Kapitel 2: The Feast of the Boar
--The Feast of the Boar--
As twilight descended upon the village of Qinghe, a tapestry of savory aromas weaved through the air, drawing the villagers out from their homes like moths to a flame. In the center of the communal square, a great fire crackled and roared, its warm glow a beacon against the encroaching night. Above it, the boar, expertly dressed and skewered, rotated slowly, sizzling and hissing as its juices dripped into the flames.
Elder Ming, with his wispy white beard and eyes crinkled in mirth, presided over the cooking, basting the boar with a secret mixture of herbs and spices that had been passed down through generations. Children darted between the tables laid out with an assortment of dishes--pickled vegetables, steamed buns, and bowls of fragrant rice--each contributing to the feast in their own small way.
Liang, the hero of the hour, was greeted with robust pats on the back and respectful bows. His grandmother, a stately woman with hair like silver threads, presented him with a cup of rice wine, her eyes glistening with pride. "To Liang," she proclaimed, and the villagers echoed, raising their cups, "To the heart of Qinghe!"
As the evening unfolded, the square was filled with laughter and the melodies of traditional flutes and stringed instruments. Liang was ushered to a seat of honor, and he partook in the feast, his spirits buoyed by the camaraderie around him. Stories of past hunts and legendary beasts were exchanged, and the village's rich history was once again brought to life through tale and song.
Yet, as the moon ascended to its zenith, a peculiar sensation began to take hold of Liang. A heat, unbidden and intense, flushed his skin, and an itch crept along his limbs, persistent and growing. He excused himself from the festivities, attributing his discomfort to the exuberance of the day's events. But deep down, he felt a stirring of concern, a whisper of intuition that something profound was amiss.
Retreating to the edge of the square, Liang sought solitude under the shadow of an ancient tree. He closed his eyes, attempting to focus on his breathing, to calm the fire that seemed to spread from within. The voices and music of the feast became distant, a backdrop to the internal struggle that was beginning to unfold.
The red core within him pulsed erratically, as if agitated by the qi he had absorbed from the boar. It was then that realization dawned upon him--the qi was pure, but his own core was not. Years of hunting, of absorbing the life energy of his prey without the proper guidance or technique, had allowed impurities to accumulate within him. And now, his body was rebelling, seeking to expel the contamination that hindered his progress.
Liang knew, from the ancient tales whispered by the fire, that this was a critical juncture. To break through to the next tier of cultivation, to purify his core and advance, he must confront the impurities head-on. But the process was fraught with peril, a path that many had attempted and not all had survived.
The tales of cultivators breaking through were only myth in this small village, most live their whole lives never touching an ounce of qi or thinking of becoming what the legends describe.
The villagers, immersed in their celebration, remained oblivious to the silent battle that raged within their sole young hunter. Liang's skin grew hotter, his breath came in ragged gasps, and the itch turned into a crawl of fire under his skin.
As the night reached its peak, with the stars watching silently overhead, a singular thought anchored Liang's wavering consciousness: he must either conquer the tempest within or be consumed by it.
The sounds of merriment fade away, replaced by the pounding of his heart--a drumbeat to a future unknown.
--The Agony and the Ecstasy--
Under the spectral glow of the moon, Liang's figure was nothing more than a quivering shadow as he dragged himself away from the village's circle of light and laughter. The woods, a familiar haven by day, now loomed as an impenetrable fortress. Each step was a herculean effort, his limbs rebelling, his skin on fire.
The earth beneath him felt alive, pulsating with the latent energy of countless lives that had tread upon it. He could sense the intricate dance of ants beneath the soil, the gentle landing of dew on leaves, the silent flap of an owl's wings--sensations that should have been imperceptible, yet now magnified to an overwhelming crescendo.
Pushing past the underbrush, Liang found a clearing bathed in moonlight, a serene pocket in the midst of chaos. With trembling hands, he tore at his clothes, now drenched in sweat, his body emanating heat like a forge. He fell to his knees, a primal groan escaping his lips as he felt the core within him thrash and twist, a storm of orange amidst the sea of red.
The pain was indescribable, a symphony of needles and flames coursing through his veins. He could feel the impurities, like sludge, being forced from his core, seeping into his bloodstream, seeking exit from his body. The process was merciless, the purification not just a physical but a spiritual purge.
With every painful pulse, his awareness expanded, the sounds of the distant festivities a stark reminder of the world he had temporarily left behind. He could hear the rhythmic beat of the drums, the jubilant cries, the toasting of cups--echoes of a life that seemed both immediate and distant.
The night air was thick with the resinous scent of pine and the earthy perfume of decaying leaves. Liang's breaths became labored, drawing in the coolness of the night, as if the very atmosphere could quell the inferno within. He dug his fingers into the soil, grounding himself, anchoring his consciousness to the present, to the tangible reality of earth and root.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the tumult subsided. The pain receded like the tide, leaving behind a newfound stillness. Liang, exhausted, felt a droplet of something viscous trail down his forehead. Opening his eyes, he saw the detritus of his ordeal--a black, tar-like substance that had exuded from his pores, now pooling on the ground, an oily testament to his transformation.
His core, once a turbulent red, now pulsed with a serene orange glow, a beacon of his advancement. The world was different to his new senses--sharper, clearer, as if he had been reborn into a reality where the very essence of life was at his fingertips.
As dawn threatened to break, Liang lay there, his breaths evening out, his body still. The pain had been a crucible, but what emerged was something stronger, purer--a warrior tempered by the trials of cultivation.
Wöchentlicher Energiestatus
-- Power-
Rangliste 
-- Power-
Stein