Chương 27: Chapter Twenty Six: Something Rare

The giant balaneion —public bathhouse—towered over them. Constructed as a looming monument that glistened of polished marble and stone, its majestic front gazed down upon crowds of bustling men, who were all talking animatedly amongst themselves.

The first realization that occurred for Cyrus was that, unlike the smaller and much more private bathing rooms of wealthy estates that he had normally associated with cities such as Thebes, this civic institution had been built to serve the majority of the bustling population of the city, who was significantly less rich. And because of this, everybody was here. Truth to be told, Cyrus was whiplashed at such diversity.

There were merchants, doctors, laborers, philosophers, and youths, all wrapped tightly with linen that dried their wet manes. As they entered inside, he let Eleni guide him. The twists and turns confused him majorly, until a massive hallway opened before them. There were even more people here, and already, he could feel the hotness of mist coming from the further hallways.

Eleni proceeded forward, heading towards a counter that served to overlook the entrance, where a bored attendant was sitting inside, currently collecting fees from various patrons. At a push behind his back from her, Cyrus stepped up first, quickly pulling one of his newly earned obols from his palm and dropping it into the metal bowl on the desk. The soft clang resonated, and though the attendant barely glanced up, he gave Cyrus a small wooden token for entry.

Eleni quickly followed suit, and they both continued onward, stopping just before entering the apodyterium, a vast changing room lined with stone benches and places where citizens could safely store their garments. Even without going inside, the air was thick with the rich scent of olive oil and burning charcoal.

"You can leave your tunic there," Eleni instructed, before plopping down on a stone bench.

"Go clean yourself, Kolax. I do wish I could clean myself as well, but the afternoons are reserved only for men. I'll wait out here." Cyrus nodded. Then he turned, slipping into the giant room. After stripping off his rough boar hide clothing, he stepped into the central bathing area. The air was humid and warm, bustling crowds of men crowding about. Rows of tubs constructed from stone lined the floors, and the warm water was directed by carefully constructed stone pathways.

Moving towards one of the washing areas, he stopped just before a stone spout that trickled water down into a communal basin. After having an attendant give him an aryballos, Cyrus poured out the olive oil contained within the small spherical jar. Once his skin was coated with the thick liquid, he picked up a bronze strigil and scraped away the oil that had mixed with the dirt from his limbs.

Then, leaning over a basin, he splashed warm water over his head, working water and a bit of lye-infused clay through his hair before rinsing it thoroughly. With his scalp and skin tingling, Cyrus walked away from the cleaning troughs. Wandering deeper into the bathing house, Cyrus found the men there much calmer and lazier, lounging on stone benches and ledges, chatting and partaking in group conversations on various topics, ranging from philosophy to trade.

The warmth that packed the air made Cyrus's tired limbs feel heavenly. He slumped onto an empty bench, leaning his head on the wall, his eyes fluttering with exhaustion. Suddenly, a voice echoed from within his brows.

"Wake, my child!" At the sudden shout, Cyrus jolted. He nearly tumbled from the bench, though he managed to catch himself on the rough, scalded stone.

"What?" he hissed, annoyed at having been shocked from his pleasant reprieve.

"What is it?"

"Be still," the spirit murmured at him.

"Remember what I taught you back at the agora? Use that here. Be fast." Though Cyrus was muddled with confused thoughts, he complied, allowing his vision to expand over the crowds before him. Slackening his focus over his mind, his mental eye began its drift around the humid chamber. Though at first the crowds were a blur of random silhouettes amidst the warm vapors, Cyrus soon settled into the technique he'd learned. Pretty quickly, the bathhouse began to organize itself into a predictable pattern.

It was all about the energy, he presumed. Cyrus made sure to watch specifically the movements initiated more by instinct and habit than focus-driven. And from this, everything seemed to fit a grand design. Everybody was somewhere they were supposed to be. They were all doing stuff they were supposed to. Until… He spotted a small snag. Namely, amidst a group of lounging men, there was one single outlier. An striking man, his jaw chiseled and strong, with eyes that glistened with vitality.

His long dark hair fell long and silky, and the way he sat screamed with solid confidence. Certainly, on the surface, he fit right in with the surrounding men. Just more handsome and stronger. But Cyrus… he felt something was strange. An eerie sensation prickled at him, specifically his spine. It wasn't something he could point to with his physical gaze, nor could he even begin to describe it. All that Cyrus knew was that he felt a strange feeling. He doubted it was anything like instinct, or any such.

No, this was something he couldn't even begin to name, only just that somehow he knew that this man was different.

"Aithon," Cyrus gave a whisper beneath his breath, goosebumps erupting across his skin.

"Who is that?" If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

"Be cautious, boy," the spirit's voice replied."That is a cultivator. And a powerful one. I sense that he is somewhere along the upper ranks of the Pneumatikos Realm." Cyrus swallowed, blinking hard to redraw back his sight.

"A cultivator... here?"

"Indeed," Aithon replied grimly.

"Not too surprising. Thebes is a very popular city, after all. Oh, and another thing. He senses you as well." Cyrus felt his spine tingle. Slowly, even as his instincts urged him to lower his head, he glanced up. And through the veil of white steam, Cyrus saw that the man was staring right at him. He couldn't look away as the stranger's dark eyes stabbed him through the heavy vapors. Cyrus's eyes widened as he spotted the man's lips curve into a small grin.

"Do not run, my child," Aithon warned.

"Act natural." Before Cyrus could look away, the man let out a long, cat-like stretch, then uncoiled from his seat gracefully. A linen cloth draped over his shoulder shifted as he did so, revealing a toned and muscled back. The stranger walked forward languidly, yet his steps seemed strangely weightless, belying his towering body. Cyrus sat stiffly. He wanted to run, but decided to trust Aithon's instructions, forcing his muscles to relax.

The cultivator quickly reached him with his long strides, stopping directly in front of Cyrus for a moment, before casually lowering himself onto the bench. He leaned lazily against the stone, his mouth opening to breathe out a small yawn. He glanced at Cyrus.

"Warm here, isn't it?" Cyrus stiffened at the seemingly regular comment, his tongue heavy and unmoving. Answer him, Aithon hurriedly hissed.

"... I suppose so," Cyrus managed.

"Though I must confess that I've never been here before." The man raised an oiled brow in amusement.

"Not from Thebes, are you?" Cyrus nodded.

"My—" He's fishing around for your information, Aithon interrupted. Give him something that's true, but completely harmless.

"My family's from a village nearby," Cyrus said, letting out a small cough to cover his mishap.

"I came to the city looking for work."

"Ah. A common enough tale." The man chuckled, stretching out his lean, muscled legs. Then he sighed.

"Though, let's stop dancing around it, shall we?" Turning his head to take a glance at Cyrus, his eyes glinted.

"There's no need for all this ordinary banter. We both know what we are. We're both cultivators here, little brother." Cyrus coughed awkwardly.

"Very well, uh… big brother."

"My name is Evander," the man said casually.

"And what about you? What sect claims a fledgling like you?"

"I'm Cyrus," he replied, trying to restrain his uncomfortableness.

"And as for my sect..." Shit. Cyrus fumbled for an answer, his mind wildly searching for a believable lie.

"I... well, I'm not really—""Ah, playing your cards close to your chest?" Evander chuckled.

"No need to look so alarmed. A young traveler ought to be cautious. Though... are you perhaps a disciple from the Skolioi Sect? You certainly bear their watchful presence." Cyrus seized the offered lifeline instantly.

"Ah… yes. I am part of the Skolioi." Evander's easy smile widened, flashing perfectly shaped white pearls.

"Is that so?" Evander drawled.

"That's truly fascinating, considering I completely made that name up on the spot." Cyrus stiffened, his heart feeling just about ready to rip out of his chest.

"Woah, quiet down, little brother," Evander purred, waving his hand in a placating manner.

"Relax. I'm merely poking fun at you. There's no need to act so afraid." Cyrus swallowed, before awkwardly nodding. Evander sighed.

"I don't care what you are, little brother. But take a piece of advice. Do not play games like that with the next cultivator you meet." He shook his head.

"See, refusing to name the sect you come from can be a deadly mistake to make. It tells the man standing across from you that you don't think he's worthy of knowing your lineage. I personally find your panic very endearing, little brother. But another man might've just killed you." Cyrus winced.

"I-I see…" He gulped.

"Thank you for the warning."

"Think nothing of it," Evander replied casually. Stretching his neck, he worked a knot out of his muscles.

"Besides," he mused, tapping his chin.

"It would be a waste for you to die with such a physique." Cyrus cocked his head, caught off guard by the change in subject.

"What do you mean?" Evander chuckled, seemingly amused by the boy's visible confusion.

"Don't tell me you don't even know that? You see, every cultivator has some sort of special physical body. Most practitioners are born with a standard Promethean Body—it's slightly sturdier than a mortal's, sure, but otherwise unremarkable." The cultivator flexed his left arms, rippling with muscles.

"But there are exceptions. Like me. I possess a Herculean Body, which means that my raw strength far exceeds what my pneuma should allow." Leaning forward, Evander studied Cyrus through narrowed eyes that sparkled.

"While for you… I can't tell! Which means your physique is clearly rare." A rare physique? Cyrus's brows furrowed. But as he opened his mouth to utter more questions, Evander let out a thick yawn from his mouth. Stretching, his muscles popping the process, he glanced at Cyrus.

"I've soaked long enough, and my idle curiosity is satisfied for the day." Standing up from the bench, Evander grinned.

"Don't worry, little brother. I care little about where you come from, or what your skills are." His smile stretched wider.

"But you seem to be a fine fellow! If you ever find yourself tiring of life's normal process, come find me in the baths again! Let us go out on a hunt or something of the sort! But until then, I wish success in your endeavors of cultivation." And with that, Evander sauntered off, the thick white haze quickly swallowing him. Cyrus remained stiff upon the bench, until he voiced his incredulous thoughts internally.

"Aithon…who was that?"

"Clearly a very dangerous, very clever man," Aithon replied quickly.

"Luckily, he seems to not be harmful. Still, do not let his languid demeanor fool you, my child. No cultivator reaches the level he is at with simple laziness." Cyrus nodded.

"I'll keep that in mind." Then he winced, rubbing his temples.

"But seriously, that fake sect lie… Oh right. What about what he said at the end? About my body?"

"Ah, that," Aithon murmured.

"That was true. Your physique is indeed special, my child."

"How so?"

"Think back," the spirit told him.

"Remember the wilderness. Remember what I had to do to bring your body back into the clutches of the mortal realm." Cyrus nodded.

"You rebuilt my physique, right?"

"Indeed. And because of that, your physique became something not achievable through natural means, my child. It is rare, yes, and is called the Styx Body. Having this physique means that your phlebes and body don't have a natural ceiling. Instead, they can be torn down and rebuilt stronger repeatedly." Cyrus's eyes widened. His brain felt like a sponge, thirstily drinking in the information.

"You also have a second physique," Aithon said.

"What?"

"The Lykos Body," Aithon said.

"You adopted this because you used the Famished Wolf Tempering Art. Now, you can strengthen yourself through hunting and consuming living pneuma. However, do note that passive cultivation will barely work on you now." Cyrus sighed.

"So you mean that I have to hunt more." He gagged.

"And drink more blood?"

"Indeed," Aithon announced.

"A double-edged blessing, my child." Sighing, Cyrus set his hands down onto his lap. He felt no longer comfortable here in this bathhouse. If anything, the thick steam felt like it was suffocating him. And so, he stood up from the bench, wiping the sweat and mist from his forehead. It was time to go.