Chương 40: 6.1-
Chapter 6.1 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai'd
The following weeks saw Myrkas adapting to his—yet unprecised—magical world. While Qi was not officially deemed "magic', it definitively was—at least according to Myrkas. The boy had witnessed his uncle light up candles with a flick of his fingers, running water (thank Heavens) was helped by runic enchantments, and the fire oven was regulated by an arcane formation. Qi was used in many ways to improve and supplement life. There was so much to learn, such potential, and excitement!
Unfortunately, Myrkas' attempts to confidently determine if he was in a "known" fictive world or not did not bear fruits. His inconspicuous information gathering, under the guise of "playing" with the eight-year-old little terror otherwise known as Martine, had brought clues but no definite proof. The "lore" of the Holy Allrin Empire was eerily similar to an unfinished web novel he had read not long before his transmigration—although time was a highly variable concept in his case. If only Myrkas could remember specific names instead of descriptions.
That would be too easy, he guessed.
Nonetheless, most of the setting fit: from the mix and match of Middle Eastern and East Asian cultural components to the intimately tangled Imperial and sect politics, including the overall less disruptive attitude of cultivators towards common mortals compared to traditional cultivation stories, it all fit nicely. However, one major issue prevented Myrkas from reaching a satisfying, rock-solid conclusion. The story did not match. At all.
Usually, a transmigrator should appear either as a main character or around the main cast. Typically, one would become the villainess or the chosen hero's less talented childhood friend. Myrkas would have been fine being stuck as a worthless background character. But even a background character needed to be in the background. And Myrkas was none of the above! Far from it.
The web series in question starred a young, handsome and talented Imperial Prince. It detailed his time at war against a Northern Kingdom and the betrayal he suffered from his jealous half-brother, the Imperial Crown Prince. The first arc culminated with the princely protagonist's fall from grace, and the subsequent arcs related his journey to gain back wealth and power to accomplish his revenge.
All well and good, except the Allrin Empire was currently at peace. The last skirmishes in the southwestern territories had ended three years ago. The Great Imperial General Jinyingk had made quick work of the island nation of Nihinn, securing the Empire's sea shores.
Worse, Myrkas' current geographic location prevented any interaction with the plot. Piercing Jade Valley was in the northwestern quadrant of the roughly oval-shaped Empire, far away from any potential battlefield. While Myrkas did not know the name of the Allrin Empire's foe, he acutely recalled the deadly swamp, a cornerstone in the Betrayal, to be located at the northeastern border. As the first arc's action happened towards the end of the war, there was no way for Myrkas to predict when the war would start and end. With him being so far away, getting on location at the right time was most improbable.
To add insult to injury, the Imperial Capital, the Holy City of the Purple Sunrise, the physical location where Allrikh himself— The First Emperor—Ascended, was situated over three weeks away by caravan. Any hope Myrkas had of "accidentally" meeting the princely main character before the events of the book were crushed. The prince's residence—the Imperial Palace, obviously—was just too damn far away. Disregarding the fact that Myrkas came from a mere commoner family, the physical distance diminished the probability of any interaction between the princeling and Myrkas to near zero.
What a shame, Myrkas thought, resigned.
He would have liked to confirm which world he was in. That way, all his memorized lore and plot events should let him gain a tremendous advantage! In his disappointment, Myrkas again almost doubted his own "protagonist status:" almost. He had transmigrated; he had to have a grand destiny awaiting him. And Myrkas did possess the most common protagonist characteristic: a tragic back story. No good fantasy story started without a good old pitiable main character. Myrkas had it all: orphaned from a tragic fire, mysterious soul damage, and a possible grand foe responsible for his family's death. He could overlook his upper-middle-class status. One did not need to be destitute to be a main character. Emotional and physical trauma had to count for something. Myrkas' story needed no prince! He was enough. There was no need for any "original" protagonist.
And so Myrkas' life went on. The question remained in the background. As his life normalized, the problem of figuring out if his new reality was based on a fictive work or not lost importance. Myrkas had gathered his bearings and lived his life, pretty carefree. He had adapted so well, the question being relegated so far down his priority list, he almost missed the irrefutable proof linking Myrkas' new universe to the mediocre harem web novel he thought he had transmigrated to.
The proof came by on accident—at least Myrkas swore the event was completely accidental. On a fateful morning, Myrkas, with his new, carefree attitude, entered Nirrina's quarters without knocking. Unfortunately—or fortunately, evidence-wise—the young woman was in the middle of dressing when the boy barged into her room.
Mortified, Myrkas froze. His twelve-year-old self had no resistance to a near-naked feminine form. As most boys his age would react to such a sight of a close female relative, his brain stopped, unsure how to compute. But not before Myrkas noticed an intricate silver chain circling Nirrina's hips.
"Myrkassa, you should have knocked," Nirrina chided him while pinching the boy's cheek, unaware of his sudden confusion.
In truth, Myrkas had not seen much. Nirrina had had loose pants on, narrowed at the ankles as was the common fashion. She had been in the process of putting on the vest-like garment she used to reign in her bosom instead of a modern underwired bra when he entered the room.
Still, the sight of Nirrina's bared back made him uncomfortable. In his boyish way, Myrkas had almost forgotten his Nirrina was a young woman under her clothes. A young woman who could be naked.
These thoughts led to feelings far away from the usual sense of peace and comfort she evoked in Myrkas. Better to steer away, he promptly decided. She was his beloved big sister. The woman part would stay hidden away and ignored. Myrkas refused to become a creepy asshole. No weird step-siblings shenanigans in any future. Something Myrkas did not understand why it had been so popular in his past life...
Proud of his—self-assessed—impressive display of emotional intelligence and maturity, Myrkas nearly missed what Nirrina said next.
"Wait outside Myrkassa, I won't be long. I only have my shirt, outer robe, and bodice left."
Dismissed, Myrkas waited by the door. Despite his masterful handling of his peri-pubertal feelings, something nagged his mind. Something shiny. He pondered, lost in thoughts for a moment until suddenly, it clicked. The last detail he needed to confirm his hypothesis of now living in a not-that-good harem web series.
"Nirrina, what's that chain you wear?"
"What, my bond? Myrkassa, don't tell me you forgot about it. Do I need to explain again? Or do you prefer we go to the temple? The priests can explain it better than I."
"No, it's okay, I remember now," Myrkas replied in shock.
Chapter 6.2 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai'd
Indeed, he remembered now. All too well. Not many writers would dare include a weird-ass Temple-backed magical chastity belt. And mandatory, to boot. The whole concept was fucked up. Myrkas had thought so when he first read the novel and his opinion had not changed.
A bond on a key, given by the temple of Allrikh to all women after their first menses—of course. How original. A goddamn chastity belt. Except the "key" was not bestowed to the woman herself. Of course not! The power to unlock her belt was always given to a man. Her supposed protector, her guardian. Her owner. Her key's keeper. A long-standing tradition.
When it was merely fiction, Myrkas had not thought much of the whole concept: a vessel for some perverted author's wish fulfillment most likely. It was a harem-type web series, not a great work of literature. Acceptable entertainment to pass the time. And Myrkas had had a lot of idle time to pass with his repeated hospital visits in his previous life.
However, the concept's implications were wholly different now. Myrkas lived here. Nirrina was his heart sister. Women were actually owned by men here, all under the guise of "protection."
Hells, the original protagonist "collected" keys as he went along his adventures. The princeling had amassed five wives by the time Myrkas stopped reading. Sure, people here called it "divinely ordained protection." It was supposedly all for women's benefits. No matter, the interested had no say in who took hold of their key. The previous guardian, usually a lady's father, was the one to choose the next. If they didn't keep her "in the family" by handing her key to a cousin or, shudders, an uncle.
The prince often bypassed this requirement by outright killing the previous owner. Vindicated by the horrible state in which he found his future wives in, the princeling quickly proceeded to "liberate" them before adding them to his harem "for their own protection."
It was twisted, wicked. And the women could be "given" or "gifted" away at any time. Myrkas' self-appointed big sister, his chosen family, could be taken from him at any time.
Unacceptable. Nirrina needed to be safe. To be able to choose her fate. Myrkas had to free her, protect her. To be strong enough to be her shield, a true shield. His quest for power had a higher purpose now. A true, honourable goal. Nirrina could not be forced to... Myrkas shivered, refusing to think about it.
"Nirrina, who has your key?"
The young woman frowned before she answered.
"Master Hakhmir of course. Who else?"
Myrkas was stunned, unsure how to proceed. Was he supposed to save Nirrina from his uncle? His awkward, distant but so far decent uncle? It wasn't as if Nirrina and himself were suffering, on the contrary. They were living well and nothing untoward had happened.
Where would they go once Nirrina was freed? How would Myrkas free her? He was too young to hold a key. Any grown man would be able to get her a new belt and keep the key. The only requirement to get a new set was for a man of age, fifteen, to present himself to the temple with any unbound woman past her first menses. The temple didn't assess if the man had any right to her or if he could adequately protect her. If she was found without a bond, her previous guardian's claim was automatically voided. A "failure to protect" clause. Hence bonds were never taken off, only unlocked. And keys guarded more preciously than mundane gold.
"But uncle is so old," Myrkas exclaimed. "He can't possibly be your husband!"
Nirrina merely chuckled at his vehemence.
"Your father wasn't that much younger, you know. And I prefer to be inherited than to bear the shame of adding another name to mine! Or to be left in the Temple's care."
She moved closer to him, to gently ruffle his hair.
"It's okay Myrkassa, Master Hakhmir is a good man. Not very talkative but plenty kind. I think. He is a disinterested guardian more than a husband. I am afraid you will not have cute little cousins anytime soon. It almost makes me sad. And bored. I have nothing to do. I have never been so idle. I might have been treated as a servant in your father's house, but at least I was occupied. Serni and Marta take care of everything here. And I don't dare mess with your uncle's things. I laze around all day, exactly like a wealthy sabisa."
"But... but what if he gives you away? I can't lose you," Myrkas added.
The boy did not cry, definitively not. Myrkas had a grain of sand in his eye. Or someone was cutting onions nearby. His rising heartbeat did not spring from anxiety. No cause there. Myrkas only had legitimate, selfless concerns for his big sister and her future. He did not fear being left alone. He did not have. abandonment issues. Nope.
The system was just so crooked. Women didn't have rights. This "divinely mandated" protection was filled with loopholes and opportunities for abuse. These were central to so many plot points and minor arcs in the web series. Hells, that was how the princeling gathered most of his harem members. Save the damsel and keep her key.
It was all wrong, but Myrkas didn't see a way out. Nirrina's safety was his first concern. He wasn't enough now. Didn't possess enough strength, wealth, and influence. He needed all to keep her safe, to make sure none could send her away.
Nirrina was his rock, his one constant in this world. She was always there when he needed, whether with a word or a hug. Or an admonishment on some rare occasions. She answered all his stupid questions and repeated as needed, with infinite patience. A big sister straight out of a fairy tale, the type the hero risked all to save from the dragon.
Tears started to fall on Myrkas' cheeks. A sniffle or two was heard. Arms embraced him, Nirrina being there, always. She patted his hair, soothing.
"Don't worry Myrkassa, I'm not going anywhere. I'll talk to your uncle, find a way to make myself useful, irreplaceable. Even so, I don't believe he would give me away. He... cares, in his own way. I'm sure. I think.
"Anyway, he is way too busy with his work to bother finding me a new guardian. I am not such a hot commodity, I know. Too skinny, too pimply, no special talent. He won't have to beat suitors away from his doorstep!"
Nirrina lightly chuckled while hugging Myrkas tighter.
"See Myrkassa, no need to worry. And stop calling me Nirrina, it is too distant! I am your Nirsa like you are my Myrkassa. People will worry I mistreat you if they hear you calling me without a mark of affection. We are family; it doesn't matter how it came to be."
She smiled at Myrkas, drying his tears with her sleeve.
"There, now what were you barging in my room for? I taught you better manners. It looks like you need some more lessons on politeness and etiquette."
"I just wanted to see you Nirsa, I swear," Myrkas said as he escaped. "The day is much better when I see you first thing in the morning," he even added, shameless.
Her bright laughter chased him as he ran, headed to a secluded spot in the gardens. Myrkas went to hide under his favourite tree. Its branches hung over the banks of a pond, with its small, pale blue leaves caressing the water. The tree's large trunk made for the perfect backrest. Its pale gray, birch-like bark provided just enough cushioning to allow Myrkas to spend hours sitting between its roots.
The tree was situated across a quasi-island at the border of the estate. A simple stone bridge crossed the stream linking this pond to the rest of the water features on the grounds. It made a natural barrier between the verdant field passed the bridge and the rest of the garden.
The large patch of tall, emerald grasses made quite a contrast against the varied flowers, bushes, and trees dominating the majority of the estate.
The field across the bridge was uniform in its composition. The waist-high plants waved in harmony with the breeze. The wind carried their sharp scent, similar to a mix of freshly cut grass and lemongrass oil. It smelled of summer.
Myrkas didn't wander too close to the green sea though. The tall spindles hid needle-like protrusions aplenty. Myrkas only needed one extremely painful scratch to decide he'd better stay away, on the tree side of the low bridge.
He felt safe in his secret spot. Hidden from the world and secure in nature. No one had found him there so far—although the search efforts were unlikely to have been very extensive so far, seeing as Myrkas always came back for meals.
Myrkas settled in his little haven, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. His frantic heart calmed down. This place helped quiet his mind after his unexpected emotional roller coaster.
However, something great had come out of his eventful morning. Myrkas knew. He was certain, without doubt, that he had, in fact, transmigrated into the world of the terrible web novel. The fact that Myrkas could not remember the name of the book or of its characters was unimportant. He recalled the details—most of them—the plot, and the setting. He could start planning. Leverage his literal otherwordly knowledge to rise above all others!
Despite his growing enthusiasm, Myrkas kept himself in check. He was not dumb. He could not assume everything would be faithful to what he remembered from the web series. He would still need to test and experiment on his path to power.
In a stroke of wisdom, Myrkas decided to put the concern of the original plot and its princely main character aside. First, Myrkas saw no way to figure out when he was in the timeline until the expansion war began. Even then, he didn't remember how long it had gone on before the last battle and the Betrayal occurred. Hard to take advantage of "prescient" knowledge when you didn't know when certain events should happen. Myrkas plainly didn't want to waste time running all around unless he had a better idea of what to expect from Empire politics.
Second, the prince lived far from Myrkas. As the saying went "Far from eyes, far from mind!' Or was it "Far from eyes, far from heart?" Whatever, Myrkas hadn't liked his royal personality much. The princeling was arrogant, impulsive, and coasted on plot armour, money, and his bloodline. Not a great guy to know. At least, Myrkas wasn't a girl. He had escaped ever becoming another harem piece.
Getting embroiled with any of the imperial princes spelled disaster. Succession politics were dangerous. Of course, the supposed main character should prevail in the end. However, Myrkas had no easy way to discern which royal highness was the right one. Thanks to their imperial bloodline, necessary to inherit the throne, they all shared the same description: light-blonde hair, violet eyes, and smooth golden skin.
It was too dangerous. Better to stay as far away in his little provincial corner for as long as Myrkas could. Who needed royal friends or enemies? Not Myrkas.
All that was left for the tween was to gain power. Gather strength to protect himself and his loved ones. Myrkas lived in a cultivation world! It meant training sequences, hidden old masters—and monsters—secret treasures, overconsumption of pills and elixirs, and, most importantly, meditation. The sacred arts of Qi gathering and enlightenment through meditation and worldly reflections were a must, essential to any respectable cultivators.
The princeling had meditated and reflected so much in the novel that some people thought the author was trying to start a self-help cult. The web series had been filled with profound-sounding yet meaningless idioms and poems.
But no worries, Myrkas was convinced he would easily get the hang of it. After all, how hard could it be to meditate?
Chapter 7.1 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai'd
Before Myrkas could dedicate his time to perfecting his doubtlessly overpowered self-made Qi-based meditation technique, he needed to come up with a way to secure funds. Cultivation resources were expensive. In this world, the inability to acquire Qi-filled ingredients, advanced Qi-gathering formations, or potent alchemical aids was the most common reason for a failure to advance on the power ladder.
Luckily for Myrkas, his uncle was well-endowed—juvenile innuendo incidental. Unfortunately, Master Hakhmir's wealth was far from the "senselessly pour priceless treasures down his nephew's throat for a minute increase in strength" level. Only favoured scions from prominent sects and high-level aristocratic families could afford to raise powerful cultivators this way.
Although, this method—the pour money down the drain one—wasn't without risks either. A single mistake in the combination of resources could shatter someone's foundations and cripple their potential. It made for unbalanced martial arts practitioners. People with force but little knowledge of how to apply it, akin to grand, beautiful machines with little use and no flexibility.
This type of "training" was usually reserved for moderately talented individuals with a high social status in crafting sects. The narrowed aspect of their final capabilities was less problematic when they were already destined to specialize in a certain aspect of a craft.
In short, despite his familial advantages, Myrkas could not rely on the power of free cheat pills to easily advance in cultivation. Nope, if Myrkas ever hoped to use the "power of money," he would have to make his own.
Like all good isekai'd protagonists, Myrkas had his modern technological understanding to leverage in his quest for riches. It was a fool-proof path. A strategy proven by several fictional main characters before him, all with the innate mastery of the inner workings of technology. Who, in the modern world, didn't know exactly how a smartphone worked?
Well, Myrkas for one. While the tween did have extensive miscellaneous knowledge, thanks to hours upon hours passed bored in a hospital bed with a working internet connection, the specificities of electronics eluded him. A shame, truly, as inventing processors and building magical computers would have assured his golden future. Even the simple calculator was out of Myrkas' reach. Old-school abacuses would have to do for the boy's mathematical needs.
Myrkas had to go simpler, more fundamental. Electricity! That wasn't hard to make. All Myrkas needed was a copper wire shaped in a coil and a magnet. Move the magnet around and bam! Electrical power. In a single circuit. As long as you kept the magnet in motion. Great for a tiny incandescent light or to moderately heat a piece of ceramic, but not much else.
Revolutionary, for sure, but nowhere near ready for mass-market. He would need batteries, power lines, and sources of mechanical power to convert. The whole set-up was complex... and expansive. Hard to convince respectable investors when the "inventor" and lead of the project had not yet gone through puberty... Even more so when Runic Qi already helped power a bunch of appliances.
Myrkas needed something else, something sure. An indisputable way to generate cash—or coins and taels as it was called here. Nine coins to one tael each of copper, silver, gold, and spirit jade. One hundred taels of copper to make the value of a single silver tael. Myrkas had not yet been made aware of further conversions as the likelihood he saw even a hint of a gold coin was next to non-existent until he reached adulthood.
Anyway, he needed to start somewhere to get there. the concept of banking and compound interest would have been nice, but Myrkas was more than aware that project would require even more funds. That was if any same person would trust a twelve-year-old boy to safeguard and manage their money. And that was if banks didn't already exist. The princeling in the story had not used any, but that did not mean banking institutions were not around. The prince's needs were hardly representative of those of the general population.
It looked like Myrkas had better keep to the classics. The good old transmigrator weapon in the money-making department: fancy, but accessible, and affordable soap.
People of Piercing Jade Valkey did not smell awful per se. However, the distinct lack of mass-produced quality soap left the inhabitants of this town smelling muskier than Myrkas' modern sensibilities were used to. Soap wasn't hard to make in and of itself, but good, consistent, nice-smelling, and soft-on-skin soap was another story. If Myrkas could nail this, his fortune was made.
What's more, Myrkas lived with an alchemist! One specialized in moderately cheap but effective concoctions in larger than usual volumes. With the right ingredients, Myrkas dreamed of making the first—and hopefully only—cheap-ish Qi-infused soap. Skin- care and hygiene in one single product. Jade-like skin left and right. The path—also called Dao—of Beauty would prevail! Sky was the limit and Myrkas was destined to transcend Heavens!
All Myrkas needed to execute his flawless plan were lye water, some type of oil, heat and regular water. Easy, peasy, broccolini. And some cheap Qi-filled ingredients his uncle would not miss. And a way to add pleasing scents. And some type of instrument to verify pH—the logarithmic concentration of hydrogen ions for purists. And a source of lye substitutes if he could, as those were softer on the skin. Myrkas wondered for an instant what exactly "sodium lauryl sulphate" looked like in its pure form. Or how to make it. Whatever, it could not be that complicated to achieve. Myrkas was a main character, an alchemist's nephew in a cultivation world. If bored hippies could do it in the modern world, he could too.
His success was guaranteed! Alchemy-level soap was incoming. Strong enough to wash away body odour, dirt, and grease while gentle enough to leave the skin soft as silk and perfectly hydrated. Myrkas would conquer the hygiene market, revolutionize skin care. Meditation could wait. He had money to make.
***
Despite Myrkas' boundless enthusiasm, the quality soap-making process was not as simple as he had hoped. In this pre-industrialization society, without the complex and standardized chemical processing brought with its development, no ready source of pure, easy-to-measure lye was available. Myrkas could not order a bucket of lye crystals from his favourite online merchant. The undeterred boy had to gather his lye the old-fashioned way: by making lye water with a barrel full of wood ashes and rainwater. And time, lots of it.
Myrkas' amazing, revolutionary cheap alchemic soap project had hit another roadblock in the short time since its conception. Namely, Myrkas did not know how to sense or gather Qi—the mystical energy fuelling cultivation. Neither how to incorporate it into soap. Or anything else for that matter.
He had ideas, practical ones, such as throwing a bunch of spiritual-looking herbs in a pot and "ahom" very hard at it. Unfortunately, the boy was too pragmatic to put any faith in such a half-assed technique.
What a letdown. Learning the basics of Qi sense and manipulation needed to come first. Myrkas had to take his first steps on the road towards unimaginable power. Heaven-defying strength was the ultimate goal.
Myrkas' first small step could only be one thing then: meditation.
His money-making scheme debuted—meaning Myrkas had filled a barrel with wood ashes, put a hole at the bottom, left a collecting tray underneath, and put the whole contraption somewhere outside to be rained on—Myrkas headed back to his little haven under the blue willow-like tree.
Settled, he immediately adopted the famed lotus position or, more exactly, what Myrkas thought was the lotus position. In reality, he simply sat cross-legged with his wrists resting on his knees. No foot resting on the opposite thigh to ensure maximal pretzel-like posture. Regrettably, Myrkas had no one around to correct his misconception.
Next, the boy concentrated on... well on... on his breathing: the air going in and out of his lungs. Myrkas breathed. He took deep breaths in and out, "humming" diligently on exhale. Myrkas was insanely happy to be able to breathe easily at the moment or this entire meditation thing would have become quite the ordeal.
Eyes closed, the aspiring cultivator kept at it for what seemed like an eternity. Myrkas lasted a grand total of seven minutes and almost a half before getting too bored to continue. To be fair, not bad for a first try.
Already Myrkas could feel it. He was... relaxed. And bored. No immediate transcendent change had come upon his mortal self. Maybe he was missing something?
Position?–check,
Deep breathing?–very check,
Inspiring, Qi-saturated environment?–hopefully, check.
Myrkas' favourite tree in a successful alchemist's garden had to be somewhat mystical.
A profound mantra?–check.
He could not go wrong with a classic like "Hum"' and he had no desire to risk the dreadful "Qi deviation" so early in his journey.
Cultivation technique?–Cultivation technique!
There was Myrkas' mistake. For certain! What else? He needed a cultivation manual. An obscure literary work describing some fancy way to circulate his Qi while he meditated. Some profound sentences full of hidden meanings and their accompanying esoteric diagrams. And the appropriate mantra to repeat and reflect on.
Chapter 7.2 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai'd
Sadly, cultivation manuals were jealously guarded by sects and powerful martial families. More often than not, one had to be close to a minor noble to ever hope to glance at one.
The princely main character had been well into his cultivation journey at the start of the web series. Way past the starting line, where Myrkas currently stood. The Imperial Scion had benefited from tutors and abundant resources at all steps before the Betrayal.
The lucky not-bastard even possessed the famed Imperial Bloodline, a true cheat in and of itself. All reasons why Myrkas could not just copy his technique. It was enough to make a reasonable person green with envy. Myrkas would have hated the royal brat if not for the fact the princeling would later fall to betrayal.
Figuratively stabbed in the back by his own brother to boot, so sad. Myrkas could sympathize, similar memories coming to the fore of his mind. Of his grandparents' rejection, leaving him alone and surrounded by strangers in uniforms. Another of a dismissive father and a cold mother, Cealessly comparing him to his older, more talented half-brother. Of being replaced by a brand-new little brother.
Myrkas clamped down on his feelings, ruthlessly shoving them away. He had no time to waste on half-remembered sob stories. They were dead anyway, or not in this world.
He had Nirsa now, that was all that mattered. And his uncle too, if they ever managed to get closer. Myrkas needed to talk to him anyway, feelings or no feelings involved. He had to ask for help with his soap.
No need to deal with unresolved family drama. Repression worked best, it was known, even in a magical universe.
Resolved, Myrkas re-centered himself. He reprised his lost "lotus" position and started again. Inhale, exhale: an unending cycle of life. This time, he also visualized energy moving from his lungs to his heart, then through it, pumped along with his blood to every corner of his body. Myrkas strained to feel it, to sense the Qi he knew was there, thrumming along his pulse. He pictured his blood coursing through his vessels, delivering life down to his toes and back to his heart. The boy was so entranced he forgot to "hum." Damn it all.
Myrkas tried again, this time lasting three full minutes of near-perfect meditation before getting distracted.
A wayward bee had taken advantage of his quasi-immobility to rest on his hand. Myrkas dared not move. He was not scared, of course not. He deeply respected the bee. A wonderful insect. Only, Myrkas did not fathom himself as a "bee cultivator." The Dao of the Bee was not for him. Black and yellow were decidedly not his colours. A sting would set him back on his meditative journey.
It was not that Myrkas was afraid of the pain, not at all. He was only concerned about his cultivation, his budding path. To avert any interference, the boy engaged his secret defensive technique: "to be as a statue." He took slow and shallow breaths; the air flowing the slightest breeze. Myrkas concentrated on slowing down his heart rate and his metabolism with mitigated results. Sweat ran down his brow, evidence of his tremendous effort and not of a mere feeling like bug-induced terror.
Myrkas stayed still for an untold amount of time. Luckily, it worked. The bee flew away 'peacefully'. Of course, this outcome was thanks to his flawless technique. The bee did not just realize Myrkas was not of the floral kind. The bee truly believed the boy was made of stone, and not a tasty snack or an enemy.
Relief and pride flooded Myrkas. He had overcome his first ordeal. He was not being dramatic for this situation could have ended in blood and tears, for both of them. Bees were not to be underestimated.
Myrkas had learned a great lesson today: to let "bee" be. More proof he had staunchly embarked on the treacherous Path of Mysticism.
His future as a revered sage was more or less guaranteed. Myrkas could already see his future self with a long, distinguished white beard. Or maybe he would aim to keep his youthful looks, surprising those seeking his infinite wisdom. A decision for later. He did have to go through puberty first. The "child immortal" trope was not amongst his favoured ones.
And so Myrkas kept to his meditation. By noon, he could almost feel the changes. A subtle tingling sensation ran along his limbs. Although, it might also be caused by stiff muscles, for the tween had not moved much in the past few hours.
Myrkas so wished for there to be a convenient, objective way to assess his progress. With numbers and experience points, just like a videogame. It would make everything so much easier. Oh well, he would figure it out eventually. It was no use crying over what-ifs. Especially since Myrkas had a nagging feeling something similar existed in this world. A system-like assessment and training tool anyone could use.
He remembered the details little by little. Those artifacts were rare and incredibly hard to find. They were monopolized by the powerful, mainly the Imperials and the Empire's Army, a few noble families, and the most prominent cultivation sects. In addition, those tools were very specialized. One focused on sword arts would be of little use to a cultivator who only used staffs or, even worse, to a musical arts adept.
It was the same for craft-focused ones. And those limits didn't even take the differing quality between artifacts. They were not all made the same. Looking for one in this moderate-sized town was a fool's errand. Myrkas would have more luck with trying to enter a school or a sect as an outer disciple.
Those two types of training centers were briefly mentioned in the novel. They served as a way to attract and polish new blood for crafting guilds and sects. The web series did not dwell on it though. No school arc as the prince, being a prince, never needed them.
Another reason to talk to his uncle. There were so many things Myrkas had to learn. Still, he could not help the smile that spread on his lips. Myrkas' future was choked full of possibilities.
***
Two nonats—the nine-day span used in the Holy Allrin Empire instead of the seven-day week—passed as Myrkas dedicated all his free time to advancing his meditation and his soap-making, in no particular order. His results were quite mixed. His soaps were inconsistent, notwithstanding their inadequate curing time due to the boy's impatience. The resulting misshapen bars were either too strong, leaving the skin red and irritated, or too weak, struggling to remove traces of dirt, and hopeless against tough grease.
Myrkas longed for simple, accurate measuring instruments such as thermometers and pH strips. The temptation to secretly break into his uncle's workshop grew day by day, as while Myrkas did not wish to bother the man, the boy did want to take a peek at all Koriss had available. But Myrkas resisted so far. He did fear the consequences of getting caught. No smart dog bit the hand that fed him. Not that Myrkas was a dog... Whatever.
To add insult to injury, most instruments in this world needed a modicum of Qi to function. And regardless of all his meditation, Myrkas had not an inkling of Qi-sense. His dreams of bending Qi to his will seemed so far away.
He felt scammed. It was completely unfair. Where were his protagonist's shortcuts? His lucky power-ups? Myrkas feared he might not be as much of a main character as he had thought. Maybe not even a side character. He felt more like an extra, a side note. Possibly the subject of a random side story.
Myrkas did miss the usual "important character" traits. On top of his ordinary hair and eye colour, the boy was bereft of a mysterious bloodline or spirit beast ancestry. His meridians were not even crippled!
Myrkas wallowed in his misery for a bit.
Woe is me, the poor, unfortunate orphan utterly lacking in free overpowered cheat-like abilities.
Myrkas sighed heavily and nestled further into his fluffy nest, leaning back on his favourite tree.
He took comfort in his meagre successes these past nonats. His "return to routine" had not been all smooth sailing. He had ingrained muscle memory to thank for not being in a more battered state. Myrka's "normal" martial studies had almost killed him a few too many times. Hand-to-hand combat training was no joke.
Unfortunately, muscle memory did not help as much with his scholarly studies. On the bright side, Myrkas' permanent dark circles and various stages of bruising had helped illustrate his crucial need for animal therapy to his dear Nirrina.
This novel concept had been harder to sell than initially planned. In Myrkas' humble opinion, his recent charred state and transient catatonia should have been enough on their own. Myrkas blamed the cultural deficits regarding animal therapy and its benefits to mental, and soul—might as well butter the toast thickly–recovery.
The deal had been sealed when Nirsa herself witnessed the healing power of fluffy cuteness. It had only taken a few minutes of her snuggling with baby animals to drive Myrkas' points home.
It all culminated in the boy's current living fur nest. Three goats and two rabbits happily cuddled with him. Each animal had been specifically chosen for their incredible fluffiness. They were the fluffiest, softest little bundles of cuteness, as it should be.
In Myrkas' vast(ish) experience, provided by his two—short—lives, nothing helped more to soothe him than warm and fluffy cuddles. They were a living balm for his soul. The next-plus-ultra for optimism regeneration. Only liars did not appreciate soft and cuddly critters, and Myrkas was no liar. He might omit a small fact here and there, play with the truth sometimes but he would not utter direct lies. Those were too hard to keep straight. Myrkas' precious brain power was better used elsewhere.
Like on problems such as figuring out this Qi and cultivation thing. It was not as simple as it looked. Myrkas' only visible success was in bonding with his new animal companions. The five of them loved to huddle against him when he meditated. Particularly if Myrkas provided ample grass, vegetables, and fruit snacks during his sessions.
First a bee, now fluffy goats and bunnies. Myrkas would have been more excited if he was trying to become a beast tamer.
Regrettably, that was not his goal. Myrkas was still invested in creating his own, amazing, meditation technique. He had tried different approaches since the start of his path. None were a certain triumph, but one felt effective. Myrkas had added intent to his mantra. He had changed it from the ever-classic "hum" to a new, catchier one: "harder, better, faster, stronger." Simple, but evocative.
As Myrkas repeated his line, a growing rhythm seeped from deep in his being. He felt as if his soul sang with him. It had to work. His goats and rabbits nodded along for Heaven's sake—a fact he should have found more strange as Myrkas only spoke with his inner voice during his meditations.
In spite of his probable progress, Myrkas stood at a wall, a metaphorical one of course. While it seemed his meditation technique had improved, Myrkas did not feel any different. Meaning he did not feel stronger in any meaningful way. Something needed to change.
Of course, Myrkas could ask his uncle for advice. It was a very sensible idea. His uncle was the closest thing to a cultivation expert that Myrkas had access to. But the boy didn't dare. Myrkas did not want to bother him. As Nirsa had said, they were lucky Koriss had accepted them so readily. Myrkas did not want to jeopardize their position with his inane questions. It was a better plan to figure it out on his lonesome. Much more satisfying, too. Who needed help in life? Myrkas' ego screamed: "Not him!"
Which meant Myrkas had to do something drastic, something bold, something grand. A legendary feat, no less. No pain, no gain as they said. To put his everything on the line.
Martial arts protagonists always made progress when faced with life-or-death events. Myrkas would do the same. He was living too peacefully to advance. He had hoped his routine hand-to-hand combat training would suffice, to no avail, despite them leaving the youth black and blue on the regular. The stakes were not high enough, the fights too meticulously planned for his sake. They brought minimal surprise, seldom the need to think on his feet.
Similarly, the dreaded weapons training, scheduled to start this winter after Myrkas turned thirteen, should not bring the needed spark. Myrkas could feel the broken bones in advance. Pre-emptive phantom pains cursed him.
He snuggled his rabbit, Lilac, closer. Her silvery fur caressed his cheek, comforting. Without contest, a harem of fluffy female beasts was the best, Even if some—"cough Margoat cough"—tried to chew his hair.
Deepening his respiration, Myrkas steeled his will. It was time to put himself to the test. To venture forth and show his mettle. To toe the line, survive pain, and transcend his limits.
Tomorrow. He would do it tomorrow. Beyond question.
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