I was hiding from strangers' eyes in one of the caves, among the melted ruins by the riverbank, tossing pebbles into the water. They were too small to gather for the village, though that too had happened before. This used to be a vast city, its buildings stretching into the sky, according to the books. Black Mountain, if you think about it, really does reach the clouds. But imagining hundreds of buildings that tall—that's difficult. Almost all of them collapsed in a single day, turning into pure white sand, the very sand that gave our Wasteland its name. The sand stretches for hours along both riverbanks and several more into the wasteland. But if you dig past the gray surface soil, you'll inevitably find that same white sand underneath.
It was an enormous city—too big to grasp. Even its ruins reach two days' walk from our village in both directions. But only a tiny part of it survived. I don't know whether it was the river's proximity or the special strength of these structures. Even in color, they differ from the sand. Only along the water's edge stand the black skeletons of the past. Short—two to three stories, occasionally five. Rarely any taller. Black, hollow, with gaping window sockets—they instinctively stir fear. I was here at night, when under moonlight white seems black, and black white. A terrifying sight. In that moment, they really did resemble the bones of long-dead beasts. Strange to fear the homes of our ancestors, but I only realized that once I'd fled back under the roof of our own hut.
My head was still spinning, maybe for the hundredth time, with everything Mom had said yesterday. At least now many things became clear. I'd heard a saying among caravaners: "I don't see the sun above me." It means a sandstorm has come into your life, ready to bury you under tons of sand. Mom constantly says that I only need to wait until I'm older, we'll save money, and we'll leave. Now I at least know where she wants to go. Maybe she's not wrong to keep going, despite my protests, to Black Mountain for herbs. Maybe she's able to hide the valuable ones from Cardo and save them. She clenches her teeth and endures humiliation and hardship. I already struggled to hold myself back before. The stone in my pouch from yesterday won't let me forget the urge to smash Virgl's skull. And now, when I know my father was murdered? When every day I see the killer and his son?
"Endure. Just one more year, maybe two, and we'll leave these bastards behind," I said to myself sternly, imagining Virgl's henchmen surrounding me and dumping filth over my head. I had to admit—I'd snap. It's one of Skirto's favorite jokes. Just enduring, just to leave for Arroyo, isn't enough. Father spent his whole life trying to take us from there, broke through to the tenth star for that dream. I took that strange stone from my pouch, the witness of my humiliation, and clenched it in my fist. I need a goal too. Something worth enduring for, something worth gritting my teeth over—so I don't sneak into Virgl's hut one night and bash his skull in.
Mom risks her life, wandering alone through the tunnels of Black Mountain, but she finds rare plants and can tell herself: "It's all worth it." And me? I water my portion of the communal garden, cook stew at night with meat I didn't hunt, and tell myself the same? Ridiculous...
Money? Even more absurd. How's a kid supposed to earn it, when he spends all day watering crops or digging for stones in the ruins of the Ancients?
Strength? Last winter, they didn't let me onto the training grounds, even though I'd come of age. Orikol gave me a single glance and turned away. And I know they train everyone. Mom, who apparently was once a street orphan, is living proof of that rule. Cardo breaks another law of the Wasteland—or maybe there's no such law. I don't know. But strength—you can gain that on your own.
I've heard Orikol raging more than once about thick-headed pigs who can't even memorize a single teaching after years. Father couldn't break through to the tenth star for a long time either—but once he discovered his mistake, his talent flared. That means I have better chances in this village than most!
I need to find a teaching.
I need to end my powerlessness.
"They don't let you train? Why didn't you say anything?" Mom frowned.
"Do you have the meridian tempering teaching?" I repeated patiently, seeing no point in repeating everything else.
"What do you mean? How dare he?" Mom kept muttering in disbelief, staring through me like I wasn't even there. "We came to train straight from the slums!" she confirmed my thoughts.
"Mom!" I sighed, clenching my fist. "What are you even thinking about? He murdered Dad, ruined us, the whole village lives on the edge of starvation, handing over everything from the Wasteland to him. Why would he care about one kid?"
"Yeah, yeah," Mom shook her head, scattering her beautiful pale hair across her shoulders the way I loved. Like swatting away a pesky thought. "You're right. He dares too much. But you're wrong about the hunger—and about people handing everything over. My trained eye doesn't lie. Day by day, hunters and gatherers hide more and more of what they find. The more Cardo rages during the morning task briefings, demanding higher quotas, the more those quotas drop. People are slacking off wherever they can. They're tired, Legrad."
"So maybe someone'll step up and snap his neck?" I grinned.
"I'm not counting on that kind of luck. If there was anyone his equal in this village, it would've been done by now. But I'm the strongest among the men—and even I won't attack him. I'm one star weaker. I'm not a Warrior. It wouldn't end well," Mom shook her head.
"A shame," I smirked at my naive wish. "So what about the teaching?"
"We haven't needed it in ages—we knew it nearly by heart. I could write it down for you, but we'd need good paper so it doesn't crumble in a month. And there's always the risk of mistakes, of misunderstandings buried deep in memory—and I'm no artist," Mom grimaced, thinking. "Let's do something simpler. It's all a bit strange—even ridiculous. Fine, they won't let you train. Me, a street orphan who couldn't even read—that made sense. But you have me. Half the homes in this village have the teaching! Does he really think you won't find someone to borrow a book from?"
"Right!" I caught on. "Rat has one! I could ask to read it!"
"Don't bother. I want you to have your own copy. Tomorrow morning, before I head out, I'll give you a bundle of herbs. Find Uncle Di right away, before he leaves for the Wasteland. Wait for a moment no one notices and give it to him. Ask him for a wineskin. You'll take that to Orikol and ask for the teaching. Be respectful. He'll gladly give it to you in exchange for Uncle Di's wine. But you must do it midday."
"Why midday?" I asked, trying to understand everything. "And why be polite?"
"Oh!" Mom laughed and tapped the tip of my nose. "In the morning, he doesn't care what's in the cup—as long as it dulls the headache. By evening, he'd drink piss if it was fermented. And why be rude to someone who's done nothing bad to you? Someone you'll need to turn to for guidance?"
I was sitting once more in the shed beside the training grounds, peering into a crack between the stones where clay filler had crumbled away. This was the village's central square—the place where all important events happened: exams, induction of new apprentices, the initiation of hunters—as well as daily training for those determined to ascend. It was bordered by a low rectangular wall of stone and clay. What set this square apart from most others was its broad wooden gates, nearly full-sized doors—one on each side. A sight like that could only be found elsewhere in the village head's house. There were far better things to spend expensive wood on.
I needed to catch the right moment to slip through two gates and cross the wide open space without anyone noticing I'd entered Orikol's house. Unfortunately, doing so from the opposite side of the village would be even harder—that area held the homes of the chief, his family, respected hunters (but not Uncle Di, for the record). Even stepping into that part of the village could bring trouble. No one in sight. Looks like it's time. Holding the wineskin tightly under my worn tunic, I crossed the square at a brisk pace and slipped behind the grass mat hanging in the doorway.
"Which stinking darss did they drag in now?" came a gruff growl as I struggled to adjust to the stench of unwashed flesh, stale booze, and rotting food that greeted me in the village teacher's home.
"Please don't shout, honored Orikol," I said, stepping further inside, hoping I wouldn't vomit.
"Well, I'll be! Honored, huh? Haven't been called that in... actually, never been called that, not even by a garh! Who's the smart little polite brat?" There was a crash in the dark, something fell, and then Orikol emerged into the shadowy light near the mat. "Who are you, runt?"
Orikol was appallingly filthy—clearly hadn't bathed in ages. When he appeared, the stench hit me like a slap. He could've at least rolled up the mat to let in a breeze—not just for relief from the heat, but to air out the place. But he clearly didn't care, long since used to it. He wore wide leather pants and what had once been a fine, pale, long-sleeved tunic. Once fine. Now it was blackened with grime and stained from spilled wine. He was barefoot like the poorest pauper. Worse even—I, one of those ragged souls, was wearing moccasins. Unshaven and untrimmed, with greasy black hair streaked with grey, he barely resembled the Warrior I'd seen once by the village bonfire.
"I'm Legrad." Seeing no recognition in the bleary eyes of the half-sober Warrior, I continued: "Son of Eri and Rimilo."
"Ah! Aha. Yeah. I remember," Orikol tilted his head back, scratching his neck with both hands under his messy short beard. "What do you want from me, brat?"
"I'm asking you for the meridian tempering teaching." Hearing no response from the village ascension instructor, I pressed on: "My tenth winter has come—you're supposed to train me." Mom hadn't told me to stir up trouble, but my fury at everyone in the village, especially him, burned my tongue.
"Cardo politely advised me not to teach you." Orikol shrugged with broad shoulders—surprisingly powerful, mind you. You'd think he drank daily and never left his house, but his frame was still bound with muscle, just like when we first arrived. "Your father was remarkable—deserving of respect. But that's not enough for me to go courting trouble by letting you train." He paused, then stroked his beard with filthy fingers, its color indiscernible in the gloom. "Your mother's got spirit. Why didn't she come plead for you herself?"
"Ah, you!" I barked, then nearly clamped my own mouth shut to keep in all the curses surging up after those foul words. I forced myself to breathe deeply—despite the reeking stench all around—to calm down and stop myself from lunging at that filthy drunk.
"Ha!" Orikol let out a revolting laugh, like a mule from a supply convoy. "From 'honored' back to plain old 'you.' That's familiar. That's comfortable. Get out of here, pup."
"I'm not asking to become your apprentice. I just want one book. Why does the honored"—I forced the word out, imagining my hand around his grimy throat—"dream of the impossible?"
"What a bold little cur," Orikol bared his teeth in a twisted grin. "And what dream, exactly, is supposed to come true for me?"
"Please, take this," I grinned now too and pulled the wineskin from under my shirt, giving it a shake so it sloshed.
"The pup's learned to snap back," Orikol spat on the floor, which didn't get any dirtier from it. "Get out of my sight before I kick you out myself."
"This wine is from hunter Di." I stood my ground.
"Well now!" Orikol scratched at his neck again and then tugged at his short beard with irritation. "No way you came up with that idea yourself. Though I doubt Eri told you to mouth off to me…"
I held back the words burning to get out. Not now, not when everything's hanging by a thread.
"Yeah, the temptation's real. Fine, pup—hand it over."
"The book." I quickly tucked the wineskin back under my shirt and backed toward the mat, ready to bolt.
"The pup's got brains?" Orikol smiled in a way that made me want to spit and turn my back on him. "Here. Catch!"
I'd already adjusted to the dim light and saw him move—but still couldn't react fast enough. A small object smacked into my chest.
"Thank you, honored," I muttered, checking the item quickly and then handing over the wineskin, tucking the book behind my belt.
"Ugh," Orikol grimaced as he fished a rough red-baked cup off the floor, inspecting it with skepticism. "The way you say 'honored' makes my jaw lock—so much poison in it. Be real, boy. I was just messing around. Like I said, I respected your father."
"And insult my mom," I muttered. My eyes squinted into the bright light leaking through the mat's edge, but I couldn't hold my tongue anymore—too much had been boiling inside me.
"You see insult in everything," Orikol chuckled. "I said she was damn solid for someone with eight stars."
"Right. Sure. I'll even try to believe it," I said through gritted teeth.
"Whatever you say, brat. Wait…" he paused. "Do you even know how to read?"
"I do," I snapped.
"Ah, right. Like Eri wouldn't teach you? Hah, I'm out of it. Good luck with your ascension," Orikol waved me off, then mumbled as he turned away: "I need a razor. Drinking wine in this state—that's hitting rock bottom. Gotta claw at something before the plunge. And a bath. Yeah, a bath, definitely."
After retracing my steps and reaching the familiar shed, I finally looked at what that filthy drunk had given me. A small, thin codex-bound book in a stiff leather-wrapped cover. Embossed on the spine was the title: Meridian Tempering. I checked through the gap—still no one around—and, with trembling hands, opened the title page.
Meridian Tempering
Published by the Free City
Frosted Ridge
Edition Three Hundred Twenty, printed in the Year Three Hundred Sixty-Four since the Fall of Vengeance
After an hour of reading—frequently interrupted by nervous glances at my surroundings in fear of being caught—I was finally able to summarize the contents of the book in my own retelling.
Everything around us is suffused with energy. All kinds of energy. Even we—and everything that surrounds us—are a unique form of it. And we humans constantly absorb another kind of energy. The Ancients discovered that this absorption could be trained, and the gathered energy directed for one's own purposes. To become mighty like the heavens themselves. This path they called Ascension.
The first step on this path was named Meridian Tempering. Within the human body, amid many systems, the Ancients uncovered a unique network of organs responsible for interacting with energy. This system is highly branched and spreads through the entire body. For a normal person, it's impossible to detect at first. Veins carry blood. Meridians carry energy. A student stepping onto the path of Ascension must mentally imagine their entire body drawing in energy from the surrounding world and directing it into growth—or more plainly, into the development of meridians. Once strengthened, these meridians act as channels, allowing absorbed energy to be spent on useful work.
The simplest way to spend energy, and the traditional test of Ascension since ancient times, is weightlifting. It can also be directed toward flexibility, speed, or bone strength. But lifting a known mass is the easiest way to measure progress.
I glanced at the stone pedestals with handles of every imaginable size filling the shed. A newborn with only their birth-given channels is considered to have one star of meridian tempering. By age ten, when training begins, most children are considered to have reached two stars. Some boys even pass the exam with three or four. Yet lifting test weights is an approximate, crude measure that doesn't account for muscle size. And that's where all Ascension practitioners face their great trial—described in the book as the Three Obstacles of Meridian Tempering.
The first obstacle: those tempering their meridians cannot feel, let alone see, the energy flowing through them. And often, even during training, a practitioner cannot learn to absorb more than the base energy they were born with.
The second obstacle: even after learning to absorb extra energy, many mistakenly direct it to building what's easiest to sense—the muscles. They swell into hulking towers of muscle, perhaps strong enough to pass the final exam's bar of 400 kilograms. But they will never break through to the Spirit Warrior. Their meridians remain thin and undeveloped. If an examiner uses the Gauge—a crafted artifact that reads the thickness of meridians—the truth is laid bare. The pride of such a man crushed. Imagine believing yourself on the verge of Warrior status, only to discover your Ascension barely reaches five or six stars. Brutal. Now I understand why Orikol screams at his students.
The third obstacle is the hardest: talent. You may learn to absorb energy consciously, direct it properly to the invisible meridians—and still find they refuse to grow. The norm is to reach ten stars by age sixteen. With good talent, that's achievable in four years. My father was twenty-nine when he died. His talent seemed close to zero—but it's important to remember that he returned from the wrong path of muscle growth, redirected his energy, achieved the tenth star, and became a Warrior—without guidance, only scraps and retellings from the discarded. All in four years. That's a solid talent. And talent matters—because they say if a person's gift is strong, their children usually inherit it. And vice versa.
That's why the entire population of the Zero Ring consists of castaways—those who drifted here after failing in higher Belts. I smirked crookedly at that part. My father truly was strong. But his ancestors were thrown down here for failing their Ascension. Just like my mother's, who never rose past the eighth star.
I shook my head, pushing away dark thoughts. She never strove for Ascension. And looking at her slim, sculpted figure, no one would doubt that a 300-kilogram exam lift was done through developed meridians. As advice for overcoming all three obstacles, the book recommends closely following a teacher's guidance—and at the slightest doubt, asking them to use spiritual vision to inspect energy flow in the meridians. "Jokers," I thought wryly about those who published this book. Where did they expect to find teachers with spiritual sight in the Wasteland? Warriors appear here, sure—but they don't have that ability. Maybe in the far-off Second and Third Belts, there are attentive mentors who care for their students and actually possess such vision. But even there, judging by the drunken tales of Orikol, such people are as rare as dried trees in our desert.
I looked at the weights again—this time with real intent. No one around? What's visible through the crack? Empty. Everyone's at work. All right—let's test my Ascension.
The result was fitting for a beginner. Third star. Fifty kilograms lifted with bugged-out eyes. I glanced at the stone marked with four rough stars—just looked. I knew my limits.
"All right then," I exhaled deeply. "What did the book say? If you're setting a goal—make it great. Let's aim for a mountain four years high. Let's see if I can climb it… or if I'll remain in the Zero Ring forever."