Behemoth [Primordial Titan Cultivation/LitRPG]

Cyril woke up to the scent of a feast wafting past his nose. His stomach cramped, forcing him to wake up to a litany of other injuries competing for his attention. Burns, missing chunks tingling with phantom pain, hollow aching across his chest. Half of his body was raw and scraped. Most of all, the absence below his right forearm. Now that he was conscious, his myriad wounds were impossible to ignore.

During the fight, he had been able to delude himself about the extent of his injuries. Likely some combination of battle fever, the pressure from his gravity domain and materialized Earth qi sealing his wounds, lightening his own Mass, the invigoration of Sun qi…a whole confluence of factors that were no longer in effect. Leaving the prince feeling even worse than he had after being stepped on by Behemoth.

Cyril's core was full and intact, though the absence of his right arm below the elbow registered with his mind on a spiritual level--on top of the physical, metaphysical, and phantom. The loss of all the channels in the limb and the ability to perform two-handed mudras were by far the gravest setbacks he had suffered.

As the final insult, he knew he had over-exerted his physique. His entire body ached, down to the tiniest muscle he hadn't even been aware of until now. He'd seen mundane members of his tribe in a similar state in the past, and their recovery usually involved a few days of pissing brown until their kidneys cleared the liquefied muscle tissue from their system. His own convalescence should be brief in comparison, but likely no more pleasant.

While his body had been transformed into a natural Earth treasure, he hadn't developed a proper constitution yet. He would regenerate quicker than most, though the limb was a lost cause until he received treatment.

Once he reached his tribe, proper elixirs and the attention of a skilled healer would see his arm once again whole. But until he rebuilt his spiritual channels, it would be nothing more than a physical protrusion of flesh and bone. At least there was one benefit of still being in the Early Condensation Stage: his spirit was still malleable and relatively simple in composition.

Some tedious meditation would be necessary in the future to guide his spiritual repairs. While he felt some self-pity about his sorry state, he was more annoyed than anything.

The pain means you're alive, he told himself, staring at the darkness of his inner eyelids as if trying to escape within. He coughed, wincing at the scratchiness in his throat, and shifted to the side slightly to see if it would help. It didn't.

It did bring his attention to the fact he was laying upon a bed of vines.

The incongruity of his situation, not to mention the tantalizing aromas assaulting him, forced him to confront reality. He opened his eyes slowly, unsealing them from coatings of dried mucus.

Unsurprisingly, darkness greeted him.

With a thought, Cyril summoned a Flicker. The pale light revealed he was still in the atrium, in about the same location where he had collapsed. Off to the side was a basalt pit where he had annihilated Hunger-Made-Alive with volcanic qi.

Most importantly, there was a stone table laden with a feast right beside him. It was the same one he had encountered in the entrance hall of the palace. He almost leapt to his feet despite his sorry state. Had Hunger-Made-Alive survived their final exchange?

But no, that made no sense. It would have devoured him, not make him a bed and tempt him with poisoned food.

All of his constructed armor had vanished after he lost consciousness. Only the remnants of his tunic remained. It had been burned and shredded, but by the gods, it was as spotless as ever.

A light green balm glistened over most of his wounds, cooling down the feverish heat contained within them. The claw marks across his chest in particular looked atrocious, livid with violent erythema. Interestingly, all of his lacerations had scabbed over, and the superficial burns across most of his skin had already blistered and popped into streaks of straw-colored fluid.

The burnt stub of his right arm was encapsulated within a thin sheet of plant fiber. Looking down at it disturbed him on a visceral level. It still felt like the hand and forearm were intact, painfully squeezed into a tight fist he was incapable of relaxing.

Groaning, he forced himself into a sitting position. I think I preferred getting stepped on by Behemoth. Definitely.

His gaze returned to the food. Saliva flooded his mouth. If he was to be poisoned to death after everything, then so be it. He constructed a long clay ladle out of Earth qi and scooped up a cluster of the plump grapes resting near the edge. His trembling hand ended up pulling several dishes off the table, including the entire bowl of fruit.

A ridiculous part of his mind lambasted him for poor etiquette as he snatched up a handful of grapes from the floor. The rest of him paid it no heed, chomping one after another off the stem. Each one burst into the sweetest ambrosia imaginable.

Actual tears pricked his eyes. Intellectually, he realized they were the same as any other fruit, but in his current state, even a bunch of grass would have seemed like a meal fit for a king.

He bent over after shoving over a dozen of them into his mouth. His stomach cramped in protest, and he vomited the meager contents to the side. After so long without eating, his stomach couldn't handle much. Despite the loss, Cyril felt strangely full. At least, enough that he wasn't tempted to repeat the process.

Rationality began to trickle into his mind. He started to move into the lotus position and quickly disabused himself of the notion. Right--Hunger-Made-Alive had shredded his thighs. His savaged flesh was wrapped up in more bandages made from plant fiber.

Good thing it had missed the major arteries. He would have bled out in seconds. Most likely, the Ascended had done so on purpose in order to prolong his suffering.

You won, Cyril told himself. Don't let its specter haunt you. Learn from its mistakes--and yours.

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He channeled his Gravity domain as a warning against intruders. Then, taking a deep breath, he dove into his soul.

The first thing he noticed was the abundance of death essence crammed within him. Several hundred points worth remained unassigned. While he was asleep, far more had been split evenly across his Dominions except for Knowledge.

The thought disturbed him, but he figured he must have woken up at other points from fever dreams he could no longer remember. Not even Behemoth was capable of forcing him to assign essence unless he wished to. He had definitely been asleep for several days, so if he hadn't absorbed the energy, much of the spoils from defeating Hunger-Made-Alive would have been wasted as entropy.

Prince Cyril, Vessel of Behemoth
Early Condensation Stage

Dominions:

Sun, Second Sphere 492/1000
Knowledge, Second Sphere 781/1000
Earth, Second Sphere 561/1000
Gravity, Second Sphere 250/1000
Mass, Second Sphere 252/1000

Cantrips:

Flicker
Mind Scroll
Pressure
Reinforce
Transmute
Translate

Blessing:

Seed of Knowledge

Cursed Blessing:

Scion of the Underdark (partially suppressed)

Overall, he had gained more than a thousand points from Hunger-Made-Alive. It would have been enough to elevate one of his Dominions to the Third Sphere, but he hadn't exactly been in the proper state of mind to make that decision.

For a while, he debated what to do with the remaining death essence. He decided there was no real reason to continue investing heavily into Sun for now. It had been crucial for his survival, but now that immediate danger had passed, he wanted to better align his path with Behemoth.

With a thought, he brought the Dominion of Earth up to 861/1000. Distributing the death essence lightened a spiritual burden he hadn't even realized was weighing him down. No wonder his half-conscious mind had pushed it along.

A small smile managed to peek through his foul mood. Progress is progress.

With enough time and focus, he could reflect on his journey throughout the Underdark and naturally improve his Dominions through internalizing the insights he had acquired. A wealth of untapped memories awaited him. After everything he had been through, a month of meditation sounded like a dream.

The greatest benefit from his victory over Hunger-Made-Alive had not yet left a visible mark on his soul. Adjacent to those unmined memories was a new vein of potential. Fusing Sun and Earth qi had exposed his mind to a new conceptual possibility. It still remained abstract, uncertain, but if he wanted to pursue it, the Dominion of Volcanoes had revealed itself to him.

He could easily fuse his Dominions of the Sun and Earth to create it immediately, but that would have been a dreadful mistake on his part. The result would create the most powerful expression of the Dominion of Volcanoes imaginable. In exchange, he would lose out on an inconceivable amount of potential and versatility from the two affinities, restricting his Destiny to a fixed path. The choice was obvious.

Fortunately, it was possible to awaken the Dominion without sacrificing the other two. He had already tapped into the fundamental qi aspect by creating lava. From that knowledge, he could build the foundation for a personalized Dominion.

Most of the elite in his tribe had bonded to spirits, further expanding their metaphysical authority beyond their innate affinities. Still, out of hundreds, only a revered few had gone on to create a personalized Dominion. The last person to accomplish it earlier than their twentieth nameday was his revered Ancestor.

As much as he wanted to sit around for a couple weeks, nibbling on the feast and meditating, he needed to confirm something.

Cyril formed a stone cane and hauled himself to his feet. Fresh blood seeped through the fiber bandages around his thighs.

Before he could press forward, a figure slipped through the entrance. Its green-and-silver silhouette caught his attention from the corner of his eye. His Gravity domain failed to notice its presence, meaning it lacked a proper physical form.

Finally, his rescuer had revealed itself.

"Hello," said Cyril. "The gardener-djinn, is it?"

The spirit glided into the room, vines detaching from its nebulous outline and licking at the air around it like verdant tongues. From its neck blossomed a half-open flowerbud in place of a head--Cyril wanted to call it a rose, but mostly because that was the only one he knew. Its crimson petals stirred as if caught in an invisible draft.

The lack of a response didn't bother Cyril much. Since the spirit seemed to harbor no ill will toward him, he doubted it had bonded willingly with Hunger-Made-Alive. The fact it wasn't rampaging through the city was a good sign. Most of all, it had tended to his wounds and provided him food.

Still, he remained on edge. The connection between a spirit and a vessel went both ways. It had allowed the seed of consciousness to grow within Hunger-Made-Alive, and in return, the sandwyrm's own nature would have influenced the spirit. Corrupted it. Even worse, Barnabas had told him that the spirit was already half-mad and behaving erratically before the bond.

The djinn moved along the perimeter of the throne room, keeping close to the walls. It refused to pay attention to him. After a minute of observation, he realized it was circling the room in a gradual spiral, each lap bringing it slightly closer to him.

Cyril remained still, but not inactive. Plates of bronze armor sprouted along his body, including thick bands around the oozing wounds on his thighs. After Lightening his body with the channeling technique from the Second Sphere of Mass, he began Reinforcing himself. A second Flicker Cantrip blazed into existence overhead, banishing the surrounding darkness and casting long shadows that danced in an eerie rhythm.

The gardener-djinn did not react. Its torturous progress through the room continued.

Cyril layered on more protection until he was certain that a disembodied djinn posed no real risk to him, but it did bring a concerning fact to his attention: the vast majority of his defensive techniques relied on physical barriers.

Since they were forged from qi, they would offer some protection against spiritual attacks on top of his body's natural resistances. That should prove sufficient for the gardener-djinn, but a dedicated assault from a peak ifrit like Lanazael would shred through them. Even a mind-aspected djinn could probably turn him into a dancing puppet.

He made a note in the back of his mind to fill these gaps in his defenses. For now, he kept his attention on the spirit.

As it came closer, he noticed more and more defects within its channels. Its bright green core rotated smoothly, but several branching pathways throughout its body ended in abrupt darkness. Only a single one of its mental channels burned bright, like a lone sprout that had broken through wintry ground.

Eventually, the gardener-djinn came to a halt in front of him. It bowed low to the ground, the vibrant petals of its head quivering. A vine hesitantly reached toward him.

Pushing aside the sudden desire to lash out, Cyril kept calm as the appendage touched the aching stub of his right arm. Soothing energy flowed into the wound, reinforcing the fibrous coating and cooling its feverish heat.

Curiosity won out over paranoia. Cyril bowed his own head in appreciation, then reached out and touched the vine with his left hand. The tendril withdrew, thought better of it, then began wrapping around his fingers. It squeezed once, questioningly.

"Well, I suppose I should return the favor then," said Cyril, gathering Earth qi into his hand.