Chương 18: Chapter Seventeen: Rebuilding Prometheus's Clay

Cyrus felt as if he was being preserved for a tomb. The clay and dirt he had slathered across his skin had hardened and turned stiff, becoming a suffocating shell. Lying flat on his back, Cyrus felt dizzy as he remained motionless under the relentless glare of the sun. The mud seemed to seep out all moisture from his body, drawing out the sweat and humidity, leaving him baking beneath the heavy crust.

"Is this truly necessary?" Cyrus grunted, barely able to speak past the dried layer that was caking his mouth.

"What could this possibly achieve?"

"Silence, my child," Aithon muttered.

"Your phlebes are so raw and torn that if I were to start reconstruction on you right now, it would simply be for naught." Cyrus tried to wiggle around, but the sun-baked clay crust trapped his limbs firmly in place.

"But what does that have to do with this earth?"

"The hardened earth will act as a house does during a storm," Aithon explained.

"It will keep your body from failing and falling apart as I work on it from the inside. Do not forget the origin of your kind. Prometheus shaped the first men from clay and river water." Cyrus let out a muffled grumble beneath the dirt, but the logic did make sense, to some extent. He closed his eyes, resigning himself as the stifling sun continued to beat down on him.

"Brace yourself, child," Aithon warned, his tone darkening.

"I am about to release a small trickle of my own pneuma into your body. This will give your body the fuel it needs to rebuild its normal processes. The agony will be unbearable. But whatever you do, do not lose consciousness. If your mind slips, then you will simply die." What? Die…? Cyrus's lips parted, drawing in a breath to voice a concern or a protest, but before he could do so, Aithon released his energy into him. A gentle warmth bloomed inside his chest. For a moment, Cyrus relaxed involuntarily.

It simply felt too addictive, too soothing—like drinking warm watered wine on a frigid winter night. But before long, the spark ignited into a wildfire. Cyrus's body stiffened, then jerked vehemently, his muscles twitching as uncontrollable spasms ripped across him. Involuntarily arching his back off the ground, the sun-baked clay surrounding him cracked loudly, bits falling off. His jaw slammed together, grinding his teeth as the spasms sent his eyes rolling back.

His limbs twitched and thrashed, striking the packed earth. The convulsions sent dust flying as the clay shell shattered in places. The pain was blinding, sending his mind into an animalistic frenzy.

"Stay awake, my child! You must endure!" The pain was unlike anything he had ever known. It was as if liquid metal had been poured directly into his veins. It burned, scalding and evaporating himself from the inside. He screamed silently, his nerves alight under the onslaught of the mysterious pneuma. It was a strange feeling. While he could feel his insides burn away, he could also feel it rebuild themselves. Burn. Rebuild.

Where the searing heat ripped away his damaged phlebes, a soothing, cool wave instantly followed, regenerating his spiritual channels. Burn. Rebuild. Burn. Rebuild. Burn. Rebuild. It was a brutal cycle. His muscles convulsed, and though Cyrus could feel his mind slip, with every agonizing wave that swept through him, he could also feel his body slowly coming back to the mortal realm. The coldness in his limbs was being burned away. His torso—rebuilt. His legs—rebuilt. His destroyed eyes—rebuilt.

"Hold fast!" Aithon's voice thundered.

"You must let the fire burn away the weak parts of yourself, so that only the strong may remain!" Cyrus roared, letting out the shriek of pain as his jaw finally loosened. He barely clung to his conscious state, the pain slashing and ripping him apart. His ruined body was being built anew. ❦ ❦ ❦ Amidst the broken and shattered shards of the sun-baked clay, Cyrus sat cross-legged. His face was tranquil, his eyes gently closed.

He drew a deep breath into his lungs, sending a smooth and silky glide of air to expand his chest. The previous deadly chill that had infected his limbs were now gone, replaced with warm, rosy skin. Inside his cage of bone and muscle, his heart thundered steadily, rhythmic and strong once more. He was alive, back inside the realm of mortals. A new strength thrummed through his veins as well. He was clearly stronger than he had been. His muscles rippled, tough and hardened.

It was like he had been born anew, his old and fragile form burned away and recast into something much greater.

"Do not celebrate just yet, my child," Aithon's voice muttered inside of his head.

"Though your body has been revitalized once more, it is far from healthy." Cyrus frowned.

"What do you mean?" Aithon let out a solemn sigh.

"Pneuma is a hard energy to understand, my child. Nevertheless, all you need to know is that the pneuma within your body—both yours and mine—have scattered unevenly throughout." Cyrus found it quite difficult to understand, struggling to wrap his mind around it, until Aithon carried on with an example.

"Think of a house and a hearth. Right now, your hearth may be warm and well, but as there hasn't been proper guidance, the corners of the house are chilly and lifeless." An… hearth? Skepticism filled his heart, but Cyrus decided to test the entity's words. Turning his awareness within, he tested his physical body, rolling his shoulders and tensing his fists. And truth be told, there clearly were pockets of numbness! You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

These areas seemed especially prevalent around the tucks of his shoulders, of the deepest folds of his thighs, and the bases of his limbs. He willed his words towards Aithon.

"Then what am I to do to solve this?"

"Quite simple," Aithon explained.

"Locate those dead patches with your awareness, then draw it forth, so it can use your newly made phlebes to their fullest potential." Cyrus felt a frown twist his lips, confused, but he compiled, shutting his eyes and focusing his mind inwards. He sought out the nearest of the freezing areas, located near his left shoulder. But… Clearly, there was a major problem. How was Cyrus supposed to draw out the pneuma? And so he sat there, dumbfounded, with a mind trembling with confusion.

Still, he tried to attempt it at least. Straining his mental focus, he tried to imagine the numb area loosening up and releasing back the pneuma, but it was to no avail.

"Ah, foolish child," Aithon spoke, voice weary.

"You need certain techniques to sense pneuma the way you are. You must do something different. Instead, focus on the numbness itself, focus on what is missing. Try it. Nodding, Cyrus obeyed. He stilled his mind, and stopped any attempt within his mind to try and construct an image. Instead, he simply directed the total absolute of his concentration right towards the unresponsive area within his shoulder. At first, there was only the sensation.

That was all he felt, that was all he thought, and for a moment, he felt that was all there was to it. That was until Cyrus let his mind truly steady. And almost immediately, the seemingly impregnable void wavered under him. His mind prickled and shook. The sensation was bizarre, there but also not there, present, but also not present. It was the barest of feelings, but somehow felt ironically heavy. Even further, it almost seemed physical, even though Cyrus knew well that it was all within his own mind. Quite…

Quite like a cluster of stones. His mind sparked. That was it! The realization came with intensity. He had assumed that the scattered pneuma were like water in an uneven basin, collecting at infrequent parts throughout the vessel. But no, reality had been the exact opposite. The pneuma had hardened into these small, metaphysical stones! Aithon murmured with approval.

"Good, my child. You have found them. Now, do not yank at them like a brute. Instead, envision. Envision your mind wrapping around those stones. Then soften them, and coax them into your phlebes." Cyrus was, once again, befuddled. Still, he spoke while maintaining a delicate inner focus upon his spot of numbness.

"My phelebes? How exactly am I to do such a thing?" A heavy sigh echoed back at him.

"You truly do not know anything, do you, my child?" Aithon's patience seemed to be wavering. Listen to me carefully. Again, you do not need to map out your entire inner landscape. The phelebes are the natural rivers that run through you." The spirit's voice grew resolute.

"When pneuma is hard, it will remain hard. That is, until you coax it to break. Then, in its fluid state, the energy will seek out the phlebes on its own." With this new understanding, Cyrus attempted it. Complying, he focused all his willpower. He envisioned his mind wrapping around the small pebbles, until slowly, the hardness truly began to yield. The gritty texture dissolved. As the pneuma liquified, it rushed out. As Aithon had said, the mysterious energy didn't just disperse everywhere.

Instead, the stream seemed to be instinctively drawn towards a tight line through his body. And though Cyurs couldn't see or feel it, he knew that it had slipped deep into his phlebes. His arm buzzed with satisfaction, ripples of warmth flooding down, restoring the feeling all the way to his fingertips.

"Passable," Aithon remarked. Cyrus could almost imagine the presence nodding with cold approval.

"You are not entirely hopeless, it seems." Cyrus sighed, loosening his tense muscles. He glanced at his left arm. The sensation truly was incredible and almost addictive. The dead weight that had bothered him just moments ago was completely gone, his muscles now feeling fluid and alive.

"Do not lose yourself in idle satisfaction, my child," Aithon chided.

"That was merely a single pocket, and the easiest of the lot. You must begin again." Cyrus straightened his posture, crossing his legs and tensing his muscles once again.

"I understand."

"Then waste no more time," Aithon commanded.

"The longer those remaining pockets sit, the harder it will be to melt them." Nodding, Cyrus closed his eyes and sank once more into his mental world, this time directing his attention downwards toward his spine. ❦ ❦ ❦ By the time Cyrus straightened up from his position, it was late afternoon, Lord Helios having begun his glorious descent back down to Lady Gaia. He uncrossed his legs and stood up fluidly. The numbness was completely gone. Every fiber of his body felt strengthened and powerful.

His breathing was deep and firm, and his phlebes buzzed, pulsating with his pneuma. He was truly alive. Cyrus clenched his fists. His heart flared with fire as thoughts of Leandros and his hurt family rushed back to mind.

"It's done," Cyrus whispered.

"I'm ready. I'm going to make them pay for everything." He took a step forward, only to find a sudden presence descend upon him, stalling his limbs.

"Hold your ground, rash fool," Aithon's voice thundered. Cyrus ground his teeth, frustration surging and blooming.

"What now? My body is whole! Why should I wait another moment?"

"You are too weak, my child." Aithon echoed.

"You have barely learned the basics of cultivation. Right now, you remain frail, ignorant, and weak. You cannot exact vengeance the way you are right now." Cyrus instinctively parted his lips to argue, his hubris—pride rushing to the surface, but he stalled his mouth. His uncontrolled temper always seemed to blind him right when it mattered most. Recklessness was not a virtue, and Cyrus had to stop himself from feeding it.

Swallowing his frustration, Cyrus forced his rising anger back down into his chest"Fine," he spat, glaring down at the dirt.

"What do I have to do? I'm listening."

"Look around you, my child," Aithon instructed softly.

"Where are we?" Cyrus blinked, momentarily thrown off by the unexpected question. He turned his head, gazing around at his unfamiliar surroundings. All he saw was the earth, and dense, untamed thickets of trees that stretched out as far as his eye could see.

"We are in the wilderness," Cyrus answered, confused.

"Though... there is a path here. It leads back to civilization."

"A path, yes," Aithon mused softly within his mind.

"But again, what surrounds the path?" Cyrus frowned.

"The wilderness?" he said again, uncertain.

"Yes. Nature in its untamed purity," Aithon declared.

"If you wish to build a foundation of cultivation capable of shattering any of your enemies, you will not find it in the soft comforts of civilization."

"But how does nature have anything to do with cultivation?" Cyrus asked as he looked out at the silent forest.

"Do you not have to be within a sect to practice this?"

"Not at all," Aithon replied.

"Sects give you instruction, yes, but it is a limited education. More of a cage, if I am to be honest. To put it simply, you lack a proper foundation. The weak methods you practiced before were mediocre and rough. No, you must begin anew." Cyrus's interest was piqued.

"And what is that?"

"I will bestow upon you another technique," Aithon declared.

"The name of it is the Famished Wolf Tempering Art."