Behemoth [Primordial Titan Cultivation/LitRPG]

Cyril paced back and forth across the room, burning off some of the manic energy seeping through his body. Reason was beginning to win out, his mind picking at the little information he knew in order to form a coherent narrative.

He had stumbled upon a symbol imbued with great significance, containing truths that its creator hadn't bothered shielding from those whose souls were too weak to resist them. Perhaps that was the whole point--to influence others to follow the intent behind the symbol, to convert them to the maker's cause.

Many powerful cultivators left behind an Inheritance, hoping their legacies would achieve the immortality they failed to seize during their own lifespan. Only someone with a similar Destiny to the progenitor could receive the full benefit from an Inheritance. Some distributed their teachings as widely as possible, hoping to find prodigies among the masses, while others sought a single, perfect disciple.

Most commonly, the progenitor would transcribe their methods and insights into a manual. Even a mundane could read a mass-produced copy of these teachings, though utilizing the information remained beyond their means. Looking at a diagram of a bird's wing didn't allow a person to fly, after all.

Often, collectives came to power based around the egotistical scribblings of some esteemed ancestor--be they tribes, sects, guilds, or whatever other term a culture used to refer to their hierarchical structure of cultivators. His own Wandering Phoenix Tribe descended from the philosophies of an ancient matriarch.

More personal methods of teaching existed beyond simple writing. Illusions, visions, dreams, trials, dungeons--even autonomous soul fragments that assumed the role of personal tutor. There were countless ways an Inheritance could spread its teachings to a new generation.

In a way, the creator of the symbol Cyril encountered had used the most basic form of transmission: writing. Yet, he had managed to imbue so much information into a few strokes of his stylus. A practitioner of the Dominion of Knowledge, maybe?

The Destiny hinted at in the rune had been similar enough to Cyril's own that it had immediately latched onto him. He met the qualifications to carry on the progenitor's legacy, and so it had attempted to subvert his fate in order for him to carry on the inheritance. Unfortunately for the symbol, it had encountered someone whose Destiny far surpassed that of its creator.

One's Destiny, in a way, referred to their soul, but on a deeper level. It was atemporal, reflecting the entirety of a cultivator's nature: both Prince Cyril and Behemoth, before, during, and after their bond. Past, present, and future, crystallized into one unique fate. Everything he had ever done, and everything he would ever do.

His Dominion of Knowledge allowed him to decipher his own soul in the present, sorting his identity, affinities, Blessings, and the like into distinct categories. It was a frozen glimpse of his Destiny--incomplete, lacking prescience. Only a higher-realm being, one that had ascended beyond time and causation, could comprehend the entirety of a Destiny. Or, Cyril supposed, a Diviner on the level of a god.

Though the concept remained strange and ethereal to him, the symbol's attempt to influence him helped map the boundaries of his Destiny. It resonated with his soul at certain junctions, hinting at a commonality between those aspects of his existence and those of the progenitor.

Cyril was unsure what the rune represented, only that it was also related to Earth. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't remember any of the intricate details it had attempted to impart on him. Perhaps he could have if he hadn't raged against its influence, fragmenting and suppressing the inheritance it sought to bestow; these broken shadows hid in the depths of his subconscious, likely groveling at Behemoth's feet.

He did, however, recall the shape of the rune he had shattered. By itself, the symbol had no meaning beyond a few scribbled lines. The intention and spirituality of the carver were what had imparted such great significance.

Cyril cast his Mind Scroll Cantrip, bringing a blank scroll to the forefront. Just in case, he drew the rune in disjointed sections and inverted them as if looking at it through a mirror. He stared at it for a moment, arms crossed. Nothing happened. Behemoth had returned to its slumber, uninterested in examining some indecipherable symbol.

After a minute, Cyril dismissed the Mind Scroll. Someday, he would match it up with outside records and figure out what it represented. It could be the name of the prior occupant or their spirit, a religious icon, or something else altogether.

At least he had added a couple of higher-grade materials to his Transmute Cantrip, even if they were innately tainted. Focusing on the positives helped bank the embers of his rage. He forced a smile onto his face.

Time to move on.

The marble of smoke guided him towards the exit door. He pulled on its handle and, like its twin predecessor, it creaked open with minimal resistance. Flicker darted out, illuminating the next section: a tunnel, wide enough for him to fit comfortably, curving subtly to the left so that he soon lost sight of the flame. Rusted iron supports lined the walls, preventing the passage from collapsing in on itself.

"Can't even make an entire thing out of metal?" Cyril muttered, lowering his estimation of the mystery figure's power slightly.

Peak Nascent Soul, perhaps? That was around the power of a desert lord. Several tiers above Cyril's current abilities, though such comparisons between realms could be deceiving. Most cultivators took longer to ascend from Late to Peak Nascent Soul than all their previous breakthroughs combined. Core evolutions were also only one aspect of a cultivator's soul. Constitutions, bloodlines, Dominion affinities, mental conditioning, combat experience, enchantments, professions--there were many other means to elevate one's prowess. Each Destiny was unique, the actualization of one's personal efforts to reach the pinnacle. Such differences created quite a bit of variance among those who considered one another peers. One cultivator could perfectly counter a stronger opponent, and also be helpless against someone beneath them.

Yet, despite this interpersonal chaos, no one who had reached Peak Nascent Realm could be in any way considered weak.

Still, Cyril wasn't too concerned. He planned on reaching that level sooner rather than later. When that came, he was confident in his ability to face the symbol's creator.

Assuming he's not waiting right around the corner. Cyril shook his head, dismissing the thought. After forming another Flicker, he stepped into the tunnel.

As he walked along, a small discrepancy came to his attention. His Earth affinity allowed him to sense his surroundings on a vague, metaphysical level. At his current level, it was little more than a heightened awareness that he was surrounded by countless tons of stone and dirt. For the most part, he ignored the intrusive sense unless he was attempting to detect tremors from nearby monsters.

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Now, the rusted iron stood out to the point it captured his attention. Something about it felt slightly more real than the surrounding earth. It became impossible to ignore as he passed by more and more of the supports, his gaze drawn to them.

A sinking feeling in his gut, he skimmed through his soul. He breathed a sigh of relief after reading through the Transmute Cantrip. It looked as expected. He remained in high spirits until he came to the bottom of the transcribed information.

The rune had left a taint on his soul.

Cursed Blessing:
Scion of the Underdark (partially suppressed)- increased affinity to metal

That's all? he thought. I doubt it.

Scion, he knew, was a term westerners used to describe the heirs-apparent to noble houses or other grand institutions. Presumably the Underdark was the name of the subterranean region he found himself in. More concerning was the term 'Cursed Blessing.' The term indicated a hidden downside. Hopefully, it wasn't too serious if his Dominion of Knowledge didn't bother mentioning it.

He doubted he was so lucky.

At least he hadn't developed a new Dominion. Something like Metal wouldn't have been the worst outcome. It could fit into his Destiny as long as it didn't dominate the other aspects, but he would've preferred to naturally develop it as part of his own path instead of having it grafted onto his soul.

The Dominion of Darkness, on the other hand, may have tainted his bond with Behemoth irreparably. The Titan may have spent countless years wandering through the dark depths of the ocean and under the night sky, but it hadn't enjoyed them.

What an insidious Destiny he had stumbled across. Unless they had their own method of soul analysis, anyone influenced by it would think they had chanced upon a priceless inheritance. Based on the spiritual distinction between the rusted iron and surrounding earth, his affinity towards metal had surpassed the other materials by around 20%. A wonderful boon, at the cost of upsetting the balance and incentivizing him to specialize in a sub-element.

Cyril shook his head and continued walking along, following the marble of smoke. The tunnel seemed near endless, uniform in size and direction throughout. For a few minutes, he suspected he had been trapped in some sort of loop, or maybe a perfect circle where he would eventually end up right back where he started.

Figuring he may be trapped for a while and not wanting to waste his core's rapid regeneration, he began experimenting. First he manifested the upper half of a stone spear, including the blade, out of Earth qi. The rest of the shaft could be added on later once he wasn't in such a cramped space.

It took him longer than he would have liked to mold the earth the way he wanted. While his qi control with Knowledge and Sun was exceptional, sculpting dense materials like stone required a different approach. After a minute, finally satisfied with the shape and weight of his half-weapon, he moved on to the next step.

Channeling Transmutation properly still required a few seconds delay as he struggled with the rhythm. Better than his first attempt, at least. The subtle cracks in his hand pathways had already repaired themselves, slightly more resilient than before.

It wasn't much, but progress was progress.

This time, he attempted to transform the stone shaft into Rotten Wood (?). A tenth of his qi seeped into the weapon before one of the lower corners changed into dark, splintered oak.

He paused before beginning the process again. The faintest tremor carried from the earth ahead. A bizarre chittering sound rang out. Too small and quiet to be more than a freshly-hatched wyrmling.

He cast his second Flicker out ahead and discovered the offending critter quickly. To his surprise, it was a new type of subterranean creature. A black beetle the size of a man's head clung to the wall, its thin, translucent wings spread wide and shimmering. Its pincer-like mandible chittered as it detected his approach. It looked innocuous enough, at least compared to the other denizens of the Underdark.

Cyril wasn't too surprised to find the Underdark's ecosystem extended beyond the wyrms. They had to eat something besides one another to sustain their population's replacement rate. Beetles were less disgusting, at least.

He took one step too far, and the beetle detached from the wall, its wings whirring. It condemned itself to death by heading toward him instead of retreating. A quick Pressure crushed it against the wall, cracks ringing out as its chitinous shell imploded. Its feeble wisp of death essence nourished his Dominion of Gravity.

From farther ahead came a susurrus of thrashing mandibles and buzzing wings. Traces of blue-green moss began to appear along the walls, emitting a faint bioluminescence. A pair of beetles crept along the outskirts, mandibles dipping to chew on the moss. Once Cyril came close enough, they too flung themselves to their demise. He daintily picked his way past their crushed bodies and sipped up their death essence.

The streaks of luminous moss soon bloomed into a tapestry, and from there spread to cover almost every inch of the tunnel. Dozens of beetle shadows flowed ahead of him.

He resisted the temptation to flood the tunnel with Sun qi. Lighting the dense carpet of moss on fire may very well trigger the release of a cloud of toxic spores, or just end up roasting him inside a raging inferno of plant matter. Neither of which sounded too appealing. His resistance to fire didn't extend to smoke, and it would be a rather ignoble death to suffocate in some random tunnel.

Cyril tested his spear against the next suicidal beetle. The stone head barely managed to pierce through the carapace before shattering. He shoved the twitching body from the weapon with one of his feet and reformed the broken spearhead with Earth qi.

The beetle's futile charge spurred the others forward. Cyril had to admit it was kind of fun knocking them out of the air with repeated applications of Pressure. Most of them found their mark, but his aim wasn't perfect. The misses, as well as the short gap between one Pressure and the next, allowed a couple to sneak through the barrage.

He flung the half-spear, skewering the beetle in front out of the air. The other insect dove straight at him, directly into the path of his fist. He threw all his prodigious weight behind the blow; the beetle exploded like an overripe fruit.

Disgusted, he shook his hand clean. A quick glance confirmed all the beetles were destroyed or had fled the slaughter.

His stomach rumbled, reminding him of his hunger. He wasn't quite at the point where he'd start shoveling mouthfuls of insect and moss into his gullet, but he was getting close.

After only a few hundred more paces, he crushed another four beetles, harvesting their death essence as he progressed forward. His Dominion of Gravity had reached a respectable 55/100, each beetle increasing the tally by about half a point.

He wouldn't have minded spending all day in the tunnel, accumulating easy essence at such a fast rate. Most basic creatures released a negligible amount, but after surviving for gods-knew-how-long in the ferocious gauntlet of the Underdark, the beetles had evolved into low-rank monsters. Even the moss had probably developed unique qualities; Cyril imagined if it was transplanted into some aboveground forest, it would bury the rest of the flora within days.

While fantasizing about coming across a horde of thousands of beetles, he finally reached the end of the passage. Beyond the exit, the Flicker Cantrip that had floated ahead of him cast its feeble illumination into a new cavern. Luminous moss crept through the opening and spread out into the new space, contributing its own dim, eerie glow to the area.

Cyril sent the Flicker at his side to join its twin and poured Sun qi into both of them. Soon, they blazed like a pair of miniature suns.

The exit of the tunnel was embedded into the side of a sheer cliff. He would have plummeted about a hundred paces if he had walked off the edge. The fringes of the pale light reached out miles in every direction and still hadn't found any sign of the far walls. It did, however, reveal a breathtaking sight spread below.

Row after row of elegant stone buildings. Spires and towers reaching upward like the fingers of a buried colossus. Most of the structures were in ruins, but a few of them looked as if they had been constructed yesterday. A great, looping river coursed through the city, its water crystal clear.

Shadows flitted here and there--monstrous forms shrouded in darkness.

Cyril grinned. So this was where the Great City of Beljeza had disappeared to.