The young man sat on the edge of the hill. Or mountain. Or whatever it wanted to be. He still had not decided which category it belonged to. Too big to be a hill, too small to be proud of calling itself a mountain. A stubborn lump of earth with ideas above its station. Still, it gave him a view, and that was enough.
Below him, the three women made their way along the trail, heading toward the wide stretch of yellow and brown that marked the beginning of the Steppelands. Their figures grew smaller with every step, until only the movement of cloth and the occasional glint of scale caught the morning light.
It was only after they turned a bend and nearly vanished from sight that he realized something very stupid.
He had not asked a single one of their names.
They had not asked his either.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Real smooth," he muttered. "Just rescued three women from slavery. Did not even bother with introductions." Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe it meant this new world had not crushed him into formalities yet.
He shook his head and let the thought pass. Names or not, the morning had been full of conversation, more than he expected after so little sleep. They had cooked together, shared food, and traded stories. It was only in the quiet after they left that he had time to think it all through.
Turns out the world had more ways to cultivate than he ever imagined.
At first, they had talked about the simple forms, the ones everyone knew. The Ogre-blooded woman started, poking the fire with a stick while explaining that most people followed what they called a Path of Tempering. That was the basic, everyday kind of cultivation anyone could try. You meditated, you breathed in the world's energy, and you let it settle in your body until it hardened your bones, strengthened your muscles, or sharpened your senses. A straightforward path.
Then the Orc-blooded woman added that there were Elemental Paths too, which were still common, though harder. Those cultivators drew in fire, water, wind, or earth, and shaped the elements through practice. Some people specialized. Some mixed a pair, like flame and wind, or earth and metal. She gave an example of a man from her tribe who could stomp once and make a shockwave of compressed earth. Another woman could spit a short-range fire blast, though she usually just used it to light campfires.
The Serpent Kin woman, quiet as she usually was, spoke up next. She said some people pursued higher principles. Tao, she called it. Not a Path so much as a way of looking at the universe. Those cultivators strengthened their spirit instead of their bodies, gaining insight, luck, or strange flashes of understanding. She admitted she did not understand much about it. Taoists were rare and often strange.
Then she explained her own style. She was a sorcery cultivator. She cultivated like the others, building up her strength, but the power did not settle into her muscles the same way. It gathered in her meridians and her core, letting her cast what he would call spells. She demonstrated by raising a hand and flicking a thin ripple of green light over the fire. The flames settled lower, calmer.
"That is one of the small ones," she said. "Given time, I can shape larger effects. Weather shifts, illusions, harmful clouds." Her voice softened. "But I have been unable to cultivate for years. It will take time to recover."
They all agreed on that point. The years of enslavement had cost them dearly. Cultivation required constant progress, constant nourishment of the spirit, body, and core. They needed to return home, pick up their old lives, and continue strengthening themselves before time ran out.
Then the talk shifted to beasts.
Regular animals, they said, were just that. Animals. But some, the older bloodlines, the rare strains, could absorb the world's energy in their own way. Spirit beasts, demon beasts, sacred beasts, the names changed by region or culture. The meaning was the same. These creatures had cores within them, fist-sized or smaller, sometimes larger in the powerful ones. A beast core was a knot of energy formed by instinct and nature. The stronger the beast, the denser the core. Some cores could even cultivate themselves if left alone long enough, absorbing the world as a seed absorbs sunlight.
He had listened carefully, trying to take it all in. There was a logic to it, even if it was a strange logic.
The Ogre-blooded woman explained how her bloodline let her cultivate physically. She hardened her skin, strengthened her bones, thickened her muscles. She could sprint faster, hit harder, and survive blows other people would die from. But her kind rarely used sorcery or complex elemental techniques. They were straightforward fighters.
The Orc-blooded woman nodded and added that she was a standard cultivator. Her abilities improved her body but also allowed her to use certain techniques. "A shout that can knock someone off balance," she said with a grin. "Or a stomp that cracks the ground. Simple things, but useful." She claimed that she could eventually learn thunder techniques, though sound and lightning were rare branches of cultivation.
The Serpent Kin woman finished by explaining her own weaknesses. Her body was frailer than the others. Her strength did not grow at the same pace. But she could cast spells. She had trained under a small group of wandering sorcerers once. She said that with a few years of cultivation, she could shape a mist that could blind an entire squad or a burst of venomous Qi that would cripple a foe.
They were impressive. All three of them. Even if they did not see themselves that way.
He had asked question after question, trying to make sense of it all. They were patient with him. More patient than he expected. They taught him about meridians, though vaguely. About cores, though only what they knew. About how cultivators ranked their strength in tiers. They were low-tier cultivators, they said, but that was enough to outlive normal people by decades.
Before leaving, they thanked him again. Each in their own way.
"If you are ever near the Steppelands," the Ogre-blooded woman said, "look for the Clear Wind Nomad. That is our group. They will not harm you."
The Orc-blooded woman agreed. "Tell them we sent you. They will help you if you need it."
The Serpent Kin woman pressed her hands together in a gesture he did not recognize. "Travel safely. And do not trust the cities."
They warned him about Junktar, the city to the south. Small, rough, but safer than most. It would take three or four days on foot. They also warned him about the northern city, Tarkis Rel. A major city and hub. Home to clans, merchants, powerful cultivators, and all the problems that came with wealth and strength. Haughty young lords. Corrupt officials. Dangerous experts who looked down on everyone else. "So he would have to go east to the road then choose north or south…" he thought to himself… The bird had been correct… technically.
"It is not a kind world," the Serpent Kin said quietly. "Be careful."
He had nodded, thanked them, and packed up breakfast. Then he walked with them to the start of the trail and watched them leave.
Now, sitting on the stubborn hill-mountain-thing, he let out a long breath. The wind carried the last echoes of their voices away.
Time to think.
Time to face the reality he had been avoiding.
He reached into his robe and pulled out the jade slip. A smooth piece of stone, almost warm in his fingers. The one the Serpent Kin woman had touched this morning. The one she had filled with a strand of her Qi.
The one that finally worked.
He stared at it, then gave a short, humorless laugh.
"Damn bird messed with me again," he muttered.
The slip had been locked the whole time. He just never had the Qi to open it. The Corvid had known that. Of course it had. Trickster creature that it was. It had said it was ready to use, but without Qi, it was like a trying to learn music from a sheet without knowing what the notes meant or were.
With Qi, it flowed and unfolded to show meaning and intent. While he could eventually figure out this Cultivation from the way the bird had left it, he would have taken years to just understand what he was looking at and why he needed to know what the notes were.
He stood up, dusted off his pants, and took one last look at the departing figures on the trail.
"Well," he said, "time to learn how to cultivate."
He turned toward the road and began making his way down the uneven path. The hill-mountain-thing seemed even taller on the way down, but he did not mind. His mind was already wandering, not toward cultivation itself, but toward the jade slip glowing faintly in his hand.
This time, when he touched it with his mind, the information opened like a door that had always been there.
And somewhere in the distance, he thought he heard a familiar bird laugh.