Chương 13: Chapter Twelve: The Rivers Running Through One's Body

The Sissition was loud and chaotic. But subduing that even, was the terrible stench. Within the stone building—constructed in a similar manner to their barracks—over a hundred disciples were seated across the unvarnished pine benches, resulting in an absolute reek of bitter sweat and wet clothes. It didn't help that the only source of warmth was a small hearth located in the center of the hall, which expelled more smog than it did heat, creating thick grey haze that hung beneath the ceiling.

Currently, Cyrus was slumped across the table. His entire body throbbed with agony, and he felt utterly sick. Sure, he was hungry, but his hands had swollen so much from holding the stone slab that he could barely even manage to curl his fingers around the bread. And even then, their dinner was simply too unappetizing. Consisting of a single wooden bowl of melas zomos —a dark stew made of pig's blood boiled with vinegar and salt—and a slab of bread, Cyrus could hardly bear to even look down at the amalgamation.

Hearing the sound of laughter—a sound so unfamiliar amidst the exhausted neophytes—Cyrus turned his gaze, finding the source at the central tables, the ones nearest to the hearth. There, the disciples—supposedly senior ones, considering their much older age—were engaging in conversation and festivities. … So jolly, huh? He thought with bitterness in his heart. Then he jumped as a loud smash echoed nearby.

Cyrus glanced up, finding that Simos—sitting right across the table—was smashing his awfully hard bread onto the table, breaking it up into manageable chunks. The other boy seemed to have a much better appetite, grabbing at the pieces and hungrily stuffing them into his mouth. With some watered wine from his cup, he washed it all down with a long swing. Simos gave a grunt, noticing Cyrus's reluctance to feed.

"Come on, man," he muttered.

"You might not believe it, but right now it's as warm as it can be." Cyrus nodded, albeit with a gulp. Staring down at the dark broth, he blanched at the stench of metallic blood. But truly, his body needed some sort of subsistence. And so, he dipped a piece of the stale bread into the stew, letting the sour liquid soften it before forcing it down his gullet.

"How are your legs?" Simos wiped his mouth with his arm. Cyrus sighed.

"What do you think? I can barely feel anything." Simos shrugged.

"That's a good thing, you know. I heard that that means the pneuma was able to seep into your body quite well. If your legs were burning, it'd mean you blew the stance and completely wasted the technique." Cyrus picked at the bread.

"I still don't understand though. If pneuma is the divine energy that surrounds us, how can hauling stone enlarge my vessel, or whatever?" Simos giggled.

"So truly dense you are, Boeotian spawn." He slapped the table.

"Look all around us! Pneuma literally means breath and wind! It is the very air around us!" He leaned forward.

"Do you know of aqueducts?" Cyrus nodded.

"I do."

"Well, imagine your body as a bunch of aqueducts," Simos explained.

"Those channels, we call the phlebes." Cyrus frowned.

"What does that mean? Like… a blood vessel?" Simos wagged his head.

"No, no. Not something so simple like that. Instead of blood, these inner channels carry pneuma. See, right now, your phlebes are narrow and dry. But when you use the Misty Iron Body technique, the extreme physical pressure forces those internal channels to crack." He motioned the gesture of an explosion.

"The technique forces your body into a panic, struggling for air. Which in turn causes the ambient pneuma around you to be dragged right into those tiny new holes in your phlebes." Cyrus listened with narrowed eyes. He… kind of understood, to a certain extent. Well, at least some pieces were clicking into place. Staring down at the dark broth before him, he considered Simos's words for a few more moments.

What the other boy was speaking of was utterly blasphemous, but he had to admit that there seemed to be some sense within the subject. Yet before he could voice a few more of his questions, a loud clatter rang down the hall. Cyrus perked up, turning his head toward the commotion. He saw the sight of a bowl smashed against the stone floor, having splattered a girl disciple with the dark broth. Then, Cyrus paused. The girl's face was familiar. It was Thalia, the quiet girl from the barracks.

She sat unmoving and stiff on her place atop the bench, hands curled into fists along her sides. Standing over here were three neophytes—older, by the looks of their narrowed faces—and their cheeks had been flushed with the telltale sign of alcohol. The one who spoke first from the trio was a stocky youth with a mouth contorted into a sneer.

"Look at this," the stocky boy barked. He spoke with a slight lisp, sending out spittles with each word.

"A Helot's daughter sitting at the table! Aw, did your family sell you to the sect to get some quick money? Such a sad tale, eh?" A second boy stepped in, snickering.

"Yeah, it must be nice," he spat out.

"Back in your hometown, your kind probably starved to death, as you should. But up here, you get free food!" Yet, even as the third boy laid a greasy hand upon her head, Thalia refused to retort with anything. She remained completely still, keeping her gaze down at the floor. The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. In a way, Cyrus respected it. If only he had kept his mouth shut like she had done, when being confronted with Leandros.

Then maybe all of this wouldn't have happened. Taking a further bite of his bread, Simos just looked amused. He turned to Cyrus.

"Interesting, isn't it? She always seems to be a target for their abuse." Always? Cyrus felt his muscles tense. Oh, he knew that he should go help her. A man with an ounce of honor didn't just sit by while something like this happened. But the arising heat within his neck refused his demands of movement from his limbs. Cyrus couldn't help but remember the anger that had arisen in him while being humiliated by Leandros, followed quickly by the reminder of the foolish pride that had made him open his mouth.

Because of his foolish act, his family had been put in danger, and he'd been sent all the way over here to this sect. Keep your mouth shut, fool. Cyrus wasn't stupid. He might have been able to escape from Leandros unscathed, but here, speaking out might not just get him beat. He might just be put into actual danger. He was a nobody. He wasn't anyone's hero. That was when the sound of an edged voice broke past his self-deprecating thoughts.

"Remove your hand, neophyte." Cyrus glanced up, just in time to see the stocky boy snap his arm back, his face turning ashen, along with his fellow two companions. From the tables near the hearth, an older disciple had headed over to them. With a face framed by golden curls, and dark eyes as icy as the mountain wind, he looked considerably more intimidating than most of the other neophytes.

"W-what do you want?" The stocky boy demanded, even as his voice stuttered.

"We were only... reminding her of her place. What do you—" The disciple raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

"My, Kyros, that is your name, correct? Reminding someone of their place? You've been on this mountain for three seasons, yet your pneuma reserves have barely improved. And no wonder! All you do is get drunk." Even despite the wine, the stocky boy—Kyros's—face managed to flush even more. His other two companions also shrank back. The intimidating neophyte tsked.

"The Helicon Mist Sect does not care about one's origins," he stated.

"We care only for strength and the resolve to tear away our own limits. Harassing those weaker than you only proves how narrow your mind truly is. Brothers, you dishonor our sect."

"Clean up this mess, and spend the night reflecting on your actions. If I see you causing a scene here again, I will personally report your conduct to the Epistates."

"Yes," the boys muttered through gritted teeth. Without another word, the three boys hastily knelt to scrape the broken clay off the floor, avoiding the stares of the surrounding recruits before scurrying out of the Sissition in shame. The senior disciple stood quietly, for a moment glancing down to Thalia, who remained seated on her bench, her chest heaving as she stared stubbornly at the spilled broth on the table.

He offered no comforting words, simply huffing before turning on his heel and walking briskly back towards his seat. Simos hummed as he chewed on his barley cake.

"You see?" he whispered.

"It's best to keep your head low. If you stride around so arrogantly, a bigger lion will eventually ambush you." Cyrus said nothing. He watched Thalia silently wipe the dark stew from her tunic, her eyes furious, yet calm. Looking back down at his bowl, Cyrus soaked the remaining drops of stew with his cake, and shoved it into his mouth. ❦ ❦ ❦ For the next few days, dawn brought labor, midday brought pain, and night brought fitful sleep. A relentless cycle.

Cyrus always most dreaded the middays, when Epistates Acacius would have them practice the Misty Iron Body Stance. Day after day, Cyrus stood in the freezing sludge, forced to sink his thighs parallel to the earth with a heavy slab of stone crushing his body. His legs trembled violently every single time, his back screaming under the strain. Most afternoons ended with him collapsing into the mud, his body far broken past its meager limits. Then something happened.

A few days later, Cyrus was liftting up the familiar stone slab with Simos. Taking a deep breath, he braced for the agonizing pain that would quickly follow. And the pain did follow. His thighs burned, and his spine buckled under the weight. He locked his teeth together and forced his nose to drag in a long icy breath deep into his gut. Then, he waited for his knees to buckle and to hit the freezing sludge. And yet, it didn't happen. Huh?

Cyrus thought, his brow furrowing as rivulets of sweat dripping down his nose. The stone definitely hadn't gotten any lighter. But… The normally crushing agony that tore his limbs apart was—though still there—much more subdued. It was like his muscles actually had the capacity to resist now, his flesh taut and strong. Glancing down at his body, shedding streams of sweat, Cyrus truly saw the difference in his physique for the first time.

Though the most noticeable detail was his red-hot skin, the frigid mountain air doing its work, underneath all the grime and mud soiling his limbs, his arms and chest looked distinctly different from just a few days ago. The softness of his youth was almost all gone, having been replaced by lean cords of muscle. And his breathing… It was truly a strange sensation. Cyrus could almost feel, from deep within his lungs, that he wasn't only breathing in the icy wind.

No, it was really like he was absorbing the ambient pneuma in the air, seeping straight through his skin and flooding the hidden phlebes beneath. As usual, their supposedly "ten-minute drill" stretched agonizingly past thirty as three neophytes faltered in their step. Epistates Acacius didn't even seem to know what the concept of "mercy" was, restarting the timer for the whole palaestra that dropped their rock slab. Finally, the Epistates called the end.

Immediately, the stones crashed to the ground, along with the neophytes, some straight up weeping from the harsh stress.

"Dismissed to the baths," Acacius barked. At the order, all the neophytes picked themselves up and filed towards stone sheds that had been positioned besides the edge of the palaestra. Yet even within the balaneion, there was no relief from the outside chill. The stone walls were riddled with cracks, the mountain air catching them even inside. Still, it paid to be clean.

From the jars of cheap olive oil standing along the walls, Cyrus grabbed a clay flask and poured a generous amount into his palm, then proceeded to rub the thick mixture all over himself. Quickly, the sticky oil clung and mixed with the layers of mud and sweat caking him. He picked up a curved bronze scraper—a strigil —and pressed its dull edge firmly to his skin. He then dragged it down, curling away the grey sludge off his flesh.

Finally, once the worst of the grim had been scraped away, they all moved—some basically crawling—to shallow basins of stone. Of course, there was no hot water within them; only frigid mountain water. Cyrus grabbed a wooden bucket, took a deep breath to steady himself, then dumped the whole thing over his head.

With the shock slamming into him, the freezing cold seeping into every pore of his flesh, the very air was knocked out of his lungs, Still, the icy stream swept away the grease and grime, and a profound sense of relief dawned over him. He stood up, wiping the mountain water from his eyes, feeling clean and alive.