Chương 21: Chapter Twenty: Drink Its Blood

High above, the immortal sun gazed down at the pitiful mortal lands below, beating its unearthly rays down upon. And for one particular boy, it signaled the start of a hunt. Within the awakening forest, alive with the tinkling music of the birds and the rustle of various beasts, Cyrus was crouched, his body slathered thickly with mud. Even as he twitched with every single branch broken beneath the feet of some mysterious animal, flashbacks of that dreadful night ripping through his brain, he trudged forward.

Oh, how exhausted he was. His limbs felt as wobbly as dry twigs, and his eyes burned with the lack of sleep, yet couldn't even muster up the energy to produce any tears to relieve the agony. Yet, somehow, in an extremely inexplicable manner… Cyrus was more aware than ever. Perhaps his body had finally given into hallucinations, pumping him full with strange energy. Or perhaps this energy was just within his rapidly self-destroying mind. Either way, it was in this state that Cyrus spotted a hare.

He found the small beast crouched—similar to the multiple past ones he had let get away—within a patch of clovers. Cyrus wasted no time in quickly sinking to the ground, using a thick brush to shield the majority of his body. He didn't even have to put his mind into hiding himself well, for his mud-covered skin blended seamlessly with the nearby environment. He remained patient, not willing his muscles to immediately spring forward. Instead, he remained in place, studying the animal.

Cyrus recalled all of his past failures with a frown. Even with the cover on his stench, he suspected that he wouldn't be able to contend with the extreme reaction speed of the hare. So I can't race them, he thought. But then… what else? Well, he could possibly… Make them come to me, he realized. An idea took root. Reaching down, Cyrus swept his hand over the ground until he found a fistful of pebbles. He aimed carefully, then flicked his wrist.

The pebbles flew high, high over the hare, before hitting the brush just behind the beast. At the sound, the hare snapped up. In the familiar reaction Cyrus had seen much too plentifully, its ears pressed back, and its muscles tensed. Then, instinct seizing its mind, it bounded blindly away from the sound. Unknowingly coming closer and closer to Cyrus. It came to a halt barely right in front of where he lay crouched. Old habits urged Cyrus to pounce immediately, but he forced himself to be utterly unmoving.

Patience, he reminded himself. From his many observations, there was another step he had to wait for. See, after panic took over the tiny beast, it had a tendency to remain in that alerted state for several minutes. If he attacked during that time, it would surely react instantly and vanish. And so, he waited. Until, seeing no predator emerging from the distance, the tension melted away from the hare's stiff muscles. In that exact moment, Cyrus lunged. He reached out, and slammed the little beast into the ground.

The hare thinly squeaked with terror, its tiny ribcage heaving into Cyrus's unloosening fingers as its legs kicked helplessly. Its large, glossy eyes stared up at Cyrus, into its predator, wide and dark with fear. Cyrus felt energy rip through his muscles and torso, making his breath seize and shake with excitement. His cracked lips parted into a wide grin, elation filling his very heart. The thrill of the hunt. How powerful he felt, having life pinned right beneath his hands.

His limbs buzzed with intoxicating heat as Cyrus loomed over the shivering creature. With his fingers locked tight around its neck, he could feel its tiny pulse against his palm. The hare let out another terrified squeak. Cyrus's heart flinched. He did not know why, only that the sound had been so fragile and pitiful. He stared down as its soft fur twitched, and its small body shuddered violently. All at once, the thrilling rush evaporated. Though he lifted the heavy stone high, he couldn't bring it down.

All he could think about was how the beat of his own heart matched the one of the little beast before him. Thump. Thump. Thump. His arm trembled, his muscles suddenly paralyzed. Can I really do this? Did Cyrus have the right to take a breath away? He remembered the boar, Ateas's maiming, Leandros's beating. To crush a living, breathing thing that was staring back at him, which was feeling the exact same panic Cyrus himself had felt. The stone remained suspended in the air as his mind raced.

Cyrus had eaten meat his entire life. He himself had seen goats being slaughtered, pigs being sliced apart at the belly. But now, holding the animal himself, having known the fear it was experiencing… Cyrus stared up at the bright sky. Life was so fragile, he realized. It was a concept so fiercely guarded by whatever possessed it. And for Cyrus to take it away… The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. What a sin it was. He slammed the rock down. Crack. Snap. Crack.

Snap. Such sickening sounds. It wasn't clean. It was minutes before the little beast's struggle ceased, its tiny squeaks slowly fading away with its crimson blood. Minutes before Cyrus sat back on his heels, his reddened hands finding the cold dirt beneath him. Cyrus stared down at the small, ruined shape between his knees. The hare no longer looked like a hare. Its muscles were shredded, its matted fur and skin peeled back, exposing crumpled inner organs. The only mercy was that the flies hadn't arrived yet.

Staring down at his hands covered and slicked with blood, he breathed in the crisp mountain air, heavy with the bleeding stench of life. His spine shivered, a cold crawling up his bones. Dropping his knees to the dirt, he tried his best to make the hare's broken body as peaceful and grotesque as possible.

"O... O Apollo, healer of men," Cyrus stammered, squeezing his eyes shut, "and you, Artemis, lady of the wild hunt... forgive me. I did not mean to commit such waste…" He kept muttering apologies, until he paused. Mid-prayer, a chilling thought slashed through his line of thinking. Wait. Who am I praying to? Right now, he was practicing cultivation. Which, according to the Helicon Mist Sect, was the absolute blasphemy one could commit. Unnerved by the thought, Cyrus opened his eyes.

Then he shook the thought away, tensing his limbs and straightening up to his feet. I need to— A sudden spike of agony pierced his forehead, just between his brows. Then Aithon burst out. The spirit resumed his insectoid form, exploding out as Cyrus gasped and fell to the ground. The cicada buzzed closer, coming to a stop right before Cyrus's face.

"Very nice job, my child." Cyrus wiped the sweat from his face, taking a shuddering breath to steady himself. Then he gulped.

"You're awake, huh?"

"Yes. After all, the smell of death haunts the air," Aithon murmured. Cyrus declined to say anything, instead staring at the cold corpse before him. Aithon had to break the silence again.

"How do you feel, my child?" Cyrus gave a shrug, voice numb.

"What else? I've… hunted the hare." Then he groaned, clutching his temples.

"By the gods, when I was standing over that poor creature… I wanted to stop. And I didn't. In fact, some part of me liked it. Is that wrong of me?"

"No," Aithon said.

"That is what the first part of the Famished Wolf Tempering Art teaches us, my child. However, you are wrong to think that you are a monster because of this."

"What do you—" Aithon flew even closer, until his wings lightly brushed Cyrus's cheeks.

"A wolf hunts for its own survival. What is the point of feeling guilty? It simply hunts and eats, for that is the only way it can keep walking under the sun. Hunger is not a sin, my child." Cyrus was silent, dwelling on these words. He… understood. Well, to a certain extent. Certainly more than he would've before all of this. Looking back upon the grueling hours hunting for that single, pathetic hare… There was no grace in the wild. There was beauty, yes, but no grace. Only survival or death. That was it.

"But let us not dwell on this too much," Aithon continued.

"We must hurry and go on to the second part of the technique. We do not have time to waste. Think back to when I revived you. The pneuma that pooled in your limbs. That is the primary flaw we have to correct." Cyrus winced, remembering the deadening weight. But then he frowned.

"But did we not fix it? What do you mean?"

"We did, but not fully." Aithon sighed.

"This pooling will inevitably happen again. Your phlebes are simply too weak and narrow to continuously spin all the pneuma you have. In truth, every common cultivator faces this exact problem. Their vessels cannot handle the amount of pneuma they have, forcing them to waste hours sitting in endless sessions just to drain and clear the clogged pneuma from their extremities." Aithon's insectoid eyes gleamed, his voice filled with ingenuity.

"But the second part of the Famished Wolf technique removes this flaw entirely. You will absorb the pneuma from this hare. Then, with that excess pneuma, we will take it, compress it, and forge a core within you." Cyrus blinked, looking down at his chest.

"A core?"

"Precisely," Aithon confirmed.

"With a core resting at the center of your vessel, it will become infinitely easier to drive your pneuma around. It will circulate around your body so fast that the particles will never have the time to settle and freeze." Cyrus nodded thoughtfully. Though he struggled to understand the concept, he liked it.

"What must I do?" Aithon buzzed.

"Quite simple, my child. You must consume the blood of the hare." Cyrus stiffened.

"What?" ❦ ❦ ❦ Cyrus stared down at his cupped palms. A puddle of crimson liquid rested there, staining his skin, the stench containing overpowering metal. The earth beneath him felt especially cold and unforgiving. His fingers trembled as he lifted his hands to his lips. Cyrus winced as the red liquid lapped against his lips, stinging the cracks. His stomach convulsed and shook, his teeth rattling with a wave of bile. His body screamed at him to fling the defilement away.

He was no beast that became drunk on such utter sacrilege! But… In the end, he knew what he had to do. Honor... or my family's safety. Cyrus squeezed shut his eyes. He swallowed the dark liquid. Aithon immediately buzzed, bumping Cyrus's chest.

"Quickly," he commanded.

"Lie down in the dirt." Cyrus blinked. His nausea surged, but his confusion was greater.

"Lie down? Why—""Do it, boy! There is no time to argue!" Swallowing the terrible taste coating his throat, Cyrus slumped down onto the ground. Instantly, a strange buzzing overtook his limbs. Panic enlivened his heart. It was as if a swarm of hornets were coming to life beneath his very skin. Cyrus stiffened.

"Aithon!" he managed to choke out as the heat became more and more unbearable.

"What is happening?" Aithon hovered above his face.

"I omitted a minor detail, my child," he replied calmly.

"An animal's pure pneuma is powerful. It is their very life, after all. Because your phlebes are still young and unformed, they are uniquely suited for this technique, unlike older cultivators whose rigid pathways would simply reject the pneuma. You see, my child? Your newly exposed phlebes are lapping up that surging pneuma." As the heat intensified, Cyrus's muscles began to spam. He gripped the dirt, gritting his teeth as hot agony exploded behind his eyes.

"Then—then what am I to do?!" he gasped.

"Do not fear," Aithon murmured flatly.

"It will either blow your vessels apart and splatter you to Hade's grip, or you will follow my instructions well, and be reborn once again." Aithon continued, his voice tinged with dark amusement.

"You wanted a core, boy? Here is your material. Obey my commands and forge it!"