"Motherfucker. I swear, if there’s a wrong way to fuck something up, this wanker will find it, then fuck it harder just to make a fucking point. It's like his whole existence is a goddamn art form of fuckery, and I’m stuck on the front row, watching an orgiastic masterpiece unfold in all its fucking glory. And then, just as I'm knee-deep in the fucked-up aftermath of all his fuckery, he’ll stroll in with a like, 'Oops, my bad. Can you sort this all out for me? Pretty please?' This muppet couldn’t unfuck a situation himself if his life fucking depended on it, but somehow, I’m the one left duct-taping the universe back together while he’s off somewhere, fucking it all up again. For sport. Twat."

I am so glad you are taking this little reversal so well, my dear. Indeed, it is good to see that all those discussions we have had about meditation, calmness, and centring ourselves within the flow of your Qi have really paid off.

"Merlin?"

Yes, my dear?

"Behold the field of my fucks to give. And lo, see how it is barren."

That's the fourth time you have used that form of words in the last couple of days. I assume you have heard someone say that – my gold is on Sir Bors - liked it and have resolved to use it more in conversation? However, without wishing to belabour the repeated message of our training of late, 'less is more,' my dear. Less is very much more.

"Fuck off, Big M."

You first, my dear.

Touché.

Welcome back, by the way.

I’m afraid quite a bit has happened since you've been gone. And not much of it good. Not least, it appears Drynwyn's signature conversational style might have rubbed off on me a bit.

Oh, sure. Knew all this fuckwittery would somehow be my fault.

I was about to answer, but then I became acutely aware that there were several, extremely worried, faces turned my way.

Sure, they’re all just Sir Ector’s fucking uselessly Unmerry Men, but as they’re clearly very concerned that the all-powerful Court Wizard of King Arthur Pendragon appears to be talking to herself again, I figure now might be an appropriate moment to leave the ramshackle shambles of our camp on Salisbury Plain behind and drop into my Artist's Studio.

I know there’s a lot to unpack in that sentence. Trust me, I’ll get to it.

The world faded away, to be replaced by my beachfront studio and then . . . blessed silence.

The first thing I noticed as I opened my eyes in my happy place was that I was almost immediately unable to absorb any of my internal space's ambient Qi.

This was cool because, not too long ago, I was so inefficient at gathering the essence of this place to me that meditating in here was almost like cycling in the real world. However, as Merlin had kept going on and on and on about how important it was to resolve this, I’d been putting in plenty of hard yards during the winter and it was nice to actually see all that finally paying dividends.

In fact, the moment I popped into being here, all the built-up Qi was slurped straight down into my core. My channels appeared before me, perfectly drawn, a latticework of where every line, every angle, spoke of balance and possibility.

As I watched, my purple Qi moved—not the cheap neon of a gaudy festival lantern, but deep and luminous, the shade of twilight skies just before they surrender to stars. It swept through me, filling every line, pooling briefly in a few areas before flowing onward, as though reluctant to leave but trusting the path.

The whole experience was a stillness that wasn’t empty but full. My channels shining with an unbroken brilliance, clear as polished glass, so perfect they might not have been real if I couldn’t feel their quiet hum.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

It was beautiful, yes, but more than that—it was mine.

My body, my will, my Qi.

And in this moment, it felt as though nothing else mattered.

Momentarily free from the stresses of ‘real’ life – don’t worry, I’ll catch you up on all the new and exciting clusterfuckery in a minute - I took a nice, deep breath and went searching for where I might have left the remnants of my chill.

Gazing through the windows of my studio, I could see sand, waves, and a sky so blue it clearly was enjoying an advertising relationship with a bottled water company. The miles and miles of beach were littered with all the usual suspects: smug seagulls, clusters of seashells plotting something shady, and a lone flip-flop which I sensed was trying very hard to be metamorphical for something.

Inside, my studio was a pleasing mess of unfinished projects, a testament to my long held belief that incomplete canvasses were a legitimate artistic process. The coffee mug on the table was on its third round of pretending to be fresh, and the only sound in the room was that of the wind rattling against shutters.

Paradise.

I freely admit I could’ve been more productive in here, but that felt a bit much considering my soul had already gifted me this view.

And this quiet.

I leaned against the window, letting the glass leave faint smudges on my forehead, and idly wondered which aspect of my psyche had left that flip-flop.

Was it supposed to remind me of a torrid, beach affair? Nah. I’m not sure I had too many of them in my mental locker. I’d discovered at a relatively early age that sand plus . . . spontaneous adventures was a wildly uncomfortable experience.

Was it, rather, pointing towards an aquatic encounter gone wrong? Sure, that felt more on brand. Any number of sun-bleached mops of hair volunteered for potential tribute there. But I’m not sure any were memorable enough to have imprinted themselves on my soul space . . .

Or was that single piece of abandoned plastic supposed to represent someone who I didn’t notice until it was too late?

Hmmm, I’m tending towards to morbid there. And that’s not what I came here for. I’m supposed to be finding my chill, not having a moment of personal growth . . .

I stood and turned away from the window, picking up a few books and replacing them on shelves. When the Big M had talked me into this whole cultivation gig, I’d vaguely thought I'd end up spending most of my second life sitting in a cave or meditating under a waterfall, contemplating my mystical navel or some shit like that.

And yeah, I’ve done my fair share of that.

Usually in some sort of fucking epic timeloop.

But it turns out, when you actually get a bit better at all of this stuff, you can manifest yourself up somewhere pretty cool to spend your downtime. And I don't think I'd be blowing my own trumpet too much to say I’ve made some pretty decent progress since we last caught up.

You see, after many, many hours of meditation, I’ve discovered that my Qi wants to flow—delicately, like painting a watery seascape, not slapping paint on a canvas like a toddler with too much sugar. Channelling it? Pfft, child’s play now. All I have to do now is just . . . gently suggest it goes where I want, like coaxing a stubborn wave into breaking right where it should.

Easy.

And cultivation?

Nailed it, bro.

I’ve learned that it’s basically all about crafting yourself into the masterpiece you want to be. Layer by layer. Brushstroke by brushstroke. Until—oh look, there I am. Uber Wizard. I have to say, the smug realisation that I’m getting really, really good at all this shit has been one of the better realisations of the last few months.

Honestly, who’d have thought that – when things calmed down a bit – I’d be a natural at all this?

Apparently, when I'm not spending my life keeping the kingdom in one piece, Qi just bends to my will like that seagull out there to a plate of chips.

All this talk about patience and humility? Meh. I’m practically glowing over here.

Aurelius Ambrosius is quaking in his boots.

My dear, I do not think there are the words to adequately express you how far that little self-indulgent monologue is from the reality. Yes, you are continuing to show decent promise as a Cultivator, and I admit that you have worked very hard - particularly on your alchemy - but you are scarcely a more capable practitioner today than you were at the conclusion of the quest for Caeldfwch. We have discussed, at length, that self-knowledge is almost entirely the prerequisite for further growth, so I do worry that such flagrant puffery is not merely puerile but actively detrimental to your wider development.

Yeah. Way to kill my buzz, Big M.

I’m sorry, my dear, I just think it is important not to mislead yourself as to the scale of challenges that are in front of us. Especially considering all the current difficulties you are having working alongside Sir Ector. And that, of course, is even without stressing the problems we are encountering around locating the Meridian Stones.

Whoa. Chill your jets, Big M.

You can't just ladle the exposition out like that. What do you think is happening here? Let's go for something a little more elegant than 'somehow Palpatine has returned,' you know what I'm saying?

As is becoming increasingly the case, no, not really, my dear.

Okay, right. Let’s put a pin in the ‘here and now’ for the moment. Here's the skinny. Imagine all this in a ‘previously on’ voice . . .