Chương 11: Chapter Ten: Defy the Heavens

Snapping the woolen drape over the barracks doorway close, the scarred man led Cyrus back out into the biting mountain chill. Not checking if Cyrus was following—an ability no one in this sect seemed to possess—the man marched forward. His muscled legs kicked away the mud easily, while his broad shoulders parted the clouds of mist. Meanwhile, Cyrus was forced to jog to even match the man's pace, his numb feet barely holding onto his soggy sandals as he forced them through the freezing sludge.

The man finally glanced over his shoulder.

"What's your name?" he growled.

"Cyrus." At that, the older man stiffened. So suddenly, in fact, that Cyrus nearly collided with his back. When the man turned, his face had contorted even more—how that was even possible, Cyrus didn't know—and his glare was full of disdain.

"Cyrus?" the man spat out. His voice dripped with bitter venom.

"Was your father an invalid? Why don't you have a proper Greek name?"

"My family—" Cyrus began, anger rising at the blatant insult, but the protest never made it past his lips. The man pushed him forward, silencing him.

"Shut up," he hissed, striding ahead.

"I am Epistates Acacius. And you should know that in the Helicon Mist Sect, we train in the tradition of Hellas. So I've no patience for bastards carrying foreign names. Which means you better answer to me, and answer damn quickly, or I'll make sure that your time here is akin to the depths of Tartarus." Cyrus gulped. What was this guy's problem? Pushing on, they emerged out of a thinning fog, into the open palaestra Cyrus had seen earlier with Pericles on the tour.

Without pause, Acacius marched into the training field and let out a bellow.

"Clear this place! Off to the side, you miserable dogs!" The neophytes scattered obediently, dragging their straw-stuffed korykoi with them. Several cast curious gazes at Cyrus, though none dared to speak as they retreated to the edges of the field. Acacius shoved Cyrus down onto his knees.

"Kneel." Then, from the folds of his tunic, he withdrew a peculiar looking tool. It was a slender rod, appearing to be made of some sort of bronze. It looked perfectly normal, except for the fact that its metal surface was etched with weird, spiraling grooves. The Epistates squatted and pressed the rod directly onto the center of Cyrus's chest.

"Hold still," Acacius commanded. Which was an order that sounded simpler than it sounded, for Cyrus had to truly fight the urge to flinch with all his might as the bronze tip bit into his chest. A cold and uncomfortable sensation stabbed into him, like an unwelcome intruder slithering into some deep part of himself. It pushed deeper, probing through flesh and bone into someplace. The grooves of the rod began to glow, traveling up its length, almost like a jar filling with water.

After rising about a third of the way, it stopped. Withdrawing the rod, relieving Cyrus of that terribly uncomfortable feeling, Acacius studied the faint glow. He tsked, disinterest plain on his face.

"Your pneuma reserves are quite common." He wagged his head in disappointment. Cyrus's stomach sank. The humiliation curdled, flushing his cheeks. Standing back up, the Epistates slipped the thin rod back into his tunic.

"You will follow the common regimen," Acacius ordered in a cold manner. Cyrus stayed on his knees in the icy mud. His body ached, and he felt like he was burning with humiliation, but he forced himself to keep his tongue still. He had learned how harmful his own words could be.

"Return to the barracks," Acacius added, turning away.

"Find that fisherman's boy you were talking to. Follow his routine." As Acacius barked for the next initiate, Cyrus pushed himself up from the ground, wiping the sticky mud from his tunic. A few chuckles wafted over from the crowd of neophytes, but Cyrus kept his eyes on the ground, ignoring the sting of their stares. He turned and trekked back through the fog. Honestly, he wasn't terribly surprised. He had anticipated this. After all, his new power was only a few days old.

But disappointment still soured his gut all the same. Back in Boeotia, when he had sent Leandros flying, he had felt so powerful. Even if only for a fleeting moment, he felt somehow special. Like he'd been chosen. How foolish that seemed now. Up here, he was nothing more than a tiny fish in a vast, uncaring sea. He was surrounded by bigger predators and stronger currents, and he was completely helpless in his ability to defend himself. His mouth tasted bitter.

Cyrus reached the barracks, and hastily stepped out of the biting wind into the moderately warm building. Simos was still sprawled out on his straw mat, tossing a small pebble up into the air and catching it. He glanced up as Cyrus entered, raising his brow at the other boy's muddied clothing and his ashen expression.

"Hah," Simos said, flashing a knowing grin.

"Didn't work out so well, did it?" ❦ ❦ ❦ When Cyrus awoke the next morning, shivering violently from the harsh mountain cold, he was immediately thrust into harsh labor with the rest of the neophytes. Being made to haul water from the cistern until his shoulders ached and cried out, Cyrus felt about ready to collapse. Then he was ordered to split firewood. And so he did, until his palms popped with blisters and were covered with blood and pus. But that wasn't the end.

No, he also had to scrub the walls of the barracks, until his knuckles wept streams of red, all before even the arrival of dawn. Acacius circled around them the whole time, eyes narrowed like a hawk's, barking corrections to every minor mistake he spotted. By the time Eos finally brought the golden morning light through the harsh mist, Cyrus's arms were trembling terribly, and the day had barely begun. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

And just when he thought he had finished everything, Acacius snapped his long stick against the ground, pointing it at Cyrus.

"You!" The Epistates snapped, eyes flashing with fury.

"Stop moving so slow! Again, from the cistern!" Damn this— Still, it wasn't like Cyrus could do anything about it. All he could do was suck his teeth, clench his jaw, and drag himself back toward the water, his legs feeling ready to give out beneath him. Falling into step beside him, Simon chuckled.

"You're doing it wrong, man," he muttered, tapping his hip.

"You have to rest it atop the bone, so you have less tension in your arms." He shook his head.

"Honestly, do you Boeotians know anything useful?"

"A couple of things. Like not drowning."

"A very fair point." Simos grinned as they made their way back across the yard. Continuing to haul load after load from the cistern, they remained wary of Acacius prowling the yard like a wolf, seemingly finding fault in everything. And so their labor continued on, until the sun was high in the sky, the beams so strong that they actually managed to pierce through the clouds of mist. Only then did Acacius call for a stop, gathering the dozens of neophytes to the palaestra grounds.

"Enough!" He barked.

"Sit. Since we have new blood with us today, I'm afraid we have some explaining to do." The neophytes all showed their obedience, shuffling neatly into rows and plopping down onto the freezing mud. Cyrus himself lowered down next to Simos, only to immediately wince as the moisture ran rampant within the sores of his palms. Standing with his arms crossed, Acacius ran a stern gaze over each of them.

"First," he announced.

"You must understand what pneuma is." Beginning to pace back and forth their line, the mud squelched loudly underneath his heavy sandals." Pneuma is the breath of the cosmos. It fills the void between the stars and pools within every mortal chest, every animal's heart, every plant's roots, giving us all sacred life." Acacius's voice boomed, his tone full of reverence and pride. Then, from his tunic, he withdrew a familiar object. Cyrus's eyes went wide.

It was the same strange rod; the bronze one with the spiraling grooves, which the Epistates had used upon Cyrus only yesterday!

"This is a tool called an Rhabdos Pneumatike. It is meant to gauge the amount of natural pneuma within your vessel," Acacius explained.

"For the new blood from yesterday, this was how I figured out your pneuma reserves." Then, lowering the rod back into his clothes, his eyes flashed.

"Do not dare to grow complacent," he warned, an angry growl escaping from his lips.

"Make no mistake, this is not a place to laze around. Cultivation is not a journey taken with a dull mind or a lazy spirit. And I know why many of you are here. The awakening of your divine fire is an accident of birth. You did not choose to wake it, and now you have been taken from the mortal realm, forced to be here." Acacius snorted.

"But so what? Your greatest misfortune was being dragged to our Mount Helicon Sect, know that." He jabbed upwards, at the very peaks of Mount Helicon.

"The common mortals bow to the Fates! They let the Moirai control them, weaving their threads to control their destinies and demises. But true cultivation is an act of pure heresy. We are defying everything, against the natural order itself!" He looked back at the neophytes with a gaze steeped full of unbroken, unfaltering conviction.

"When Prometheus stole the divine ember from Olympus and gave it to men, he hid that sacred spark so deeply within the mortal soul that not even the gods could rip it back out! And so, every time we cultivate, think of how we are continuing Prometheus's theft!" Leaning forward, Acacius's eyes flashed even more.

"Therefore, the Helicon Mist Sect's philosophy is simple. We will defy the heavens. We will break the threads the Fates spun for us. The gods gave you a fixed lifespan? We will shatter it! Does the cosmos have your fate to be tragic? Well, we will tear it away with our bare hands using the fire Prometheus left in our blood!" Cyrus sat, utterly dazed by the declaration. He felt a terrifying, paralyzing shock enveloping his being. What was this madman saying? Defy the heavens? Control the theft of a Titan?

Cyrus simply couldn't understand. What Acacius was speaking of… It was hubris of the highest order. Utter, absolute blasphemy. Glancing nervously to his left and right, Cyrus found that he himself wasn't the only one shaken by such declarations. Many other neophytes were shaking and sweating profusely, their faces clammy and twisted with uncomfortable expressions. Some of their eyes darted to the sky, as if expecting a bolt of lightning to strike down Acacius here and now. But…

When Cyrus glanced over to Simos, he saw something absolutely different. Unlike the others, the fisherman's son wasn't trembling with fear. No, his eyes were full of brightness, elation stretching his lips hungrily. And as Cyrus glanced down further the row, he found that Simos wasn't the only one. Several others also wore the same dangerous grin atop their lips. What is this? Acacius gave a sneer.

"Look at some of you. So pathetic. What are you, to be shivering and whimpering like little calves?"

"Let me cure you of that pious delusion," he growled.

"If you continue to cling to such useless fears, you will always remain trapped under the 'grand design' of the gods." Standing proudly, he shook a fist at the heavens.

"But not us! The Helicon Mist Sect does not beg! We will reach up into the cosmos and tear our own destinies out of the sky with our bare hands!" At that declaration, Cyrus was surer than ever that divine thunder would strike down any instant. But the sky remained clear and empty. The gods were silent. Acacius sighed.

"But enough of such grand words. Stand!" The neophytes obeyed. Cyrus tried to scramble up the best he could, though finding his lower limbs almost completely stiff, it wasn't easy.

"Some of your pneuma reserves are unworthy for our sect," Acacius called out.

"Therefore, we must expand it! You must stretch it out until it cracks, and shove raw pneuma into those fractures!" He pointed towards a part of the p alaestra, where a series of square stone blocks lay sunk in the sludge.

"The first thing you must know of the Helicon Sect's unique cultivation is the Misty Iron Body Stance," Acacius growled, gesturing toward the stones.

"Get into pairs! Each of you will hoist a stone to your chest. Drop into a stance with your thighs parallel to the mud, keeping your spine straight. Then do not move. And above all, you will not draw breath through your mouth." Cyrus turned to look at Simos, who was already striding towards the stone blocks, practically joyfully hopping with an infuriating spring in his steps. Left with little choice, Cyrus dragged his stiff limbs to catch up.

"Better pick a heavy one, Persian King," Simos rasped, laughing as he hoisted a slab of grey stone.

"Wouldn't want the Epistates to think you're too soft."

"Shut up and grab the other side," Cyrus grunted. Together, they hauled the slab off the mud and heaved it up to their chests. The stone was freezing as expected, the mountain frost quickly seeping straight through Cyrus's thin tunic, numbing his skin.

"Drop!" Acacius bellowed from behind them.

"Thighs parallel! Spine erect!" Cyrus obeyed, bending his knees and dropping into the stance. Instantly, his body shivered and protested, the horrible weight of the stone pressing down upon him. His thighs flared with agony, his core trembling as he struggled to keep his spine from folding onto itself. Trying his best to follow the Epistates's instructions, Cyrus smashed his lips together and drew a harsh breath through his nose. It was like breathing in shards of glass.

The freezing air sliced into his lungs, and Cyrus had to desperately fight to force the air down, to make it something that his body could use to sustain this terrible weight. But truly… It was like Cyrus was choking on dry land. In front of him, Simos was also struggling, gasping like a fish on land. But his lips remained parted in a grin that echoed of mania. Acacius stomped on the floor loudly.

"Ten more minutes!" the Epistates roared.

"But should any of you falter, we will reset immediately!" Ten minutes. May the Fates have mercy, Cyrus thought, his mind spiraling. I am so utterly doomed.