The ghost of the magician did not, as a matter of course, intend to cultivate on the hill. He vaguely considered cultivating in a nearby cave - it would be cool, and the Rule of Cool was, so far as he was concerned, absolute - but on inspection they were all inhabited by various legendary beasts and filled with goodies he couldn’t use but which would absolutely be drawing every cultivator in a three thousand li radius.

His next consideration was if he could cultivate in a pleasant grove in the midst of the woods, but it took only a day or two for him to realise that there was far too much foot traffic through the average pleasant grove for it to be an altogether acceptable cultivation spot. During the day every adventurer and his uncle and his uncle’s beau and his uncle’s beau’s dog and his uncle’s beau’s dog’s pet louse and his uncle’s beau’s dog’s pet louse’s enchanted spirit artefact were wandering through the grove; during the night they were all camping there, and the ghost couldn’t get the slightest ounce of cultivation done, so great was the noise produced by their singing and dancing and drinking and generally enthusiastic behaviour.

After that he moved to the top of a mountain - one of the flying mountains, of course, because flying mountains were cool (see the above note on the absoluteness of the Rule of Cool) - but tragically while a floating mountain was superficially cool, upon secondary consideration its coolness was completely torpedoed by the winds constantly blowing fervently across the top of the mount, nor did the exposure to the elements significantly endear the location to the annoyed ghost.

Giving up on amazing natural landscape features, the ghost decided on to once more seek out human habitation and, finding a suitably abandoned area within an inhabited zone, cultivate there.

And so he trekked across the valley he had descended into, dodging the weird monsters and avoiding packs of wandering cultivators, until at last he found a promising village. It was small and nice and clean, the streets paved with white tiles and the buildings carefully maintained.

This was something of a problem, initially, as the ghost was not altogether sure he could find a suitably derelict location to cultivate peacefully in. He searched diligently, however, and at long last his diligence was rewarded.

It was an old, rundown inn, whose sign - barely hanging onto the beam - marked it as a restaurant and hotel called ‘The Merry Meerkat.’ The ghost chuckled a little at the image of the meerkat tipsily spinning, beer stein in hand, on the sign.

A quick check confirmed his fervent hopes - the attic of the inn was well maintained, but completely abandoned. There were a few boxes lying about whose provenance the ghost couldn’t determine, and whose contents were doubtless unimportant given the layers of dust and spiderwebs lying atop them.

Having found his ideal cultivation spot the ghost sat down and began to practise the technique. He moved his legs into what he felt the appropriate spot should be and opened the manual, which he’d briefly glanced through earlier but had yet to properly examine, courtesy of all the strange and irksome annoyances he’d experienced in trying to find an ideal cultivation location.

And then came the whimpering. It emanated up from the floorboards underneath the magician’s feet, disturbing his focus and interrupting his cultivation. Unlike the previous interruptions, however, this was no unwelcome interruption; for the whimpering was clearly that of a child, and if there was one thing that could never bother the magician it was a child in distress.

No sooner had he heard the whimpering, determined its nature, and identified its point of origin, than he had departed to find the source and silence (through whatever means he had in his power) the child’s distress.

Descending through the floorboards, the ghost wandered down the hallway of the inn, until at last he found what he was looking for. A small room, whose external artistic designs marked it as being permanently lived in, and from which the whimpering was emanating.

Entering the room confirmed his suspicions. The room was tastefully decorated in navy blue fabric and yellow stars, as if it was the night sky itself, with the stars even being arranged in the form of local constellations (though the ghost could only dimly discern this).

Outside of the lovingly decorated walls, there was a dresser, a bookshelf, and a bed. The whimpering was coming, rather obviously, from this last object. The subject producing the tears was not immediately clear, although the lump under the star-covered bed sheets betrayed its origin.

The ghost stood over the bed sheets, made himself as visible as it possibly could be, and then loudly cleared his throat. Instantly the whimpering ceased.

After a long, long moment a small head peeped out from under the covers. The kid looked at the ghost, terrified. “Who- who are you?”

The magician waved one arm in a magnificent flourish, his tone so hilariously pompous as to be incapable of taking seriously. “Who am I? Who am I? I am the great magician. Tell me, boy, why do you cry?”

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The boy wiped his eyes with his sleeve, his distress vanishing in a sudden wave of intrigue.

He hiccoughed, once, and solemnly intoned, “I had a lamp by my bed, which kept the scary monsters away. But my mommy and daddy took it away, saying it was time for me to grow up, and now the monster under my bed is scaring me.”

Ahh. Now the occultist knew the problem. The child was having night terrors; he'd had a night light; his parents had removed the night light, to force him to confront his fears. A valiant effort, on their part; but the magician could not altogether approve of the idea of confronting one's fears to forge past them. Nor, when push came to shove, did he especially believe that such a tactic would be effective.

“Hmm.” He put one figure to his temple, and mimed screwing up his face in concentration, as if he was entertaining deep and profound thoughts. The child giggled.

“You will have to pardon me if I remain confused, but why are you scared of the monster under your bed?”

“Because… because he’s scary,” the kid said after a moment.

“Ohh, so you’re scared because he’s scary.” The ghost mimed stroking a beard. “I see.”

Then he raised a finger on both hands into the air. “But why does the scariness of the monster make you scared?”

The child meditated deeply upon this profound question, finally conceding that he did not, in point of fact, know why the scariness of the monster should scare him; he simply was scared. For this strange and unaccountable fact he could provide no causally satisfactory explanation, admitting that Carroll’s Regression had him flummoxed. (Or, in less formal terminology, he said “Dunno.”)

The ghost rubbed his hands evilly, a wicked grin breaking out across his face. “Should you not have the opposite response?”

“Why?” The youth asked, confused.

“The monster under your bed isn’t scary because he wants to scare you; he’s scary because he’s your shadow, the darkness which confronts you to get you to grow.”

“Huh?”

“Think about it. Why’d your parents remove the light from the room?”

“Because they want me to grow up,” the kid said, as if he was repeating the obvious.

“Yeppers. And in the old stories, when the knight goes out to save a princess, what does he do?”

“Fight a dragon,” the kid said, as if he was repeating the obvious. Adults, his entire body seemed to be saying.

“And if there wasn’t a dragon? Could he rescue the princess then?”

“No,” the boy conceded.

“Well, the monster who lives under your bed is just like that dragon; he’s here to be scary, but not to scare you, but to help you grow up. So you see, there’s no need to fear the dark, or the dark is your friend.”

The boy thought about this for a moment, and finally nodded, agreeing with the ghost’s contention. The ghost slapped his hands together and gave the boy a pat on the head.

And with that he departed, secure in a job well done. The boy wouldn’t fear the shadows in his bedroom any more.

***

“Huh,” said the little boy, when the ghost was gone, “and to think, I thought you were only here to torment me.”

“Same,” said the hideous monster who lived under his bed. “Who knew I had such an important cosmic role?”

***

Returning to his chosen cultivation spot, the occultist settled down in the pretzel position, opened the time, and at last, finally, began to read.

Clear your mind, the text said, so the ghost did. He fidgeted only a little as he jettisoned the thoughts from his mind, letting the new ones float over him like gentle waves on a golden beach.

Let an image of the body you want emerge unbidden in your mind, the text said, so the ghost did. Strange to say, the body was just like his last one, only better, with an impressive musculature, an improved jawline, and a conspicuous lack of bodily blemishes (barring one tastefully located mole). There was a slight bit more fidgeting this time around.

Indwell in this image while you channel your qi through your body, the text said, so the ghost did. It was a good image, he felt, perhaps the best image. There was a titch more fidgeting, but he silenced himself, resuming the initial position.

Ensure the image remains centred in your mind, the text said. Whatever you do, do not allow any other image to enter your mind while using the technique, the text said. Easy peasy lemon squeezy, said the magician to himself.

He began to meditate, the image held firm in the centre of his mind. Nothing would disturb him. Nothing would break his laser sharp focus. Nothing-

Oh man, he couldn’t wait to get a body and go exploring. He bet they had amazing coral reefs in cultivation worlds, full of the coolest octopi.

No, wait. Nothing would disturb his focus. The image appeared in the centre of his mind. There it stayed, firm, unbothered (moisturised, in its lane), and-

And did this universe have robots? He bet it had robots. Robots were awesome, and it had always bothered him how few cultivation novels had robots even though everyone in a cultivation world could build a theoretically infinite series of scientifically nonsensical but aesthetically awesome devices. They better have robots. If they didn’t, he could always build one himself and-

Now wait just a moment. He was so supposed to be focused on the image. The image. That’s right. He would turn around and return his interest to the image, which was centred in the centre of his mind-

But it was so BORING. Aaaagggghhhh. None of the cultivation novels he’d read had been like this.

No. No. He wouldn’t let himself harm himself. He would maintain his focus, just as the text said to do-

Wait, was this one of those cultivation worlds which had heavenly phoenixes disguised as chickens?