With a short sigh, Corco paused in his writing for a moment and put down the feather quill. Even though his memory had always been exceptional, in either life, he had spent every free minute writing down the precious knowledge in his head. Just to make sure. Since no one else would be able to read the otherworld's language, there was no threat of leaks, so he didn't have to censor himself and could write to his heart's content. Still, it wasn't exactly fun, neither for him nor for his wrist. As a result, he tried to loosen the stiffness with a few turns of his hand. The constant work had really worn on him, but it was work which had to be done. The precious knowledge would be the basis to everything, the basis of their counterattack, not only against the Duke of Balit, but against the world itself.

As a distraction from the discomfort in his cramped fingers, he looked around himself to observe the simple, clean room. With satisfaction, he had seen the quality of their temporary shelters jump up ever since they had left Eniila. They had moved back west again, over the entire length of the continent. With every station they passed, every royal court they had entered, his weight as great seer and messenger of the Lords had grown, until they were allowed to stay in the castle proper, in rooms which would otherwise be reserved for real nobility.

However, their current location was, in fact, far removed from the castle, which was also reflected in the open nature of Corco's surroundings. Quite unlike the usual style of the Arcavians, the large, mostly empty room opened up towards a clean, simple garden, which sported a small pond as its center piece. Proof of the cosmopolitan nature of Whiteport, the latest station of their journey. No surprise, as the city was positioned on the very western edge of Arcavia. Just over the Sea of Faith, they would enter into Shimoa, enemy lands occupied by the heathens. The simple, open gardens were a remnant from the time the Shimoa people had occupied the eastern coast of Arcavia. Even though the invaders had been gone for centuries, in their years of occupation they had left behind much of their culture.

Within the simple yard, right before the pond and among the neatly trimmed grass, sat his chubby ward, sunk into deep concentration. A sudden movement from Brym made Corco's shoulders jerk up in reflex, guilty that he had been slacking off even as the boy had been hard at work. The young merchant jumped up and turned. With short, quick steps, he rushed over to Corco, excitement written in his features as much as in his breaking voice.

“Big Bro, Big Bro! I felt it! It's true!”

Corco first raised one brow in confusion, and then the second as he understood what Brym's words really meant.

“You felt the World's Flow?”

Just short of Corco's seat, Brym broke his rush with his hands stemmed against the large table with the scattered efforts of the prince's work. Out of breath, the boy nodded his head like a pecking chicken.

“I do. I just felt the waves everyone's been talking about! Never had I thought I could learn cultivation, not with my heritage.”

“Yeah, it's a nice surprise. You were pretty fast as well, most people need a year of training. You stayed just under.” While the boy began to blush and rub his head from embarrassment, Corco sank into thought. Cultivation was one of the few things he truly didn't understand in this world. As far as he knew, the meditative art had not existed in his other life, not in this form. Only in fantasy stories would people possess strange powers like the ones which had felt so natural to Corco all his life. It was a strange discrepancy, and not something which fit into his new rational world view. Still, enough experimentation should help him figure out the mechanics behind the miracle. Brym's cultivation training was a nice start, one which proved that those without noble bloodline could learn the mysterious techniques as well as anyone. For the societies of this world, the implication of wide-spread cultivation would be huge.

“Big Bro!” Brym raised his voice at Corco, who had drifted off far into the future. In recent months, this had happened a lot. Now that his knowledge had been expanded to such a degree, there were far too many things he had to consider.

“Hm? What did you say?”

“I just asked... if maybe it was a bad idea to teach me these things. It's your family's secret, isn't it?” With his nervous look pointed at the floor, Brym mumbled his question again. This time, Corco reacted with a smile rather than with silence.

“First of all, it's not that secret. The World's Flow is a technique meant for normal warriors of the Pluritac clan, not the imperial family. Many people have been taught these techniques for lesser reasons. Not to mention, we are family, so teaching you a family technique should be fine. You're not gonna deny that, are you?”

His nervousness blown away, Brym shook his head with a happy grin which made his hair violently flow around his ears. “So what happens now? Do I keep going? If I keep going, will I get as tall as Fadelio? Will I grow a beard like Atau? Will I be able to shoot fire like in the stories?”

His hands raised, Corco tried to contain Brym's enthusiasm. “Wait, wait. One second. Also, one question at a time. It's important you don't overdo it with both seconds and questions. And breathing. Should remember that one as well. First of all: For today, we'll pack things up. Getting into the right mindset again will take you a lot of meditation... and it's getting late.”

With a look out onto the garden, reddening in the evening sun, the prince decided to pack things up.

“Second,” he continued, “you're not gonna get much taller. Just look at me.”

“You're plenty tall though, Big Bro” the merchant's son said. His eyes followed up Corco's head as he rose on his feet, far above the stubby merchant kid.

“For a commoner maybe, but not for a noble. For a noble, I'm tiny. By the way, there's a good reason why the nobles in every country values height this much. For fuck's sake, they've pretty much selectively bred themselves. ”

Corco bent over the table to collect the loose papers, densely scribbled with his hand writing. They would be bound and then stored in their carts for safekeeping, together with the wine and the money. As he went through his daily cleanup, he continued his explanation.

“Cultivation won't make you taller, as far as I can tell. It also won't let you shoot fireballs. Those stories are just that: Stories. Made up. Miracles like that make for good creation myths after all, and the Arcavians needed a damn good one to suppress the Pacha faith.” Even before he had been banned from entering their academy, Corco had always been bothered by the Arcavian religion. Now, with his new perspective, he understood even more the arrogance of declaring your dead kings gods. No one had any right to feel special just because they had killed a lot of people or conquered a lot of land. Even if the Arcavus fanatics hadn't driven Corco's ancestors out of the continent and across the ocean, he still wouldn't have liked them any more than he did.

“So if it won't let me do any of that, what does the cultivation do then?” Brym, more interested in his training rather than another one of Corco's rants, tried his best to redirect the conversation. In the meantime, the two had exited the grand building and gone out into the ill-smelling streets of Whiteport.

“For now, my best guess is that this cultivation stuff is some sort of... pinpointed gene-manipulation? I'm not sure though. The results of each technique can vary, but you'll only ever get improved human capability. More efficient muscles, faster cell regeneration, slower aging process. That's also why the nobles hope for tall children. If you start with a gap in strength before you cultivate for better muscles, a small difference will turn into an insurmountable one. Even though both me and Fadelio are cultivators, even though I'm training in the methods reserved for only the imperial princes, I'm nowhere near as strong as him.”

As Corco made his explanation, they were well on their way back to the castle. The castle itself was built for protection, so the kings and queens of Whiteport would be able to sleep at night. With the enemy just a single boat trip away, they were always fearful to have their riches taken by a Shimoan invasion from across the sea. Since the castle had been designed to avoid weak points, the entire palace lacked any water features beyond cisterns. Since his family's techniques required nearby water as a focus, they had to move out of the castle and into the city for Brym's training. Luckily, the king was more than willing to provide a suitable room in the inner city. After Corco had predicted a prosperous future for him and his family, a little favor like that weighed very light.

“Still, getting stronger would be nice, and learning to fight...”

While Brym was still fantasizing about his future, the castle walls had come into view. Through the blinding sun, Corco could spot Fadelio's huge silhouette waiting for them by the entrance. Once again, the warrior had spent most of his free time scouring the various markets to look for any of the countless plants, seeds and animal breeds Corco had described in his writing and, somewhat insufficiently, attempted to sketch. By now, they had built an impressive collection of useful agrarian products, ready to be used in his future empire.

“Sire, are you the great seer, Corcopaca Fastgrade?”

Out of nowhere, a man spoke to them from the left. Corco looked over and saw tall shoulders with half-long, dirty-brown hair, which covered most of the man's face. He frowned at the stranger's sudden entry, but wasn't surprised. In the end, the unknown man was well-dressed and had spoken with a calm and polite attitude. Since their reputation had grown, there were many Lords who wanted to partake in his exclusive services. Many would address him in disguise or under any number of excuses, for fear that the local ruler would begrudge them stealing the one they considered the royal medium. Still, something about the man seemed off.

“Yes indeed sire. He stands before you. What can we-” While Brym was still talking, the man began to speed up. With swift steps he rushed ahead, over to Brym, his body turned to the side and his right hand hung behind his back.

Trouble!

“Brym, back!” Corco shouted. He knew what would come next. The prince pushed his feet off the dirty cobble and ran forward, ready to protect his dead master's son. In panic, all he could do was shove his ward to the side before he felt a stinging pain in his side. With large eyes, Corco looked up to the man who had just stabbed the dagger into his flank.

Too fast, too accurate.

No doubt about it, this one was a cultivator, and a good one. The man's dark eyes stared into his, a grim glimmer hidden within.

“Duke Herek sends his regards,” the man said, ready to pull away and disappear into the crowd. Within a split second, Corco's head turned from panic to anger. The man had waited to pass him off here. He had used his protection of Brym to create an opening, and now he would disappear after such a ridiculous villain line? Not if he had a word in this, only over his dead body! As his body remembered exercises it had never performed in this life, his hands grabbed the man's wrist, the one he had plunged the dagger with. With all his strength, the prince kept the attacker from running. Surprised by the resistance, the fleeing assassin was pulled back. A short twist of his arms and Corco saw the stranger drop onto the ground. Soon, the prince had dropped his knees on the attacker's back to restrain him.

Angry, the warrior began to stem himself into the dirt to throw off his mark, with a force far beyond human. Corco could feel his hand lose his grip bit by bit as he was bucked around and the pain in his side turned from stinging to searing. The attacker was much stronger than the prince himself, which could only mean one thing. He must have been a true knight, one of Herak's confidants.

This wasn't a fight Corco could win, not with the knife still plunged in his body. Luckily, he didn't have to. As the knight was about to fight off Corco's suppression, he saw an axe plunge itself deeply into the assassin's skull. Exhausted, Corco dropped onto his back. He looked up to see the face of his attendant, as white as freshly fallen snow. Over the beating pulse in his ears, he couldn't even hear Fadelio's panicked screams. The prince looked down onto his side and found the body of water he had been seeking inside the castle. It oozed out of his opened wound, faster and faster.

Well, this doesn't look great, was Corco's last thought before he lost consciousness.