Monver felt giddy and light, like he was walking on air. A rare breeze lightly caressed his skin and tousled his hair. He took a deep breath, enjoying the change from cool night to warm day. Antone exited his tent and joined Monver. The two men looked out over the enemy command tent. Antone could tell that Monver was in a good mood, so chose his next words carefully.

‘We’re cracking them open today,’ Antone said. ‘You're going to be one of the most powerful men on the planet. Congratulations.’ Monver smiled a little wider.

‘Another monster,’ Monver said. Antone didn’t know how to respond, so defaulted into a polite smile and nod. ‘I’m going to be another monster—one of the ones old masters warn their pupils about, before sending them off into the world.’

‘Yes, yes. Just leave my clan be, hey?’ Antone jokes.

‘Of course,’ Monver said, smiling. ‘The New Baskers have been nothing but… useful.’ Together they watched as one of Monver’s lieutenants roused the remaining men and sent them to attack the barrier. Monver could feel the artefact inside, pulsing with power. Each weapon strike weakened the barrier, and after 2 hours Monver grinned as the barrier’s power waned, fluctuated, then stabilised again. Whoever was keeping the barrier stable had lost concentration for a moment. ‘Enough!’ Monver shouted. The expedition force stopped their assault and moved back. Monver strutted his way to the barrier and, wrapping his hand in aura, lightly touched it. A ripple was cast out from his touch, almost as if the barrier had recoiled from him. Monver grinned; the time was ripe.

Monver drew his longsword, a black steel blade, taken off the first Ascendant he had killed, and carefully focused his aura around it. He walked back to his tent, all the while pouring more and more energy around the blade. The Ascension fruit Covens had so graciously gifted him had gone untested for too long. He came back to the entrance of his tent, then spun and struck in a single motion. A compressed wave of air shot out from the edge of his blade and slammed into the barrier. Orange and pink sparks fizzed up from the impact zone and were then spat out onto the ground, sizzling in the mud. The men around the tent covered their eyes from the kicked-up dust the air strike had left in its wake. The barrier lost its shape, the dome buckled and warped, and the sound of crackling reminded Monver of a pig on a spit. Monver went back into his tent and came out 20 seconds later wearing his official captain's cape and medallion. Just as he exited, the barrier fell, leaving the tent exposed. Monver held up his hand, forestalling any assault. He walked up to the tent flap and pulled it aside. The inside was lush, filled with pillows and blankets, leaving the interior feeling textured and homely. Monver spotted a prone man to his right, there was blood drooling out of his ears.

‘The barrier specialist,’ Monver guessed. ‘Tough bastard.’ In front of Monver was a group of soldiers. They were guarding a kneeling man who, arms outstretched, was cultivating his sword. Monver frowned. The cultivation was external, filling the air with a powerful aura. Monver’s smug expression disappeared. ‘The artefact,’ he said. ‘Where is it.’ The cultivating man stopped and opened his eyes. He was old and weathered. There were thick bags under his eyes and Monver guessed that he was at the peak of tier 1.

‘You will not find your prize here, young man,’ the old Ascendant said. Monver ignored him and made his way into the middle of the tent.

‘Nice tent,’ Monver commented. ‘I also prefer decorating with texture rather than colour. Must be a habit we picked up from our fathers and masters.’ Monver grunted, then sucked on his teeth. ‘You middle-tier trash also make things harder than they have to be!’ he suddenly shouted. ‘For once—for once—act like the dogs you are and just roll over and die.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, now quiet and subdued. ‘Tell me where the manual is and I’ll let your men live.’ The old man stood up.

‘I am Arlo Piper,’ the man said. ‘Of clan Piper. I challenge you to a—’ Monver struck out, pouring energy around his blade and releasing it in an air blast. The three men standing in front of Arlo were cut in half horizontally, simply not having the strength or training required to defend themselves against such an attack. The three remaining guards bravely charged. They attacked and Monver let the strikes land. He grunted from the pain but had guessed correctly, the starved men could not bring about enough strength to break his skin. Monver cut down the rightmost one with a well-aimed strike to the throat. Arlo finished reeling from the unexpected attack and rushed forwards to help his men, drawing an additional shortsword from its scabbard.

Before he could reach the fight, Monver had already turned and beheaded another of his comrades. Arlo screamed in rage and entered the fray.

Arlo was proving Monver’s match, and with the help of his remaining comrade, they began to slowly whittle away his defences. Arlo’s strikes were a threat that Monver kept conscious of, but it was his single remaining ally that caused the most trouble. The guard played it safe, letting Arlo create openings and striking out whenever he felt confident that he could pull out safely. The guard’s strikes kept knocking the wind out of Monver, allowing Arlo to fight with increased aggression. Monver sighed, he hated exerting himself more than necessary. During Arlo’s next attack Monver moved in and clinched him, wrapping his arms under his shoulders and pulling him into a tight hug. The guard behind Arlo immediately saw this as an opportunity to attack, and raised his sword high… it clattered to the ground as he met Monver’s eyes.

Monver flexed to keep Arlo in his grasp, but that wasn’t his focus. The single guard, now entranced, stared vacantly at Monver. Monver focused his aura and pushed it onto the guard. Even as an unascendant, the guard, like every person, had an innate resistance to aura suppression. The guard's nose started bleeding as he tried to push away the crushing weight bearing down on his soul. The guard marshalled his whole existence into a shield and raised it against Monver’s technique.

It wasn’t enough. The difference in Ascension was vast, a chasm that no normal man could bridge without training. The guard collapsed, eyes rolling into the back of his head. Arlo shouted out and pushed with a boost of adrenaline. As a parting gift, Monver leaned in and bit his cheek. Arlo stifled a scream as he pushed Monver off and retreated a fair distance to the back of the tent.

‘You’re a monster!’ Arlo said through gritted teeth. Monver chewed on the flesh in his mouth, then spat it out; tasteless trash. He grinned at Arlo, showing his bloody teeth.

‘Anything for victory, my stale little doe,’ Monver said, excited at the comparison. They both clashed, seeking the death of the other.

Five minutes later, Monver exited the command tent. He was covered in blood and his clothes were tattered. Dark red vein-blood covered his mouth and neck. He was grinning. Antone cleared his throat and dismissed the surrounding men, then made his way over to the captain.

‘I imagine you were successful?’ Antone asked.

‘Search the area,’ Monver ordered, eyes bright and distant, reliving something. Antone cleared his throat again, more as a nervous tic than for practical purpose.

‘And what am I searching for?’ he asked.

‘Strange aura,’ Monver said. ‘Check the whole camp. Oh, and clean up the mess in there.’ Antone nodded and watched Monver make his way back to his tent. Once the flap settled into place he let out a sigh of relief. They walked over to the command tent and called over 5 of the soldiers, or, “expeditionary members”, as he was supposed to refer to them during his report. He pulled open the flap, curious as to what the inside of the tent they had spent the better part of 4 days attacking looked like. The three, horizontally split bodies were the first thing that caught his attention. Their hearts seemed to still be pumping and thin drizzles of blood arched downwards, soaking into the fine carpets and rugs that adorned the ground. The smell hit him next. Thicker than anything he had smelled before, iron and blood. For him, as an aura-sensitive Ascendant, Antone felt a dual-pronged attack. The air was thick not just with the smell of recent death but the emotion of it. At the right of the tent lay a mostly untouched man in a white robe. Antone recognised the effects of aura starvation; it looked self-inflicted. In the middle of the split bodies was a man flayed of skin. Whatever technique Monver had used to kill him had left the front of his body bare. Antone could see where the man’s teeth were attached to his gums, with no flesh to hide them. He gagged, somehow that was the worst.

‘Clean this—’ Antone said, but the 5 soldiers had already ran out. Antone could hear retching outside. He shuddered.

Vaskir was sitting, cross-legged, on the sled. Cradow was more than happy to pull it along, mostly because he barely felt the weight of it. Covens was pulling Pravin’s sled and was less happy. Vaskir, after a mostly sleepless night, got an early start and Covens had set out to teach him how to cultivate. Pravin had also used his manual and bonded it with his blood, although, unlike Vaskir, had been unsettled by Covens and Cradows insatiable curiosity towards his stats, so had decided to keep them private. Vaskir noticed that his mind had drifted towards inane topics and he recentred himself, ignoring the occasional bump that Cradow pulled him over. To begin cultivating requires only 1 thing: the ability to feel what Covens referred to as “Chi”. Although Vaskir prefered to think of it as Energy. The manual had provided detailed instructions, but Covens still insisted on sitting down and cultivating for a few minutes in front of them. She said that seeing it done was what helped her break through and understand the process. As far as Vaskir could tell, she sat down and took a 5-minute nap before bouncing up and telling them to have a go.

The manual had been more insightful, giving multiple different examples of how people reached the correct mindset for proper cultivation. When you are at peace, you are meant to extend your senses to encompass everything around you. For Vaskir, this came only too easy. His years as a sellsword had honed his paranoia. Now it served him well, allowing him to hear, smell and taste the jungle around him in gruesome detail. The hard part was fighting down the urge to interpret the occasional twig snap as something other than a Duskstalker ambush. Vaskir had to breathe deeply and calm himself multiple times, and it was only after a half-hour that Covens noticed his breathing even out.

Vaskir was no longer a part of the environment, but an unbiased observer of it. In this calm state, it felt, to him, like examining the world through a pane of crystal clear glass. Next, both Covens, and the manual, had only stated to “take it all in”. Covens had likened it to reading: seeing the words and converting them to knowledge, or an image. Except, to cultivate, you had to interpret the world.

‘What the fuck does that mean?’ Vaskir thought, frowning.

‘Focus,’ Covens said, noticing Vaskir’s lapse. He grunted.

‘Take it all in. Take it all in. Taking it all in, baby,’ Vaskir thought then gave up. He opened his eyes. Cradow was crouching in front of him, his sparse, wispy moustache in Vaskir’s face.

‘You’re doing it wrong,’ Cradow said. Vaskir hadn’t even felt him stop pulling. Vaskir leaned back a little, his breath smelled like 7-year-old potatoes.

‘So what am I doing wrong?’ he asked.

‘Just the last bit,’ Cradow said. ‘You’ve already unlocked your aura, it’s just that you can’t sense it. My cousin went through the same thing. You’re going to piss a lot of Ascendants off if you don’t learn to control it, you're like an open brook.’

‘Book,’ Vaskir said.

‘No…’ Cradow said, frowning. ‘It’s brook.’ Covens had noticed the interaction and was staring at the two men, hand covering her mouth, hiding a smile. She cleared her throat.

‘Cradow does have a point. You’re most of the way there, you just can’t seem to look inward and draw all the energy you're touching inside.’ Vaskir had a plethora of questions but Pravin got there first.

‘How can someone unlock their aura if they didn’t even know they had one?’ Pravin asked. ‘Also, am I getting close? I feel like I’m doing pretty well.’

‘No. You’re genuinely terrible,’ Cradow said. Covens said nothing, which said enough.

‘Trauma. That’s the big one, and the only one an unascendant sellsword is capable of achieving. Have you experienced any trauma recently?’ Covens asked cheekily.

‘I got choked out and drowned in mud,’ Pravin said. ‘How come I didn’t unlock my aura?’

‘Maybe it’s 'cause you liked it?’ Cradow said offhand. Pravin flipped him off.

‘It takes a lot of introspection to achieve. Do you do a lot of thinking in combat?’ she asked. Pravin grimaced. ‘Well, there’s your answer.’

‘So I’m having trouble looking into myself outside of combat?’ Vaskir said, bringing the conversation back on track.

‘Yeah. You’re like a sword without a scabbard right now. If you were angry at any one of us or didn’t trust us, we’d be able to tell.’ Covens said. Vaskir’s eyes went wide. ‘Yeah. Don’t worry though, we get it. But, bottom line, get over whatever’s stopping you from looking in and you’ll be able to start cultivating. And don’t worry, most cultivators get a block like this. You’ll get over it.’

‘What’s my problem?’ Pravin asked.

‘Pretty sure you’re just too dumb for it,’ Cradow said. ‘You should work out more than just your muscles.’

‘I heard an alchemist say that the brain is the biggest muscle in the body, so…’ Pravin said, grinning at him.

‘You’re just having trouble focusing,’ Covens said. ‘A far simpler problem. Just keep practising.’ Pravin nodded and got back to trying to cultivate. Vaskir sighed, nothing in this world came easy.