Volithur barely made it back to the barracks. The next morning, he was beaten again. When Master Aramar asked his son the reason why he had singled out a specific target, the story was told of a Ward demanding an education and a backwards fifth household complying out of ignorance. Master Aramar’s response helped no one.

“One’s choice of enemies says volumes. You choosing the most pathetic creature on the estate shames both of us deeply, son.”

At that point, Volithur had thought himself saved in an insulting fashion. However, the powerful noble was not finished.

“He is a ward of my father and his life is guaranteed by the entire family. Because of that, you have five minutes to do whatever you wish to him, so long as it does not endanger his life. After that, you will never think of this boy again.”

Before Volilthur could even fully process what had been said, he was struck by the domain of Master Dorian, sending him tumbling across the grass. He vaguely heard Master Aramar saying that he would replicate the breaking of any bones on his son.

If the limits placed on the beating made it any less painful, Volithur would not know. He spent most of the time on the ground, desperately trying to protect himself. Fists and feet and invisible clubs of cosmic energy landed time and again, bruising and bloodying his arms, legs, back, and head, all of which were instinctively sacrificed to protect his tender front side.

He heard Thassily shouting in the background. “Stop it! He can’t fight back!”

The pleas for mercy ended soon, and only two noises populated the morning air: the thuds of impact and the angry, animalistic growls of Master Dorian. Volithur had rapidly passed the point where he could scream or cry or beg. He had entered a survival mode that only let him cover up to absorb punishment as much as possible with non-critical appendages.

Finally, finally, finally the torment cut off at a command from Master Aramar. “Time! Your pathetic squabble with a level two commoner has ended in his defeat. Do you feel proud, Dorian? Because you have never appeared more pathetic to me than at this moment. You made that pathetic excuse for a man on the ground your equal by seeking him out. Face these soldiers here and tell them you are pathetic.” Pause. The voice lowered. “Do not make me repeat myself.”

Master Dorian shouted out at the top of his lungs, voice raw. “I am pathetic!”

“That weak thing on the ground is what you aspired to beat,” Master Aramar continued. “It makes me sick to think that my blood, the blood of the Lord General, flows through the veins of one such as yourself. We must purge you of this weakness of character. All professional soldiers line up, you will be fighting my son back to back. Any and all who defeat him will be granted an elixir. And someone drag that mess to the infirmary. I’m tired of seeing it.”

Volithur went in and out of consciousness. He was vaguely aware of being moved. After that, someone inspected him, cleaned his wounds, applied salves, stitched deep wounds, wound bandages, and then left him to rest on a lumpy mattress. He concentrated on breathing, which required him to keep his mouth open. That led to a dry and scratchy throat, but he could barely detect that discomfort.

Everything hurt, but the reports of his body seemed to come from far away. He was in a different room entirely. A mental space unblemished by thinking. He just existed, content that the biological drive that caused him to fear death had calmed for a while. The pain remained outside of his safe space.

Night came and he slept. Daylight returned and he was watered and fed and given a bedpan and change of dressing. Slowly, he came back to himself.

Volithur stared at his surroundings, incurious of the bland furnishings. He had never been to this place prior to his injury and did not know where he was. He did not particularly care, either. For a time, he had forgotten what kind of monsters he lived among. No longer.

Visitors finally came close to nightfall. Thassily and the Sergeant sat by his bed and talked at him, giving him gossip about what went on at the barracks and complaining about the annoying parts of their job. No one mentioned the noble visitors or what had happened.

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Finally, Volithur found it within himself to care about something. “Where am I?” Should he be forced to escape, that information would be useful.

“The militia infirmary. It is outside the estate, in the city. Certain individuals are unlikely to encounter you here,” the Sergeant said. “Out of sight, out of mind, as the saying goes.”

Thassily stared down at him with watery eyes. “You’ll be back with us as soon as it is safe.”

The Sergeant sighed. “That can’t be soon enough.” His voice became more professional. “Ward Harridan, there is little else to occupy your time here, so I recommend you cultivate. It is a productive use of time, gives you something to focus on, and might make you valuable enough to avoid rough treatment in the future.”

“Maybe,” Volithur said.

“Well, I’ll leave you to your recovery now. Come along, Ward Thassily.”

Volithur did cultivate, in the end. Not because he had hope for a better future, though. His reason was to stop the flashes of memories that exploded into existence when he would relax his guard too much. He did not want to recall the incident. Not ever, if he could help it.

So for hours at a time, he would mentally cultivate to exhaust his mind. Then for hours more he would use his aura to cultivate. Then he would drift into a peaceful nap. When the restless nerves came upon him, Volithur would wake and begin the cycle again. Mental cultivation. Aural cultivation. Sleep. Repeat. Again. Another time. Once more. Again.

Endlessly around and around. He lost track of his purpose in doing it. The exercise became simply something that he did. Time passed. He could have marked its movement by the cycle of day and night, or the thrice daily feedings. Perhaps even the slow recovery of his body. The easing of his pain. The ability to move on his own. The decreasing amounts of blood in his urine.

He chose not to notice those timestamps. Every event drifted past him as he floated within the stream of time. When he was tempted to think, instead he would cultivate. The practice kept him sane, feeling safe, like he had some rudimentary control over his circumstances.

Eventually, he sat cross-legged once more, able to move about with minimal problems. The small room he had been assigned had become like a sanctum to him. He existed there, sleeping and eating and, most of all, cultivating.

Until he could not cultivate any further. Volithur tried several times before his vapid mind finally began to focus on the issue before him. He wanted to continue his cultivation but could not. The reason? No more energy could enter his soul.

As his thoughts began to move in problem-solving mode, Volithur determined there were two fixes. First, and easiest, he could simply release the energy he held and start over again. He could even release it into his body if he wanted to enhance his strength and durability. Or… he could push through the difficulties he was having and reach the next level. That had once been a serious goal of his, he recalled.

Did he want it still? Power seemed like a good idea, but he would never have enough of it to be safe from powerful nobles. Maybe fading into obscurity was the best thing for him. He could be one of the servants who cultivated all day and then released the gathered energy into the cosmic chamber. He wouldn’t have to worry, because he would be valuable. He wouldn’t have to think, because he would be busy cultivating.

That could be his life. Volithur pondered it, nodding in appreciation of the path opening up before him. Then he frowned. All of the servants who had done that job were level four. If he wanted to be one of them, he would need to advance a couple more times.

There was nothing for it then. Volithur would have to advance.

He gathered his resolve and began to use mental cultivation to squeeze tiny bits of energy into his already packed soul. One bit at a time, he overloaded it. The practice went on for hours, then longer. Volithur slept at one point, then woke up in the middle of the night and continued his efforts. He soon realized that the various apertures were leaking energy at a slow rate. He had to add energy faster than it leaked, which proved challenging when he could only force in the tiniest sliver.

All of his effort finally paid off when he rammed a final bit of energy home. The contents of his soul quivered as the incremental increase in density pushed it into a phase transition. The walls of his cube-shaped soul drew in the rapidly thickening energy until there was no more, and then a mighty rumble echoed through his entire existence as the soul walls grew thicker and denser at the same time. The shaking intensified and Volithur briefly lost awareness.

When he returned to himself, Volithur immediately set about cultivating to fill his empty level three soul.