Cases of sentient objects and animals weren’t unheard of in the Valelike vale: One of the Elder’s Lov… early disciples had gotten a sentient louse, once, and filled her head with terrible ideas, the likes of which shall not be spoken in this book. Also with terrible eggs, which were just, you know, normal lice eggs. In the depths of an abandoned well on a nearby hill (because it makes sense to drill a hilltop when you are searching for the elusive phreatic), a traumatized sentient cylindrical object screamed day and night, for it had been used by a non-blessed male disciple that followed the Road of …something that starts with S and ends with Y.

The Elder had snatched Jagger and stashed him into the first recipient he deemed adequate for a pummeled puppy: The manure bucket. Of course, he had emptied the bucket beforehand.

“So, little dog, what do you know about Heaven?” The elder stared at the bucket sitting atop his desk, as he sat on his chair, that was stapled to the roof and upside down. It allowed him to have a new perspective on things and keep a reasonable blood flow to that which differentiated him from his descendants: a functional brain.

“You follow the Road of Kerosene. Go ask an oil lamp,” Jagger retorted.

“How do you know what an oil lamp is? You are a dog.”

“An epiphany after hitting my head against the wooden doll seventy-six times,” Jagger answered, and tried to not whine due to the stench of his ceiling-less prison.

“How many revelations did the concussions cause?”

“I have knowledge about the helicoid thickening on the tracheids of Cooksonia,” the puppy dropped like the words were false accusations of horrid crimes and the elder the local minority-to-blame.

“I am afraid, puppy, you may be the most intelligent lifeform in this vale,” The Elder said, trying to take a sip and accidentally dropping his kerosene bottle from his vantage point. “Damn it!”

Jagger heard the glass breaking and, moments later, smelled the hydrocarbons.

“If you want to drug me, I’d prefer toluene. Maybe after a lifetime of sniffing it I can cultivate enough stupidity to match Kalon.”

The elder steepled his fingers. He was considering something. What a good ass that crossfit cultivator had, if only she wasn’t his gr...

He blinked twice when he noticed the killer gaze of the puppy drilling into his inscrutable stare.

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“Yes, yes, matching Kalon… I am afraid that some of us are born blessed in some ways. Kalon’s air-headness is, I am afraid, beyond your reach, pup.”

“He’s a natural for moroness, I’ll grant him that.”

The elder nodded melancholically, took out his pipe and the tobacco fell from it to the floor. “This whole… chair glued to the roof business… not my brightest idea,” He lamented.

A knock on the door that caused the whole room to tremble alerted them that they had visits.

The elder sighed and closed his eyes. “Come in, son, heart of my heart.”

The man slid the door to a side as if it was a curtain, and crumpled it all the same. Jagger thought that, if they were to make gloves for the man out of his skin, the would need a whole Jagger for each finger. The man had to crouch and walk sideways only to enter the room, and even then couldn’t stand straight. His biceps were about to develop chiseled abs.

“Father, I am in need of cultivation materials,” he demanded, his voice booming with so much authority that the shattered glass on the floor reformed itself into a bottle and the kerosene that had been spilled crawled back into the container.

The Elder caressed his beard. “Which color?”

He licked his grey lips. “I am out of Goth GF Thighs White, Unicorn Fart Cyan and Jade Lust Green. They are essential for me to master the Road of the Lipstick.”

The Elder closed his eyes, considering it a moment. “I will ask for a courier to bring them from the capital. Do you need any lip gloss, my pride?”

The bulky man scratched his chin, accidentally dislodging his jaw. Then, with a finger flick, he returned the bone to his natural position. “Daddy’s Discharge, limited edition. The one that causes throat cancer.”

“It shall be done. Anything else, my son?”

“Hey, big fella.” Jagger said, wishing for death.

With statuesque rigidity the behemoth of a man turned his head to look at the puppy. He threw a smooch and wink in Jagger’s direction, and the poor puppy braced himself for the impact. The pressure, the power of such a smooch, it blew the metal hoops of the bucket away, turned the wood to splinters, made Jagger struggle to not get squished against the desk His loose skin flapping, his hair fluffing up. This was a tribulation like few he had experienced in his forty-three days of life.

Jagger stood, disappointed of being still in one piece. “Hey, big—”

“He’s already gone, walked off after the smooch,” informed the elder, calmly.

“But I still see him there,” Jagger said, pointing an accusatory paw at the image of the man.

“His power scares light shitless, it will take a few moments for it to catch up to him.”

And as the elder said, soon the image of the cultivator disappeared suddenly from the room, almost in a “plop”.

“Why did you taunt my son, though? You knew it could end badly for you. You are intelligent enough for that.”

Jagger admitted the truth: “The intrusive thoughts won. I am not even two months old for Heaven’s sake.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s right. I have my half-dozen of centuries and I barely have any self-control regarding certain matters of love and war. You may go now, Kalon’s weapon. I reckon he should be about to wake up by now.”

Jagger remained sitting in place.

“I said you can go.”

“I can’t. The desk is too tall for me to jump down. Get me off.”

The elder paced a bit along the roof, and, finally, extended his hand to pick up Jagger and cast him out the door. As he flew through the air, Jagger remained calm. He had calculated his trajectory, and was going to land on a patch of cushiony grass. All that’s well…