’t come complaining to me if it bites you in the ass.”
-
Barakan is just as she remembers it.
Gratuitously boring.
There’s simply no life in this city, just people going from one place to another, they don’t even have a dedicated market, everything is designed for efficiency, with any attempt at operating an independent business crushed under the boots of the guilds. There’s a reason for this of course, the interest the empire has in this city is to be a bulwark, not a centre for trade. So no free market to poison its purpose with independent interests unfortunately. Which also means no competitors, which, of course, means ridiculous price gouging. Tantra wants to get out of this city as soon as possible, if only for the sake of her coin purse, which has only recently been filled with silver.
“So,” Rakan says, “should we head over to the alchemists guild?”
Tantra blinks, “why?”
He looks incredulously at her, “to sell the lifecaps you insisted on collecting.”
Tantra just stops and stares at Rakan, “do you have brain damage?”
“Damn, try to be at least a little more subtle, I do have decades of cultivation on you.” He says, “but go ahead, enlighten me for why we shouldn’t.”
Tantra looks around as everyone stares at her in rapt attention, she coughs into her hand and tries to mimic Farsa’s tone, “well, firstly, we are in the city that would easily have the most lifecaps in circulation, meaning the price would be the lowest. Secondly, this is a completely controlled market, so we only have one entity to sell to, putting most of the bargaining power in their hands, which, again, would lower the price.”
Yorin scrunches his brow, “so where would we sell them then?”
Tantra shrugs, “preferably Ralth.”
Etra groans, “we collected all this shit to sell it at our destination? I thought we were using this to help with the journey”
Tantra scoffs, “It’s not my fault you don’t understand basic market economics.”
“Tantra, none of us even know what economics means,” Kisrin reasons.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Tantra looks flabbergasted at him
-
There’s this thing with cultivation stories.
They always have random duels in the streets, be it for a perceived slight, a test of honour, or just because someone was feeling violent that day. This is a common trope because it actually happens, Tantra has witnessed more than a few duels on the streets of Ralth, and every single one of them was a test in human idiocy.
So she knew that, eventually, she would be challenged for the offence of wearing the robes and token.
She just hoped it wouldn’t be so soon.
“Come and face me honourable cultivator, in the name of the Hallowed Bones Sect, I will test your might through the clash of blades!” says a man with wild hair and sharp features as he draws his jian with a flourish.
“I don’t use a blade,” Tantra says blandly, nodding to her club.
The man shrugs, “it’s an expression. So, will you accept my challenge or would you be made a coward in the face of the heavens?”
Tantra looks back to her friends and teacher and sighs.
Yorin and Etra are giving her a thumbs up of all things, Erick looks absolutely delighted, and her teacher just raises a brow when she looks at him.
The only one who has sense seems to be Kisrin, who has the decency to look concerned.
“Apologies honourable cultivator of the Hallowed Bones,” he says pointing to the dried blood on her robes. She’s still wearing the old ones, she could switch, the linen robes have repaired themselves, but she doesn’t really want to show off her arm , “but she is clearly injured, surely it would be below your honour to challenge a cultivator who’s still recovering?”
The cultivator snorts, “I will decide what is below my honour boy, now quiet before I decide to free your body from the burden of a head.”
“Excuse you?” Tantra says, a spark of rage igniting in her chest, “you will do no such thing.”
“Then face me,” he says with a smile, “and let us bleed on these streets like proper cultivators of the path.”
Tantra takes a deep breath, centering herself. “No” she says, “I won’t indulge in this petty game.”
The man frowns.
He shrugs.
Then he slashes his blade.
He’s a fair distance away, so Tantra just stares confused.
Then blood flies as a line cuts through her robes and digs into flesh. Tantra’s eyes go wide with shock as he readies another slash. She boosts her legs and dashes, colliding her club with his blade. He smiles and pulls back sending his blade out in a flurry of jabs. Some she blocks, but her manoeuvrability is limited with only one functioning arm, so more than a few pierce through, a strange energy leaving the tip of the blade to fully pierce through her body.
He brings his blade up with both arms and slashes down.
She barely dodges.
She hears a pained scream from behind her, and for a moment she glances back to see two halves of a person falling to the ground.
A mortal.
The rage burns like a furnace.
She said no, she didn’t want this.
The fuck is Rakan doing? Shouldn’t he be interfering or something?
She turns back to the man to find him releasing another cut.
She puts her kanabō in the way of where she thinks it’s path will lead and feels something like a sword clang against her weapon. But there is only air. She grunts and charges the man, swinging her club to his side, she has to put a lot more Qi into the boost to compensate for the single arm but it is enough. She can hear his ribs breaking as he is sent flying into the crowd.
She hears a laugh and sees the man get back up as the mortals back away from him. His smile is wild and feral as he faces her.
Then he is in front of her.
His blade is in her guts.
“A parting gift,” he says, “you’ve earned it.”
Then he lets go of the blade and simply disappears.
-
“This is expensive,” Rakan comments as he turns the blade over, “it’s got layered scripts for maintenance, sharpness, and Qi infusion. That and it seems to be carved from the bone of a particularly strong spirit beast.”
“Great,” Tantra says sardonically as she lays on her cot, not willing to move, she’s never been gutted before and it hurts, more so than any injury she’s gotten so far. How has Rakan been so nonchalant about being gored? This sucks.
“Can’t be mad at me forever girl, you had to learn the realities of cultivator life eventually,” Rakan says.
Tantra scoffs, “you left your student to face a greater foe while severely injured, I think I will, in fact, hold this grudge forever”
Rakan just shrugs, “you’ll face things that are stronger than you all the time, you only just started digging your roots after all, and your meridians are far from being cleansed. Better a safe environment to learn from than an unsafe one.”
“I assumed the bear was sufficient for that kind of lesson.”
Rakan shrugs, “we learn through repetition.”