Chương 22: Chapter Twenty One: Six Realms, One Boy

The energy seared through Cyrus's veins, surging from his throat down to his chest. He cried out as his flesh sizzled away, every muscle of his limbs seizing.

"Breathe!" Aithon commanded.

"Do not let it scatter! Guide the current downward into your center!" Cyrus's vision blurred with blinding spots of light. He clenched his fists, fighting through the intensifying pressure. The stress in his body roared, threatening to tear his chest wide open. I'm not dying here! Cyrus pushed his mind past the agony. He focused, down into the chaos beneath his skin. And then, he felt it. Movement. Movement all across him. It was like a frantic stampede of multiple beasts, desperate for a way out. Like a…

Like a hare. It was bolting like the very animal he had spent days hunting. Through the haze of pain, understanding dawned upon him.

"Focus," Aithon said fiercely.

"You must hunt it down, my child!" Cyrus's instinct screamed at him to clamp down on the fire rushing through him and crush it still by force, but the memories of the past few days stopped him. Don't chase it, he thought. Make it come to you. Patience. Cyrus reined in the chaotic instincts screaming at him, forcing his breathing to slow. Even as the torment raged at him, he would not allow panic to overcome him. Squeezing his eyes shut, he visualized the clearing he was in.

Then, he imagined the pneuma to be the bolting hare. After doing so, he silently crouched in waiting, laying a trap within the depths of his own mind. Come, he told the rampaging pneuma silently. The fiery stampede raged on, looping through his phlebes like a desperate beast. But as Cyrus held his ground, the frantic and energetic streak slowly began circling back to the start. The wild energy, finding no escape through his sealed extremities, turned back inward. Like a hare bolting blindly toward its trap.

And when it had reached him, Cyrus bolted out. Mentally, he pinned down his hands over the mass of erratic energy. The pneuma fought, pummeling and whipping against his grip, but Cyrus refused to let go. He twisted the energy into a ball, gripping both sides, and squeezed inwards. Submit, he commanded. The pneuma roared back with fury. But slowly, the chaotic mass began to yield to him. He slammed his mental grip on it harder, until the violent turbulence began to smooth.

And with a final surge of his mental intent, Cyrus forced the transformation upon the energy. Immediately, he felt an addictive and intoxicating warmth spread outward from the core, flooding every part of his body, like liquid fire mixed with the very nectar of the gods. His mind rippled, crisp clarity washing over his nerves. He gasped, his eyes flying open. His body shook. The sluggish mortal weight of his limbs were gone.

In its place, he could now feel the pneuma —something that had previously been impossible—flowing effortlessly from his new core, racing through his phlebes and returning. He had done it. He had forged his core. ❦ ❦ ❦ 3 Days Later: The cave he had been living in for the past few days reeked horribly of blood and rotten flesh, but Cyrus had long since stopped noticing. Across the stone floor, the severed feet of every hare he had claimed ever since his first successful hunt were strewn about.

The spoils of his victories, of sorts. The second hare had been easier than the first. He had already known the process, and he had simply repeated what he had done with the first. The third had been easier still. And by the tenth, he could complete a hunt in a few minutes. Each kill fed the newly formed core inside his chest, strengthening his vessel and phlebes. By now, drinking the blood of a fresh kill no longer entailed minutes of screaming agony on the cave floor.

It simply bristled a small warmth within his chest, before settling back down. He could never get over the metallic taste though. Cyrus glanced over and picked up a heavy boulder he had salvaged from the river nearby. It was a massive boulder of granite, easily weighing around two talents, something his past self would have never been able to lift. He tossed the rock aside, smashing it into the cave wall, shattering it into smaller fragments.

He reached out and pinched one of those fragments, using it to slice through the rough hide of a hare, picking out the scraps of raw meat stuck to the skin and matted fur. Cyrus tossed the scraps of meat onto the smoldering embers of the small fire he had built in the corner of the cave. A hiss rose up as the fat hit the hot wood, sending the stale air alight with the stench of cooking meat. Aithon drifted out from the shadows, his wings buzzing.

"My, my," he murmured.

"So calm and resolute. How does it feel to have finally reached the Pneumatikos Realm, my child?" Cyrus did not look up, remaining silent. He turned the strip of meat over on the hot stone, watching the fat sizzle and render against the embers. His mind was elsewhere, remembering the meaning of the unfamiliar word. Aithon had mapped it out for him after he had forged the core. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

In the hierarchy of cultivation, there were six realms in total. The first was the Thnetos Realm, the Mortal Realm, where the divine fire lay inert and buried among the flesh of men, exactly as the lords of Olympus had ordained for mankind. Then came the Empneustos Realm, the Breath Realm, where the divine fire first woke involuntarily. That had been his state when he had first swallowed the burning flames from his family's hearth. And now, he stood upon the third. The Pneumatikos Realm, the Spirited Realm.

This realm was where most modern cultivators resided, the first true stance of defiance against the gods. Beyond lay the dizzying heights of true power. The Daimonion Realm, where mortals had enough pneuma to brush against the very demigods from legends. The Heros Realm, home to myths like Achilles and Heracles. And finally, the Theios Realm. The realm of the gods. When Cyrus had first heard of that, he had been aghast. A mortal could rise high enough to become one of the immortals?

It felt like a defiance so complete, so brazenly blasphemous, that the mere thought alone should have torn the sky open and rained down the wrath of the heavens. But with all this new knowledge, all of this new word shown before him, was it truly so surprising? After all, what were the gods if not powerful beings who demanded absolute obedience from the lowly mortals and hoarded their power? The nobles in their sprawling villas acted little differently.

With that reasoning, the idea that a mortal could claw their way up to Olympus itself wasn't much of a miracle at all. Cyrus had also learned that inside each realm, beginning with the Pneumatikos, lay ten distinct ranks. These were what separated the novices from the masters, for the ascendance from each rank required deeper refinement of the phlebes and a stronger vessel. Cyrus sighed. He was only at the first rank of the Pneumatikos Realm. But would that be enough for taking care of Leandros and Ktesios?

He glanced over at Aithon, who had settled into the rock wall.

"I do not wish to waste anymore time. Are there any more parts to this training? How much more hares do I possibly need to catch?" Aithon's eyes flickered to life, reflecting back the golden embers of the smoldering coals.

"My child. Patience."

"I have had patience for the past few days—" Your strength may be solid enough, but we have yet to test it properly," the cicada interrupted.

"Which is why you must go through one final test." Cyrus's brows lifted.

"A test?" he repeated back.

"Indeed," Aithon said.

"Are you ready?" Cyrus grinned.

"I'll do anything." ❦ ❦ ❦"This is insane." Cyrus muttered the protest under his breath as he crept through the tangled forest. He kept his thighs low and feet slightly curved, the way his hunts for hares had taught him. But even then, every single creak or snap of a dry branch sent shivers bolting into his pulse. The area he was in was familiar, even though the last time he'd been here, it had been pitch-dark. He gingerly touched his side, where the old injury throbbed. Yes. He was here to hunt down the boar.

"Fear is not shameful, my child," Aithon murmured inside his skull, having discarded his insectoid form.

"But it is foolish to let it control you."

"Quite easy for you to say," Cyrus whispered back coldly.

"You aren't hunting this mad thing, are you?" Continuing to walk forward, he followed the signs of the wild he'd learned to read over the past three days. He was far from experienced, but even he could track down the overturned earth, gouged bark, and that familiar stench of wet fur. It was close, that was certain. He took a deep breath, feeling his pneuma circle through his phlebes obediently. It was nothing like the erratic, energetic mass that had previously sent him groaning onto the ground.

Creeping forward, he suddenly halted as the trees parted before him, revealing a clearing ahead. And in the center, gorging itself on a pile of exposed roots, was the boar. The same boar that had nearly killed him a few nights past. Cyrus gulped, freezing as he ducked behind the cover of a heavy pine tree. He carefully surveyed the beast, weighing his options. He looked at the sole thing he had brought with him: a sharp stone. How was he going to best a creature so formidable without a proper weapon?

"What are you waiting for?" Aithon buzzed beside him, nestled inside the cage of his neck. Cyrus scowled at the noise.

"I'm planning," he hissed back, darting his glance back to make sure the boar hadn't heard.

"You expect me to rush a beast like that with nothing but my strength and a rock? How am I—" Aithon sighed.

"Outsmarting a lazy beast of the wild is hardly an accomplishment worthy of a hunter." Before Cyrus could stop him, Aithon burst from Cyrus's neck, flying directly into the middle of the clearing. The talking cicada screamed on top of his lungs.

"Ho, you file beast!" Aithon yelled.

"Come get the boy! Give him a chance at proper honor!" The boar sprang up to its feet, muscles rippling and tensing across its powerful body. It snorted, eyes flashing as it glared towards the source of the sound. Straight at Cyrus. The boar charged forward, its hooves ripping apart the ground beneath it, lowering its massive tusks in a brutal attack. Cyrus didn't have time to think, let alone plan.

Instinct overriding his muscles, he leaped away from the pine tree just as the boar smashed into it, splintering the heavy trunk in half. After rolling across the damp earth, Cyrus jumped to his feet. He brandished the sharp stone in his grip, as the beast readied its leg muscles, snorting as it prepared to charge again. Then it barreled forward once again. But this time, Cyrus didn't run. He planted his back foot deep into the ground, then twisted his body sideways at the last possible moment.

He didn't dodge fully, but the sharp movement was enough to let a tusk rake past his ribs instead of through them. Pain erupted along his side, but with this, he'd bought himself an opening. And with it, as the beast's shoulder crashed past him, he stabbed the sharpened stone down deep into its meaty flank. The boar shrieked in agony, and the twisting movement ripped the stone out of Cyrus's grip. He scowled. Curse the gods. His eyes followed the enraged animal as it wheeled around for another pass.

He had no more weapons now. But Aithon wanted him to prove his worth? Then I'll prove my worth. The boar charged once again, and this time Cyrus didn't try to dodge at all. He instead met it face-on. He caught one of its tusks, even as the impact slammed into him, sending his feet stumbling backward. But his grip remained steady.

Barely staying upright, Cyrus growled, wrestling the tusk sideways with all of his strength, forcing the beast's charge to slew off course into a tangle of brush instead of straight through him. The boar squealed in fury and snapped his head, slashing Cyrus's forearm, spraying blood high into the air. He hissed but didn't let go. Instead, he rode the violent motion, using it to fling himself onto the beast's muscled back. Seizing the chance, Cyrus punched down with his fists into the base of its skull.

He grunted wildly as one punch turned into two, and two turned into five, and five turned into ten. The boar roared, buckling wildly beneath him, and it had nearly thrown him off when Cyrus slammed down his fifteenth attack. A wet crack quickly followed. The beast paused, its legs swaying until it wet crashing into the dirt. Cyrus went down with it, rolling off its limp body and slumping down onto the damp mud. Lying there, he hastened for breath, his chest heaving.

Blood ran in rivulets down his wounds, agony flaring in multiple of his joints, yet Cyrus could not contain the mad grin that split his lips. He had done it! Aithon drifted down, landing on Cyrus's forehead, staring down at his eyes.

"Well done," the cicada praised.

"You have become quite strong. Of course, your foundation is still very shaky. But this should be enough." Cyrus wiped the mud and blood from his face, his eyes cold.

"So is it time to go?"

"Yes," Aithon murmured.

"Your vessel has been tempered well. Rest tonight, Cyrus. Tomorrow, we return to the cities of men for your vengeance."