Eric gazed down for long moments at the ancient cracked leather tome his trembling hands gently stroked, wincing only momentarily when a flaking piece of cover actually managed to prick his finger.

And draw blood.

He smirked. “It’s almost as if I don’t have absurd damage resistance, blocking 36 points of physical damage from any attack source here,” he whispered to himself, pretending there weren’t shivers racing down his spine when the topmost cover went from a faded burgundy to a brilliant shade of ruby red… the cover repairing before Eric’s eyes and, odder still, the book was now firmly attached to the one underneath. As if the two covers had fused into one.

Licking suddenly dry lips, he ignore the pounding of his heart, the sudden feeling of imminent peril as he slowly, almost reverentially opened the cover of the first tome, eyes widening to behold a diagrammatic chart similar to the one in Samuel’s cultivation manuel. Only this one was so exquisitely complex, filled with countless interlocking fractal patterns as to make Sam’s book look like a child’s sketching of the true mystery of life, death, and existence itself, which this exquisite rendering seemed to capture so well.

Eric couldn’t help but be drawn in by the exquisite fractal pictogram, a trick of perception suddenly making it seem as if he were falling into the picture, the endlessly recursive design seeming to expand in all directions.

Then he truly was falling forward, lost in a state between sublime revelation and visceral terror as exquisite, endlessly repeating perfection grew warped and flawed with a hideous anomaly that made him scream in a hideous cacophony of discord when pristine perfection was ruptured by the incomprehensible anomaly that was life itself. From nucleic acids bonding in endlessly strange ways beside sulfur-rich steam vents, to methane-loving slime molds, to the tiniest fish swimming within the depths of the deep blue sea, to massive titans of water, air, and countless organisms now scurrying across the land itself.

And that was when he truly sensed it. That was when he finally understood.

Far from eternity’s glorious fractal being forever shattered, it had merely been transformed. Transformed in the ever more complex patterns life itself put forth. Patterns that stabilized to monotony when environmental pressures were minimized, yet blossomed to wondrous complexity when the perils of existence forced constant transformation, the evolution of life force-bloomed to the most magnificent versions of itself that it could possibly be. Before evolving even further, transforming itself in ways that none could have expected or predicted, weaving the most glorious tapestry imaginable upon the skein of existence itself.

At that moment, Eric thought he finally understood.

Death so often served Entropy, the ultimate ender of countless biological futures. True. But it was also the primary force pushing forth evolution, transformation, and the eventual blossoming of an entire species.

Humans would never have developed into thinking, feeling creatures capable of love, language, and tools, if those traits hadn’t aided in their survival, as competitors who lacked those gifts fell by the wayside, consumed by oblivion, never to rise again. And how many stories were told over campfires about the endless hunts of brave warriors running down elk, deer, bison, mastodon, and countless other creatures whose deaths assured the continuing survival of mankind?

The number was beyond count.

Because death was life’s eternal companion, its little shadow, married together in a dance responsible for the grandest patterns to be found anywhere in the divine play that was existence itself.

And much to his wonder and horror, Eric realized he understood that dance like never before. And his place in it as well.

Even when he opened his eyes to find himself standing absolutely naked, save for his mithril blade sheathed to his hip, his favored brush for the masterworks he was most fit to create. No matter the goosebumps prickling his skin when a chilly wind gifted from the cold blue sky rustled the grass all around him.

He furrowed his brow, peering thoughtfully at the endless sea of grass all around him, spotting snow capped mountains in the far-off distance, somehow knowing with the certainty of dreams that could only be the Mongolian steppe, countless centuries before his world had come to an end.

He frowned at the lack of life, the lack of variety he sensed, knowing these lands were capable of more. So much more.

So he closed his eyes and focused his will on the nomadic tribes scattered for countless miles in all directions, and within the nitrate rich soil as well. Inspiring as best he could an infusion of fecund growth. Expansion. And fierce competition.

As microbe battled microbe and grass constricted nettle and tribe of man fought countless other tribes as the air rang with the din and cry of battle, the soil drank deep of the rich bounty of flesh and blood that transformed those semi arid plains into rich black soil as the weak were purged, the strong continued to blossom and grow, the very struggle of existence itself, forming the most fertile ground from which life could blossom as never before.

Eric trembled and howled with revelation, his understanding of a Contender’s Path, and his own role within this world, becoming warped, twisted, and gloriously illuminated as Death’s sensual whispers thrummed through his soul, his abilities blossoming as never before.

Congratulations! You have dared to embrace Death’s Boon! The territories you conquer will blossom to unspeakable heights as oblivion itself commands its evolution!

Each territory you place upon the Path of Endless bounty will have one additional Lesser Boon as a thousand generations of fiercest competition transforms plants, soil, even magical potential itself to new heights of desperate glory, struggling endlessly for survival in a world more ruthless than any mortal could possibly comprehend!

Eric closed his eyes even as he embraced this darkest of blessings, understanding the path he now walked, but refusing to let it consume him utterly. Because mercy and compassion were as much a part of who and what he was as the dark savagery that the crucible of survival had kindled within his soul.

For the most gifted to ascend, to shape this realm, to shape existence itself into a miracle worthy of itself, then the unworthy must fall. It was a truth that now blazed within his soul.

But it was for him to determine what defined unworthy. Those who reveled in malice, those who preyed upon the vulnerable, those who manipulated and twisted cultural norms meant to protect and used them instead to destroy... those assholes were all at the top of his list. And no one had earned his undying wrath more than the humanoid invaders that thought nothing of butchering his family and friends and countless billions of others in their furious bid to claim Earth as their own. Save for redemption as Revenants, the rest could burn in hell for all time, as far as he was concerned.

But he would doom no child to the darkest of epiphanies.

And he would doom no child to the bitter folly of genetic lotteries.

Nor would he force them to suffer the contempt and disdain of what he knew would be an ever more ruthless world. No child would be born in any realm that had known the taste of his soul without having every chance at success, every gift evolution could bring to him or her that had ever resonated within their family tree.

You have embraced the hidden perk: Oblivion’s Mercy!

All territories that know your touch will suffer the Low Birthrate Bane!

All children born of or conceived by man or elf within territories you have forged will enjoy the Gifted Trait Boon. All such offspring will have a sharply increased likelihood of possessing pristine meridian gates of various configurations! (All children with any intact meridian gates whatsoever will be capable of using ascension pods.)

No child born or conceived within said territories will suffer any adverse genetic mutation or birth defects. All children born within those territories will be unusually beautiful, as pristine genetic templates result in glowing health!

Never had Eric experienced anything quite so profound as he did in those endless moments, lost in the pulse and thrum of existence itself as it continued to struggle, perish, and evolve. A never-ending tapestry embracing change where once there had been nothing but perfect recursion, a glorious symphony of triumph, death, and glory.

A second became a single hour that stretched to so many days spanning years. Then those years became centuries until millennia had passed, and the now fertile steppes were covered in massive herds of horses that might have been shorter than many ponies, but were stocky in build and could canter with a lightly armored warrior on its back for countless miles across the plains.

Over a single cycle of cultivation that spanned countless years, a city boiled out of the plain. One made of massive tents of tanned skins and domed huts of peat-moss and an evergrowing number of buildings faced with fire-hardened clay.

And how strange it was to feel the chilly morning dew on the grass he now stepped through, icy winds whipping his hair back as he steadily made his way toward the city he had been staring at over centuries… or just a handful of minutes.

Yet now it was an ever growing number of herders armed with recurved composite bows and angry glares that were staring his way, more than one fingering the pommels of the wickedly curved swords sheathed to their saddles. Of course all of them were kitted for war, with open faced helms of bronze, and lamellar armor made of horn or bone.

Eric paid them little mind, approaching the city proper unimpeded, the air now rich with the scents of manure, burning dung, wood smoke, and the raucous sounds of warriors and traders.

Much to his surprise and pleasure, there was also the delightful scents of perfume, spice, and grilled meat also gracing the pallet of palpable aromas swirling around Eric.

Eric though it strange that no one approached him directly, save for a pair of horsemen who paled so strangely when he politely turned his gaze their way… before both bowed their heads with a deference he certainly hadn’t been expecting, and quickly cantering off.

Eric shrugged and paid them no more mind, his focus once more locked upon the tantalizing aroma of blood and power that he just knew was the secret thread to this, the second tome he suspected he was now studying far more… viscerally than any other set of books he had ever read before.

He couldn’t help but grin in excitement as restless feet were soon racing through the ancient city, adroit footwork and exquisite senses all that saved him from a number of near collisions as he darted past busy tradesmen, laborers, and warriors as he made his way toward the source of that enticing scent of crimson essence. Essence that cried out to him not just as a bloodmage, but as a cultivator.

Until he found himself before what might well be the largest building he had seen so far in this tent-like city, made entirely of fire hardened clay and radiating a potency that made Eric’s teeth tingle as his lips stretched in a wide grin.

This was it. Somehow he knew that the way forward to advancing himself as a cultivator could be found within this building.

He gazed down thoughtfully at his entirely naked arms, peering carefully at what amounted to crimson tattoos now forever seared into his flesh and spirit self, inspired by his mentor and somehow transformed as well by the pristine spiritual energies of the 12 Divine spirit fruit he had dared to not only consume but anchor within his meridians for all time.

It was a boon that should have taken years for him to forge on his own. Or a childhood background of intense tutors and training he might have had, but not in any cultivation sense, this all as new to him as magic was to almost all the natives of Earth.

He had access to an incredible font of power, his his blood magic affinities and essences and the ability absorb and profit from the potency of his kills, allowing him to make fantastic use of tattoos that he suspected few standard cultivators could emulate. But if he wanted to advance any further along this path, he needed a competent artist, preferably a master, who could complete the work that his mentor Pavel had inspired, and divine spirit fruit had perfected.

There would be plenty of time later, or so he hoped, for him to study the nuances of what he would accomplish simply by brute-forcing experience points along channels scribed by others with far more skill than he. Even if right now he was essentially trying to paint-by-numbers his way to ideal cultivation. A move doomed to disaster and folly in any Xianxia novel, he was sure, where the young hardworking disciple who spends years in careful cultivation and reflection one day wiped the floor with all the hotblooded idiots looking for quicker paths forward.

But this wasn’t a cultivation novel.

He wasn’t a young isekai protagonist with a magnificent mist-shrouded cultivation academy to call home, populated by wide masters and hundreds of potential friends to help him find his best past path forward.

Instead he was a soldier at war, whose only goal was preserving as much of his home and heritage as he possibly could from countless factions populated by the privileged elites of countless clans who had probably enjoyed the very halcyon backgrounds he could only fantasize about. Paths to wisdom and power, as both mages and cultivators, that were systematically and deliberately denied his people entirely.

He needed to use every damned tool at his disposal not just for his own benefit, but for everyone who called his planet home.

Once he purged the vile threats plaguing his world, if such a thing was even possible, then he could work on improving himself, using every lesson he had learned just trying to survive to give those he loved the best future that he possibly could.

His smile was bittersweet, but he still gazed upon the carved channels in his flesh with pride. The most hackneyed of shortcuts it might have been, but it had been further shaped and refined by the most pristine source of spiritual energy to be found in a cultivator’s pocket realm... perhaps the most prized treasure of an entire world.

That had to count for something.

Of course he knew that were probably far better paths he could be walking. There must be. But he had absolutely no access to them. And even if he did, with the world that he knew and loved in play, with its fate being decided in months or just a small handful of years, he didn’t have time to embrace any path save one that emphasized raw power above all else. So he was perfectly fine with brute-force shoving potency... or just call it what it was, raw experience points, along peripheral channels someone else had helped to carve into his flesh.

Before he reinforced it with his own blood magic affinities, of course. So that those tattoos truly became a part of him. Far more than simply marking his flesh, the became an echo of his soul and helped to shape his very foundation as well. And if that meant he was hindering his later chances of ascending past White tier as a Cultivator while marring his entire body with exotic refracting tattoos, then so be it.

Because the bottom line was that his mixed feelings and personal reluctance meant nothing. This was far, far bigger than him getting the ideal multiclass build. He needed whatever power he could find along his crooked crimson path, and he needed it now.

There would be plenty of time for regrets and second-guessing, once the crisis surrounding Earth was over.

One way or another.