Dual Cultivation Path

Darkness held Roderic like a vice, thick and unyielding, his mind adrift in a void where time didn't reach. He wasn't awake, not yet, but he wasn't gone either—a thread of awareness lingered, tethered to the faint ache in his skull and the dull throb along his spine where the wall had met him. The explosion replayed in fragments: the blinding light, the relic's roar, the force that had flung him like a rag doll. Then nothing. Until now.

A warmth stirred, faint at first, seeping into his chest like sunlight creeping through a crack. It wasn't the damp chill of his room or the weak flicker of his core—it was something else, something foreign yet alive. Roderic's body lay slumped against the mud wall, head lolled to one side, arms limp across his lap, but beneath his skin, a quiet shift began. The relic—or what was left of it—hadn't vanished in the blast. Its shards, tiny slivers of glowing metal no larger than a fingernail, shimmered in the air above him, suspended in the fading blue light that still pulsed faintly in the cramped space.

The largest shard, the one he'd held, hovered at the center, its edges jagged and molten, as if the explosion had torn it apart mid-breath. Smaller fragments orbited it, glinting like scattered stars, each etched with those spiraling lines that had mocked him hours before. They trembled, vibrating with a hum that grew sharper, more insistent, until—without warning—the central shard darted forward, plunging into his chest.

It pierced his tunic, his skin, sinking into the flesh above his heart with a precision that left no blood, no wound. Roderic's body twitched, a reflex in the depths of unconsciousness, but he didn't wake—not yet. The shard burrowed deeper, threading through muscle and sinew, guided by an unseen will. It found his core—that pitiful ember, barely a spark—and latched onto it. The metal didn't burn or cut; it melted, dissolving into a liquid glow that seeped into the faint qi swirling within him.

The process was slow, deliberate, like ink spreading through water. The shard's essence—whatever ancient power it held—mingled with his core, coaxing the ember to flare. Where his qi had been a sluggish trickle, a thin stream choked by weakness, it now thickened, tendrils of energy unfurling like roots seeking soil. The shard didn't just strengthen what was there; it reshaped it, widening the channels of his meridians—those narrow, brittle pathways he'd cursed since childhood. They stretched, toughened, glowing faintly beneath his skin as the relic's power etched itself into him.

One by one, the smaller shards followed. A sliver embedded itself in his left arm, sinking past the bone to fuse with the meridian there, sending a jolt of warmth up to his shoulder. Another pierced his right thigh, threading through the muscle to anchor in the qi pathways of his leg, steadying the flow that had always faltered. A third slipped into his lower abdomen, just below his navel, where cultivators spoke of the dantian—the seat of power. It pulsed once, fiercely, and the ember in his core blazed brighter, no longer a moth's wing but a candle flame, steady and growing.

Each shard carried a fragment of the relic's hum, a resonance that synced with his heartbeat. The etchings he'd puzzled over weren't mere decoration—they were conduits, maps of energy carved by hands long dead, now alive in his flesh. The metal dissolved completely, leaving no trace on his skin, but inside, it worked tirelessly. His meridians, once fragile as cracked clay, hardened like tempered steel, their walls expanding to hold the swelling qi. His core spun faster, drawing in ambient energy from the air—the faint traces that lingered even in a shack as poor as his. It wasn't a torrent, not yet, but it was more than he'd ever felt, a current where there'd been only stagnation.

The transformation wasn't painless. As the shards settled, a deep ache rippled through him, his body straining to adapt. Muscles tensed, then relaxed, his breath hitching in shallow gasps. His chest burned, not with injury but with life, as if the relic had lit a forge within him. His qi, once a whisper, grew to a murmur, then a steady hum—still modest by cultivator standards, but a leap beyond the nothing he'd known. The shards didn't make him a master; they gave him a foundation, a spark where there'd been ash, a chance where there'd been despair.

Minutes stretched—or perhaps hours; time blurred in the dark. The glow in the room faded, the last of the relic's light sinking into him, leaving only the dim flicker of the spent candle stub. Roderic's fingers twitched, his head lolling forward as awareness crept back. His eyelids fluttered, heavy as lead, then snapped open. He gasped, a ragged inhale that filled his lungs with cold air, and sat upright, wincing as his back protested the wall's rough embrace.

He blinked, dazed, the room swimming into focus—mud walls, straw pallet, the drawer still ajar where he'd thrown the relic. The relic. He scrambled to his knees, patting his tunic, his chest, searching for it. Nothing. No metal, no glow. Panic flared—had it been a dream?—but then he felt it: a surge, a rush deep within him, like a river breaking free of a dam. His core pulsed, alive and vibrant, sending a wave of qi through his meridians that tingled in his fingertips, his toes, his scalp. It wasn't weak. It wasn't frail. It was his.

Roderic froze, breath held, afraid to believe it. He clenched his fists, focusing inward, and there it was again—a steady flow, warm and sure, coursing through channels that felt wider, stronger. He laughed, a short, shaky sound, then pressed his hands to his chest, feeling the rhythm of his own power. It wasn't a trickle anymore. It was real. The relic hadn't mocked him—it had chosen him.

He leapt to his feet, unsteady but grinning, the ache in his body forgotten. "Yes!" he shouted, a raw, jubilant yell that tore from his throat without warning. "Yes, yes, YES!" The sound bounced off the walls, loud and wild, a burst of joy he couldn't contain. He punched the air, spinning in the tiny space, his shadow dancing in the candlelight. He was a cultivator—not a joke, not a laborer with a shovel, but a man with qi, with a future. The academies, the clans, the heavens themselves—they'd see him now.

In the main room, a yelp cut through his triumph. Tansy bolted upright on her mat, her chestnut curls a tangled halo, green eyes wide with alarm. The straw crunched beneath her as she clutched the thin blanket to her chest, staring at the sack curtain that separated their rooms. "Roderic?" she called, voice sharp with sleep and fear. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

He froze mid-step, the grin still plastered on his face, his chest heaving. Tansy's freckled face poked through the curtain, her smock wrinkled, a smudge of soot still on her cheek from the hearth. She looked him up and down, her panic shifting to confusion as she saw him standing there, unharmed—wild-eyed, maybe, but whole.

"Roderic?" she said again, softer now, her brow furrowing. "What in the hollows was that yell for? You scared me half to death!"

He laughed again, softer this time, the sound bubbling up despite himself. "I'm fine, Tansy. Better than fine." He flexed his fingers, feeling the qi hum beneath his skin, and met her gaze with a spark he hadn't shown in years. "Everything's about to change."

Tansy squinted at him through the sack curtain, her green eyes narrowing as she clutched the blanket tighter. "Change?" she echoed, her voice thick with sleep and skepticism. "What're you on about, Roderic? It's the middle of the night, and you're hollering like you've won a spirit stone lottery."

Roderic's grin faltered, but the buzz in his chest wouldn't let it fade completely. He wanted to tell her—about the relic, the explosion, the qi surging through him like a river reborn—but the words tangled in his throat. She'd think he'd lost his mind, or worse, she'd worry herself sick over something she couldn't fix. "Just… a good dream," he said, waving a hand. "Go back to sleep, Tansy. I didn't mean to wake you."

She huffed, brushing a curl from her face, and gave him a look that said she wasn't buying it. "You're weird tonight," she muttered, but the yawn that followed swallowed her protest. She shuffled back to her mat, the straw rustling as she flopped down. "No more yelling, huh? Some of us need rest."

"Promise," he said, softer now, watching her silhouette settle. The curtain swayed shut, and soon her breathing evened out, a faint snore threading through the quiet. Roderic exhaled, the thrill in his veins still sparking, and sank back onto his pallet. The candle stub had guttered out, leaving only moonlight through the ceiling crack to trace the room's edges. His body ached—back bruised, head tender—but the qi humming inside him drowned out the pain. He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to feel it again, to prove it wasn't a fluke.

The night stretched on, a restless blur of half-dozing and marveling at the energy coiling in his core. When dawn crept in, painting the shack in gray streaks, Roderic hadn't moved. The usual routine—boots on, shovel up, trudging to the quarry—felt distant, irrelevant. Old Tarn could dock his pay or curse his name; it didn't matter. Not today. Today, he had qi, real qi, and he wasn't about to waste it hauling stone.

He shifted to sit cross-legged, palms resting on his knees, the way he'd seen cultivators do in stolen glances at the market. His tunic was stiff with sweat and dust, his trousers patched at the knees, but none of that mattered. He focused inward, breathing slow and deep, chasing the sensation he'd felt when he woke. There it was—his core, no longer a pitiful ember but a steady flame, pulsing with a warmth that spread through his chest, his arms, his legs. The relic's shards had done this, sinking into him, reshaping him. He could still feel their echoes, faint hums embedded in his meridians, like whispers of a song he didn't know the words to.

For readers unfamiliar with cultivation, this was the foundation of power in his world—a cultivator's core was their lifeline, a reservoir of qi, the vital energy that fueled strength, speed, even immortality for the lucky few. Meridians were the pathways, rivers carrying that energy through the body, and Roderic's had been narrow, brittle, barely functional since birth. Weak cultivators like him weren't rare—plenty of folk had a spark of qi but no means to grow it, no sponsors or sects to guide them. The academies took the gifted, the rich, the connected, leaving the rest to scrape by. But now, something had changed. The relic hadn't just sparked his core; it had widened those rivers, toughened their banks, given him a chance to build something more.

He exhaled, slow and controlled, and urged the qi to move. It obeyed—not a flood, not yet, but a steady current, flowing from his core to his fingertips and back. It wasn't smooth; the energy stumbled, lurching through meridians still raw from the shards' intrusion. He gritted his teeth, sweat beading on his brow, and kept at it. Cultivation wasn't instant—every tale he'd heard spoke of patience, of stabilizing breakthroughs to avoid collapse. If he pushed too hard, too fast, he could rupture what he'd gained, leave himself worse than before. So he focused, guiding the qi in loops, smoothing its edges, letting it settle into his bones.

Hours passed, the shack warming as the sun climbed. Tansy stirred beyond the curtain, her footsteps soft as she stoked the hearth and muttered about the cold. She didn't poke her head in—likely figured he was sleeping off whatever madness had gripped him last night. Roderic barely noticed, lost in the rhythm of his breath, the hum of his core. The qi steadied, less wild now, a river finding its bed. His meridians ached, stretched but holding, and a grin tugged at his lips. This was real. He could feel it—stronger muscles, sharper senses, a vitality he'd never known. He wasn't a master, not even close, but he was no longer nothing.

Then, amid the triumph, something else flickered—a heat, low and insistent, pooling in his gut. He frowned, shifting on the pallet, and the sensation sharpened, a restless itch that spread through his limbs. His breath quickened, unbidden, and his thoughts veered, sudden and vivid: the curve of a neck, the press of skin, a longing so raw it startled him. He blinked, shaking his head, and scrubbed a hand over his face. What was that?

He stood, pacing the tiny room—two steps one way, two back—trying to shake it off. His body felt alive, yes, but this was different, a hunger he couldn't place. At nineteen, he wasn't a stranger to desire; he'd stolen glances at the miller's daughter or the tavern girls swaying past the quarry. But this was stronger, urgent, like a fire flaring out of nowhere. His tunic clung to his chest, damp with sweat, and he tugged at it, flustered. Was it the qi? Cultivation was supposed to refine you, not… this.

He sank back down, running a hand through his dark hair, and forced a laugh. "Get a grip, Roderic," he muttered. It was the elation, that's all. He'd gone from a weakling to a cultivator overnight—his blood was singing, his heart pounding with a joy he couldn't contain. Of course his body would react, stirred up by the rush of it all. The relic had woken his core, not his baser instincts. He shrugged it off, pushing the heat to the back of his mind, and settled again, palms on his knees.

Qi wasn't just power—it was life, tied to every part of a person, body and soul. The relic Roderic had absorbed wasn't ordinary; its name, Dual Cultivation Path, whispered of a method rare and taboo, one that fused yin and yang—feminine and masculine energies—often through intimacy. The shards hadn't just strengthened his qi; they'd planted a seed, a subtle pull that would grow as he did. Roderic didn't know this yet, couldn't know, but the heat he felt was the first brush of that path, a sign of what lay ahead. He'd dismissed it as excitement, but the truth lurked beneath, waiting to surface.

He closed his eyes, refocusing on his core. The qi flowed smoother now, a cycle he could almost taste—clean, sharp, like spring water after years of dust. His meridians hummed, the shards' echoes fading into a quiet strength. He flexed his fingers, feeling the power there, small but real. No quarry today. No shovel, no Tarn's barking. He'd meditate, stabilize this gift, make it his own. The heat lingered, a faint pulse he ignored, chalking it up to the thrill of his new life.

Outside, Tansy clattered a pot, her voice drifting through the curtain. "Roderic, you alive in there? Sun's up—you're late!" Her tone was half-teasing, half-concerned.

He grinned, not opening his eyes. "Taking a day, Tansy. Tell Tarn I'm sick."

She snorted. "Sick, huh? You don't sound it. What's got you so chipper?"

"Later," he called, the grin widening. "You'll see." He sank deeper into meditation, the qi steadying, the world falling away—save for that strange, stubborn heat he refused to name.