CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE: AI’S DEMON
Ai stared intently at the curious items before her that bore striking resemblance to fingers, employing various methods to manipulate them. With focused determination, she tried to channel the cultivation into her body, attempting to merge her conscious thoughts into the stream of power, but to her frustration, nothing yielded the desired result. She then turned her attention to her demon, a creature bound by chains, noting its eerie silence. The demon's solitary eye was sealed shut, as if it were lost in slumber, completely indifferent to Ai's plight.
After mastering the rudimentary aspects of cultivation, a cultivator's journey leads to the acquisition of skills. The names of these skills would typically appear on the special board with her core, which acts as a vessel for storing and displaying the abilities. By combining these skills with their cultivation, a cultivator is empowered to dominate their bound demon. This process is an essential rite of passage for one to transition from a mere practitioner to a true cultivator. Ai pondered her situation—was she still not ready to claim the title of a cultivator? Despite her doubts, the knowledge she had acquired was unambiguous; the cultivation she possessed was indeed a tool to enhance her physical prowess.
Ai's solitary piece of fortune in this complex puzzle was that, upon the awakening of one's cultivation, the world typically bestows a singular opportunity: a moment to introspect and examine one's core while time and the environment are seemingly suspended. Ai embraced this change wholeheartedly. Reflecting on the events that transpired since the initial awakening of her core, she recognized that it was all transpiring within the confines of her mind. The insights that were once shrouded in mystery when first explained by the captain now became lucid through her lived experience. The battlefield had not ceased its chaotic dance, nor had her adversary granted her a moment's peace to study her core without launching an assault. In reality, the moment of awakening that should have lasted an instant was perceived by her mind as an extended period, affording her a precious window to scrutinize her core.
Persisting in her attempts to unlock the full potential of her cultivation, Ai finally paused to study her core with an unwavering gaze. In an act of defiance or perhaps a test of her resolve, the cultivation flared with an unprecedented brilliance, emitting a glow so intense it momentarily blinded her. Reflexively, she raised her hands to shield her vulnerable eyes. In that instant, five potent streams of cultivation energy burst forth, infiltrating her body, coursing through her chest and into her heart, which began to throb with an accelerated vigor that surpassed its usual rhythm.
The heart rate of an average person typically oscillates between 60 and 100 beats per minute—a standard measure of health and vitality. In stark contrast, the hearts of cultivators throb at a significantly faster rate, pulsating multiple times that number without succumbing to the ailments that would afflict an ordinary individual. A novice cultivator, honing their abilities at the ki condensation level, might experience their heart pounding at a staggering 170 beats per minute. This rapid heartbeat is not a symptom of distress but rather a testament to their enhanced capabilities. It grants them exceptional strength and the ability to sustain intensive activity for prolonged periods without the fatigue that plagues the non-cultivated. Each surge of their heart and each cycle of their blood ushers in a fresh tide of vigor, reinforcing their physical form and imbuing them with an almost inexhaustible reservoir of energy.
In this pivotal moment, Ai became acutely aware of the tumultuous changes within her. Her heart, once steady at 80 beats per minute, now surged with a frenetic pace, exceeding 170 beats as she drew breath after ragged breath. It was a tangible testament to the transformation unfolding in her very core.
The cascade of cultivation energy did not abate; it persisted, relentless and empowering. When the hundredth wave of cultivation merged with her being, her heart raced at an astonishing rate of over 225 beats per minute.
According to the ancient wisdom she had studied, a heart rate nearing 199 beats per minute was indicative of the last stage of ki condensation. Surpassing 200 beats was the hallmark of entering the formation establishment level.
A complex sigh escaped Ai’s lips, one laden with the weight of realization and the buoyancy of newfound strength. The myriad of herbs she had ingested, once dormant within her, now unleashed their full vigor, circulating with purpose through her veins. There were elements within these herbs that had lain untapped, beyond the reach of her body’s former capabilities. Yet, with the influx of power she had recently acquired, it seemed that no element of strength, no matter how subtle or formidable, was beyond her command. She entertained the thought that not even the steadfast earth could resist the force that now animated her.
The shift within Ai’s body spurred a cascade of contemplation. What is the true essence of a cultivator’s experience? In the grand tapestry of existence, she imagined how cultivators might perceive the common folk—as trivial as ants beneath their lofty gaze. Such cultivators would surely marvel at the sight of non-cultivators challenging the natural order with audacious tenacity. Amidst these reflections, Ai recognized the profound impact of the herbs and the unexpected generosity of the prince who had given them to her. Could this be the same prince maligned as the weakest of King Ayrion’s offspring? The prince whose contentious relationship with his mother was rumored to have led to her untimely demise? Ai was cognizant of the hyperbolic nature of such tales, yet they persisted in the collective consciousness of the people.
Having a deep and thoughtful sigh, Ai confronted the reality that the window of opportunity afforded by her core’s awakening was drawing to a close. A pivotal question loomed in her mind: Could she effectively employ this nascent cultivation to master her inner demon? It was a question of paramount importance. For all the raw power cultivation bestowed—amplifying one’s physical prowess, accelerating the heartbeat—it remained incomplete without the skill to shape and direct it. A cultivator without skill is left with but one path: to stir the slumbering demon within, a being that could embody elemental fury such as lightning or fire. Should Ai be fortunate enough to awaken her demon, it would not only multiply her strength but also synergize with the martial potency of the herbs she had absorbed.
Ai drew a long and deliberate breath, steeling herself as she fixed her gaze upon the demon. Her intuition urged her to initiate a flow of cultivation energy into the dormant creature, to test whether this act might rouse it from its slumber and open a conduit of communication.
She employed just a single year of her cultivation to awaken the demon within, careful not to foster any misapprehensions during their initial encounter. This caution was a lesson from her captain, the mentor who had introduced her to the intricate dance of cultivation. He had stressed that this initial communion between a cultivator and their demon is pivotal, shaping the entire trajectory of the future relationship. Keen to avoid a foundation of confusion, she cautiously initiated the contact. Yet, despite her careful infusion of energy, the demon remained inert. She persisted, funneling another measure of her power into the demon’s form. After infusing fifteen full years of cultivation, the creature before her continued to show no signs of life.
Sensing the window of opportunity narrowing, Ai discarded her reservations and unleashed a potent wave of fifty additional units of energy without hesitation. With this latest effort, the total sum of energy she had drawn from her inner reserves and delivered to the demon reached an impressive sixty-five years.
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Throughout this process, Ai was unaware of the subtle changes within herself. Her heartbeat, a rapid drum of life, had quickened from 225 to an even more swift 250 beats per minute—a possible symptom of the fear that was coalescing within her as the demon’s eyes flickered open. What began as a languid, sleepy gaze swiftly transformed into an expression of vexation, locking onto Ai with an intensity that betrayed its irritation.
The captain’s teachings echoed in her mind; demons were not mere docile spirits awaiting command. They were beings of pride and ego, especially the potent ones, whose arrogance grew in tandem with their power. Such entities were bound not by will but by force. And amidst the annals of history, no tale spoke of the first cultivator to bind a demon nor of the reason for their chained existence within the core of their captors. The world operated on this unspoken rule, one likely met with bitter resentment from the enslaved demons. Thus, when the demon’s glare met her own, Ai found no shock in its resentment.
“My name is Ai. What is yours?” she inquired with a boldness that seemed to materialize from the very ether. The demon’s presence in her core and the refuge she had provided it with bolstered her belief that it was bound to her will. As a cultivator, she would not brook the disrespect of a demon meant to be under her dominion. The source of her newfound audacity was a mystery, yet it anchored her, preventing her from yielding even the slightest ground.
To her query, the demon responded with a flicker of surprise, as if it were unaccustomed to such brazenness from a human. “You have one opportunity to disappear from my sight,” the demon intoned ominously. “Wake me not from my slumber again, lest you wish for a fate far grimmer than death.”
Ai processed the demon’s warning with dwindling patience. The moment was ripe for discovery—could she, or could she not, subjugate this demon? Without further delay she channeled an immense surge of cultivation, her remaining one hundred and one years of cultivation, into the demon’s waiting vessel.
Before the last echoes of her power could settle within the demon, it let out a piercing scream—a sound that seemed to originate from a hidden orifice within its horned head. Initially, this feature was easily overlooked, but with closer scrutiny, one could discern that just beneath its glaring eye lay a small mouth, now the source of the demon’s anguished cry.
Ai stood transfixed, her eyes wide with disbelief, as the demon before her let out a wail eerily reminiscent of a human infant’s cry. The sound’s unexpected similarity sent a wave of bewilderment through her—was it the demon’s small mouth that shaped such a childlike bawl, or was it that all demons possessed such a voice? The truth of the matter eluded her.
The likelihood was that Ai’s method of forcibly channeling her cultivation into the demon’s body had struck terror into the creature. A grim smile etched itself onto her face as she realized the advantage she had just uncovered. With her energy being the demon’s bane, her bargaining position had strengthened considerably.
“I seek your power,” Ai declared, her voice a blend of command and deadly promise. “Lend me your skill amidst this fray. Once the dust of battle settles, we shall sit and discuss how our partnership could prove fruitful for both. Agree quickly, for time is of the essence. Should you decline, know well that the agony of my energy coursing through you is but a taste of the consequences. Nod if you comprehend and wish to avoid such a fate.”
Ai had her suspicions that the demon might understand the arcane Wilburish dialect, a linguistic relic of the era. Much to her astonishment, the demon nodded its horn and then spoke, its voice a graveled concession, “I will grant you my skill, but only if you promise to never subject me to such torment again.”
Ai’s astonishment was palpable; she was caught off-guard by the demon’s acquiescence and its apparent dread of her cultivation. Was there something inherent in her cultivation that inspired such fear? Or was her cultivation peculiar in a way she hadn’t yet grasped? This was not the time for deep introspection—the urgency of her present situation demanded immediate focus. She responded to the demon with a simple nod, acknowledging the pact between them.
In a display of its otherworldly nature, the demon extended one of its myriad hands. Ai now realized the creature’s true anatomy was a convoluted array of limbs, well beyond the count of ten, with many arms cleverly hidden within others. Even the hand it raised was but a facade, concealing two more within. The full count of the demon’s arms remained a mystery, each reveals adding to the enigma of its form. Despite the horror such a sight might instill, Ai found herself more preoccupied with the daunting challenges of the battlefield than the terror of the demon’s many-armed visage.
Time seemed to slow as the demon’s hand lingered in the air for more than ten seconds. A pitch-black substance started to manifest, a darkness so profound it seemed to absorb the very light around it, heavier than the shadows that cloak a forest at midnight. Ai watched intently, her curiosity piqued. The substance defied easy categorization—it was not quite liquid, nor was it simply smoke. It appeared to fluctuate between states: now a billowing smog, now akin to coal tar in its density. Ai knew that to truly understand the essence of this dark material, she would have to brave the unknown and make contact with it.
Ai exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding captive within her lungs. “What is the name of this substance?” she inquired, her eyes fixed on the enigmatic form before the demon.
Throughout her teachings, the captain who had initiated her into the esoteric arts of cultivation had enslaved a demon—a being that wielded the elusive power of the air. Ai’s life, thus far, had not acquainted her with tales of such a creature. She knew only of the demons who mastered the elemental forces of air, water, fire, lightning, and earth. These were the quintessential demons, the usual subjects of human enslavement. Beyond these elemental titans, Ai’s knowledge of demonic entities was limited. The captain had alluded to greater demons that towered over these elemental demons, but she had never witnessed their like before.
Now, as Ai stood there, she was confronted with a substance that defied her knowledge of the elemental categories. Could it be that the demon bound to her was one of those superior beings? Despite her youthful age and the inherent arrogance that often accompanies the prowess of cultivators, doubt crept into her thoughts. She pondered whether she possessed the requisite virtue to control such an exalted demon. Even Prince Armad, according to her captain, had a demon that commanded the fierce power of lightning. Ai was acutely aware of her pride, yet she questioned whether she could ever match the accomplishments of Prince Armad—the strategic mastermind who had dethroned the king of Tiriba and ascended to rule in his stead. The prospect of subjugating a demon of a caliber surpassing that of Armad’s seemed daunting, if not impossible.
“My substance... My substance... My substance,” the demon intoned, its voice echoing the enigma of its being.
This cryptic repetition offered little clarity to Ai. What was the meaning of ‘his substance’? She had sought its name, not confirmation of its ownership. It was evident to her that the substance belonged to the demon, but that knowledge did little to satiate her curiosity. After a moment of silent contemplation, she reminded herself that demonic communication often diverged from human modes of discourse.
There was an old tale she had once heard—a cautionary legend of a cultivator whose fatal misunderstanding of his demon’s comments regarding a girlfriend led to mutual destruction. The demon’s message was not as the cultivator had interpreted, yet without seeking further understanding, the cultivator launched into an assault. The ensuing battle lasted a hundred days, culminating in their mutual demise. The girlfriend, the unintended catalyst of this conflict, was left to mourn until her world faded into darkness.
Though such a tale might be apocryphal, the lessons it imparted were not lost on Ai. It taught her that demons often speak in riddles and that it is incumbent upon the human to pose their questions more precisely, for a demon is unlikely to reformulate its responses.
“What I’m trying to understand is the essence of this black substance that floats above your hands. I recognize it as yours, but what is its nature? Is it comparable to water or fire, or something else entirely? Its properties and capabilities are what I wish to discern,” Ai elaborated with care, determined to bridge the communicative gap between her and the demon. Such understanding was crucial if she was to leverage the demon’s might in navigating the perilous straits she found herself in.
The demon, its mouth oddly located on its horn, paused for a moment as if to consider Ai’s refined question. Then, slowly and deliberately, it began to unravel the mystery of its substance.