Now it is a mundane fact of existence that if one finds oneself smashing through a wall, one is rather unlikely to survive. Art was only dimly aware of the precise laws of physics which governed physical annihilation through the excessive application of force; still, he was fairly certain that the woman who claimed to be his ex-girlfriend should not be climbing out of the shattered remnants of the brick wall, nursing her head and cursing.

Nor did she seem to be all that injured. Numerous scrapes, bruises, banged limbs, etcetera, but none of the egregious injuries one would expect if one had encountered a pile of stacked bricks and the pile of stacked bricks had come out the loser.

Art’s as-yet unnamed ex tapped herself a couple times on the side of the head and then looked about at the crowd, bleary-eyed. Art was stunned, astounded that any mortal could survive a blow like that; Hank looked relieved, but not particularly surprised, as if he knew she would come out alright; Yao was blinking quietly, face blank. This was the normal course of affairs for cultivators, after all. She wasn’t even sure why the others were upset.

At last the woman spoke. “Where… where am I…? Where is this place? Who- who are you?”

There was silence from the other three at this pronouncement. The woman continued to look about in an ever growing panic. “What am I doing here? I don’t recall… ergh… last I recall, I was in the woods, then I tripped over a tree root, and now… now here I am.”

She looked up at this last clause, her face growing pale. Hank, who until then had been standing there, stupefied, rushed to hold onto her, murmuring tender remarks into her ear. Art wasn’t trying to listen (eavesdropping was rude), but his cultivation had advanced to such a point that he could hear every word perfectly.

Hank was telling her that she had to go to somewhere called Norburton Hospital, and that they could claim revenge later, much to the woman’s confusion. They argued a bit in hushed tones, with her asking what a hospital was and if it had anything to do with apothecaries. Finally she consented to go with him, and he began to politely drag her away - though not without turning around to mutter something about “wastes” and how he’d be back later for hideous vengeance.

Art and Yao watched him leave, having said nothing the entire time. Finally Art broke the awkward silence.

“Memory issues aside, I wonder how she was able to go through all that and remain relatively unscathed,” Art commented, as Hank and his nameless girlfriend climbed into a limo, which then set off towards the hospital. Yao looked at him in confusion.

“What do you mean, ‘how she was able to go through all that’? She’s a cultivator.”

“Wait, actually?”

“Didn’t you see the slight activity in her meridians when she hit that wall? Sure, it wasn’t very profound - no more than the barest of drizzles, if I’m being honest, and I doubt her technique can take her farther than the Fifth Orbit of the First Circuit, especially with how thin the qi is here - still, it was there. Same with Hank. They were both cultivators, of a kind.”

Cultivators. It was not a word Art had ever expected to hear applied to his own world, and one whose pronunciation stirred his blood. He’d simply assumed his world had no spiritual energy to speak of, beyond the trickles he could acquire as a mage; but if Yao could detect the traces of genuine cultivation in people who lived here… Before Art could pursue this mystery any further, however, he heard a familiar voice.

“Eddie, is that you?”

Art’s sister gazed into Art’s eyes, her thin face slightly surprised. She had just come out of a convenience store, and was carrying two bags full of groceries, which hung swaying loosely by her side.

Art nodded uncertainly, rubbing his hands with nervous energy. For the first time it occurred to him that it had been over six years since his death, that she must have buried him, mourned, and moved on with her life… and then he noticed her appearance.

She looked identical to when last they’d spoken, two days before his untimely passing.

“Huh. You don’t normally visit me up here, so…” and then she noticed the octopus tentacles encircling the mechanical limb as he rubbed his hands. She sighed. “I see you have much to tell me.”

Art gave an unsteady grin. His sister motioned for them to follow, and then took them to a small late night cafe on an empty corner in an obscure part of town. The cafe was devoid of life, having only one staff member, and outside the occasional swish swish of her broom made not the slightest of sounds.

Art’s sister gestured imperiously in the direction of a table, in a command whose meaning was immediately understood and performed by both of her colleagues. She then briskly asked Art and Yao what they wanted to drink, before going up to the cafe counter to order. She rejoined them a couple minutes later, putting three drinks down on the table, and pulling up a seat.

Yao contemplated the woman. She was small, both in height and in figure. Her hair was a mousy brown, complementing her hazel eyes, and her face was thin and pinched. She wore a dress which covered all of her skin, barring only her hands and face, and her hair was done up neatly in a bun on top of her head.

She was clearly related to Art - the familial resemblance was obvious - but beyond that the two couldn’t have looked any less alike. Art exuded life and chaos, even his drab brown coat somehow managing to convey an air of the comic. His own brown hair was wild, his eyes constantly flicked back and forth, and his hands were constantly moving about the table even when he had nothing to do.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

On the other hand, Yao would have believed his sister was some sort of automaton, if she hadn’t seen the woman breathing. She stood stock still, eyes staring straight ahead. Her form was perfect - on par with a member of the military - her clothes were perfectly ironed, and her posture was ramrod straight. If an artist had been tasked with drawing someone “upright,” they may very well have drawn Joanne Brittleby, as she introduced herself.

“So,” she said, once the relevant introductions had been made, “would you care to tell me what you’re doing showing up in my neighbourhood at ten p.m. on a Sunday, with both of your arms missing and exchanged with horrible nightmarish replacements?”

“My legs are gone too,” Art observed helpfully. Joanne groaned.

“Let me guess. This has something to do with your frivolous pursuit of magic, doesn’t it?”

“Correctamundo, though it starts with a medical diagnosis. Do you remember how, when last we talked, I told you about how the prognosis from my doctor was grim, and I wanted to try magic to solve the problem?”

“I do, unfortunately.”

“Right, well, as may happen in this crazy world of ours, I was successful… sort of.” And with that, he proceeded to launch into the story, starting with how the angel Urtico accidentally killed him, proceeding to his travels to a cultivation world, and culminating in his accidental return a mere day after Yao and he started their journey to find the demonic cultivators responsible for kidnapping her in a bathroom.

Yao appreciated the artistry he’d used in concocting the story. Pretending he really had been a mortal (albeit a magical one), that he’d died, that he’d never planned to go to a cultivation world at all and certainly hadn’t planned to meet Yu Yao and solve a pressing problem with her (an amazing coincidence, how many transmigrators weren’t planning to go to a cultivation world, did so, and then discovered a pressing problem that they could help solve). It was a yarn, but she always admired a good yarn.

She was gratified to see that Joanne did too. At various appropriate points in the story she raised her eyebrows, or opened her mouth, and seemed genuinely surprised to learn that cultivation worlds were real places and you could go to and from them. (Though of course she must have known all that already, being a goddess who had not yet fallen.)

At last the story reached its conclusion with Art’s new partner accidentally launching the girlfriend he’d forgotten he’d had through a wall. Joanne snorted at that, muttering something about “that hag deserved it,” thereby letting Yao know that at least somebody remembered Art dating.

Having finished his tale, Art took a deep glug of his drink and asked his sister what she thought. Joanne took a sip of her coffee. “So let me get this straight. You died?”

“Yes, as I- wait, you didn’t know?”

“Of course I didn’t know. We talk frequently, for siblings, but not that frequently.”

“So… it hasn’t been six years since my passing?”

“It hasn’t been six days. We spoke only a day or two ago. I had no idea you were even serious about that angelic curative rite, nevermind that you’d attempted this and lost your body in the process. Incidentally,” and here her lips pursed disapprovingly. “You’re not expecting me to go and take care of the corpse, are you?”

Art blanched, eyes flickering about nervously. “Well, if I’m being honest, we weren’t planning to stay here that long… and I don’t really see how I can make funeral arrangements for myself… so if you wouldn’t mind, it would really be greatly appreciated.”

Joanne groaned, and put her head in her hands. “Fair enough. I’ll take care of the problem, although not without protest - it will involve a distraction from my research, after all.”

Yao was intrigued. So far, she had rather liked Art’s sister - she was quiet, reserved, modest in bearing and deportment, the epitome of normal. In other words, everything that Art was not.

“Your research…? You’re some kind of scholar?”

“Of a sort, yes. I’m a graduate student, specialising in the Philosophy of Aesthetics and its intersection with practical phenomenology. My specific area of research, if you’d care to know, is the study of how the experience of watching paint dry is an aesthetic act, one which both affects and transforms the one who watches paint dry in the act of watching.”

Yao took this in, stroking her chin.

“So you watch paint dry for a living?”

“No, I watch people watching paint dry for a living.”

Yao nodded approvingly at this description of her scholarly activity. At last, here was a woman who knew how to live!

“At any rate, it seems you have been busy.” Joanne pursed her lips. “Cultivation worlds, demonic cultivators, whatever your bi- very unpleasant former girlfriend is planning. To compound it all, you say you don’t even know a way home?”

“Nope,” said Art. “Well, I do - take the 42 down south to Albosquierre Station, then grab the 503. Ride all night, catch either the 87 or 78, and take two lefts till I hit Uncle Stinky’s Antique Shop. Then take a right. At that point I’m at my apartment. But that would be awkward - first, because I may be arrested on suspicion of killing myself; second, because then Yao would have to chill in the apartment where I died; and third, because then we can’t complete our stated goal of finding out why demonic cultivators were hiding in the bathroom.”

“I was referring, dearest brother, to the other home - to the cultivation world you now call home. That is the one you want to go back to, and yet find yourself unable to locate - or even travel to, if I understood your complaint aright.”

“Can you help us?” Yao asked hurriedly, her excitement leaking through her voice.

Joanne raised one immaculate but dull eyebrow. “Me? I am but a humble paint drying enthusiast. I know nothing of cultivation, magic, esoteric political plots involving dubious secret societies, or journeys to otherworlds across the depths of space.”

Yao cursed herself. She’d forgotten she was now part of a highly elaborate method acting plot, and had spoken out of character.

“Still,” said Joanne, as she rose out of her seat, “you may as well come back with me to my house. Perhaps there is some way I can help you.”

Yao rose to her feet immediately, a burst of enthusiasm arcing across her body, and downed what remained of her coffee in a single glug. Art was more lethargic, but eventually they found themselves at the entrance to Joanne’s apartment, a building that was as boring and unassuming as she.

Their journey up the stairs was quiet, the other tenants having gone to bed for the night. Joanne’s apartment was on the very top floor, and was marked only by a single plaque denoting that it was her abode. The plain woman stopped outside the door, looked about furtively, then slowly opened it, motioning for the pair to enter.