The cave pulsed with a faint, ethereal light. Not from any natural source, but from the intricate web of glowing runes etched deep into the stone walls. The air hung heavy, thick with the scent of ozone and something metallic, something akin to blood. In the center of the chamber, suspended in a shimmering, violet-hued sphere of magic, floated a single, crimson blood cell.
This was no ordinary cell. It was the seed of Kael, a blood clone, carefully extracted and now being coaxed into life by the creature before it. Xylos.
Xylos was a creature of terrible beauty. His serpentine body, longer than a fully grown man, was a mosaic of obsidian scales that seemed to absorb the light. Cold, emerald eyes, like chips of glacial ice, surveyed the swirling magic. His head was a triangular menace, framed by two rows of venomous fangs that dripped with a shimmering, potent saliva. Even in stillness, there was an undeniable power emanating from him, the raw magic of a Xianxia nascent, a being on the cusp of godhood. His control over the arcane made the very air around him tremble.
The process was slow, deliberate. The crimson cell began to divide, its tiny form multiplying exponentially within the magical sphere. With each division, faint lines of consciousness began to coalesce, a whisper of awareness growing into a nascent self. It was a dizzying experience, a chaotic symphony of sensations - the pressure of division, the hum of the magic, the distant, unfathomable presence of Xylos.
Kael, as he was beginning to perceive himself, was formless, a swirl of potential held within the sphere. He tasted the magic, felt the raw power that sustained him, and a flicker of understanding began to dawn. He was being made. Not born, but meticulously crafted, from a single, potent drop of blood. The realization was both terrifying and exhilarating.
He grew faster as Xylos continued to manipulate the energy, his long, scaled fingers moving with a grace that belied his monstrous nature. Bones formed, muscle knitted, skin stretched, always bathed in the violet light. His nascent senses sharpened, and he could perceive the cave in greater detail. The rough, cold stone, the intricate runes, the immense power of Xylos - each element was imprinted on his newly forming consciousness, a tapestry of his creation.
Finally, the sphere of magic dissipated, and Kael stood, unsteady, on newly formed legs. He was no longer a formless potential. He had a body, roughly the shape of a man, though his skin was a pale, almost translucent crimson, and his features were sharp, almost angular. His eyes, too, were a deep, ruby red. He was, quite literally, a blood clone, a living testament to the power of Xylos.
He looked up at the snake creature, the being who had birthed him from nothing. A surge of respect, an almost primal reverence, filled the void where his understanding of the world should have been. Xylos was not a parent, not a creator in any conventional sense. He was something more, something immense, a force of nature made sentient.
“You are… complete.” Xylos' voice was a low, resonant hiss, like the scraping of stone against stone. Yet, Kael could understand him perfectly, not through sound alone, but through a deeper, almost instinctive connection.
Kael could only stare, his mind reeling. He had no memories, no past, only the raw, overwhelming realization of his present. He was a clone, made solely by the will and power of this cold, calculating serpent. A being of magic, a tool, perhaps an extension of Xylos himself. His purpose was a blank slate, yet he felt drawn to service, a profound need to offer himself to his maker.
His eyes widened, his crimson pupils contracting with a start. He’d considered purpose, yet, that meant responsibility, meant a life directed by Xylos. It was more than shock, it was the terrifying realization of his own inherent lack of agency.
The weight of that knowledge settled heavily on him. He had been brought into existence, not for himself, but for something else, something he didn't yet understand. Yet, despite this jarring revelation, he felt no fear, only a strange, compelling loyalty, and a growing, desperate desire to understand why he was created. He looked into the cold, emerald eyes of Xylos, and spoke, his voice a raw, hesitant whisper, “What… what is my purpose?”
Before him, Kael stood, a being of flesh and blood, a perfect replica, but not a true son. A clone, birthed from Xylos's own ichorous essence. He was a blank slate, his eyes, a mirror of Xylos's, yet lacked the same intensity. He was still wet from his creation, the cave floor reflecting the faint, crimson sheen of his nascent form. Xylos had poured a portion of his life force, his very being, into this creation, and now, it was time for purpose.
“Kael,” Xylos’ voice, though rough, held an unnatural precision. “You are born of my blood. You are a singular investment, made with the same care and precision as other grand ventures I have undertaken. You are not an equal, but an extension of my will.” He gestured towards the opening of the cave, where the dim sunlight of the surface world seemed a distant promise. “Your purpose lies beyond the confines of this place. Beyond the stone and the darkness.”
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Xylos shifted, his many limbs twitching with barely contained power. “This world, this Xianxia realm, is ruled by humans. They call themselves cultivators, seekers of power, drawing strength from the elements and their own bodies. They form sects, empires, vast networks of influence and ambition.” He paused, watching Kael's face, seeking understanding. “They possess something… elusive. A strength that is not merely physical, something that binds them together and allows them to attain heights beyond what logic dictates. This,” he hissed, his forked tongue flicking out, “Is what you must discover.”
He lowered his head, his gaze intense. “You will observe them, Kael. You will learn their ways, their weaknesses, their strengths. You will infiltrate their societies, learn their philosophies, their practices, their techniques. You will become one of them, a silent shadow, a hidden observer. You will spy, gather intel, and become a living conduit of their secrets back to me.”
A long, scaled finger extended, tapping the cavern floor. “I am not a patient being. I have countless endeavors underway, threads weaving across this realm and beyond. But I grant you a measure of time. A hundred years, Kael. A century to unravel the mysteries of these humans. A single long-term commitment from my existence.” He punctuated this with a low, rumbling chuckle.
“This is a test, a proving ground. If your work is satisfactory, if you return with the knowledge I seek, you will be rewarded... in ways you cannot yet fathom.” Xylos’ eyes gleamed, promising power beyond measure. “If, however, you fail, if you waste your time, or worse, betray your purpose… then I will revoke your existence with as little effort as I made to create you.”
The threat hung heavy in the air, as palpable as the dampness on the cave walls. Kael stood, newly formed, the immensity of his task settling upon his shoulders. He was a clone, an echo of his master, yet he was also a singular creation, a tool honed for a specific purpose. He was a weapon, a spy, a cipher in the world of Xianxia, and his purpose, his very existence, hinged on his success. His century had begun.
Kael, a perfect echo of Xylos, yet undeniably distinct, surveyed the darkness with eyes that held no warmth. A mirror image, forged in blood and purpose, he was a weapon sent into the heart of the human world. He pushed past the city's entrance, the sunlight of the alien world a stinging shock to his senses.
The city hummed, a cacophony of sounds that grated on his heightened hearing. He found an alley tucked between two buildings, a forgotten pocket of shadows where the human tide ebbed. He leaned against the brick, his movements economical and precise. Observation was his first task, and he did so with the focused intensity of a predator studying its prey.
Money. The concept, while familiar in theory, was a puzzle in practice. He watched, his keen eyes absorbing the flow of the city. He saw a young man with a brush and bucket cleaning storefronts for coin. Another hauled refuse, sweat plastering his clothes to his back as he was paid. He rejected the obvious targets of the wealthy and influential. They screamed attention, which was deadly.
He walked to the city's fringe. There in a back alley, a pile of old metal lay abandoned. With practiced ease, Kael began to separate the good from the bad. He learned a bit more of the city and its people. A small, quiet shop owner bought the scraps without question. He even offered him a tip for cleaning up the mess. It was an exchange. A fair one. A human concept.
After several days of collecting scrap, Kael had accumulated enough of their currency. He found a quiet bookshop, the scent of aged paper strangely appealing. The shopkeeper, an old woman with spectacles perched on her nose, barely glanced up as Kael selected the three tomes. Alchemy, a discipline of transformation, caught his attention, the theory of changing one thing to another intrigued him even if his goal was not to change but to enhance. Formations, the human equivalent to the power conduits, and Forging, the seemingly primitive act of shaping metal, intrigued him. These were the subjects that resonated with the mind. He had seen it in the way they discussed it over and over again. They seemed to live, breath and suffer for their trades.
He returned to his alley, the books clutched tight. He opened the Alchemy text first, the strange symbols and formulas drawing a frown. He spent hours that night immersed in their writings, his mind, a tool of exact science, trying to learn the subtleties of this human madness. He devoured the information on the different types of metal, their weaknesses, and their strengths. He began to understand the dedication it took to be a blacksmith. He began to grasp the idea of trade, how it was all interconnected. Each trade a link in a chain.
He began to pick up the patterns of their speech, simple inane things at first, but as he learned of their trades, he began to hear the undercurrents of their conversation. Even the shopkeeper had spoken about how her son, the tinsmith, had a full slate of work. The baker complained that the miller was taking a holiday, and how this would ruin this week's bake. A cycle. A pattern of give and take. It bound them to each other. A web of dependencies.
Xylos had spoken of the human capacity for emotion as a weakness, a fatal flaw. He had seen the rage and sorrow of war firsthand and dismissed it as destructive. But Kael was beginning to understand something Xylos had missed. This... connection, this trade, this dedication, was a source of their power. It bound them, yes, but it also gave them strength. Like the intricate workings of a machine, each cog, each piece worked together to create a whole. It was a power Xylos had not understood, a power he had dismissed. Kael, the cold, calculating weapon, suddenly realized they may have underestimated the humans. This could be the lever he needed to learn how to truly break them.