Behemoth [Primordial Titan Cultivation/LitRPG]

Strands of brown qi, tinged with vivid green, blossomed within Cyril's cupped palm. The gardener-djinn froze in place, not even its petals moving, as if it was transfixed by the sight. Even if Cyril was only in Early Condensation, the energy originated from the paragon of Earth. Profound truths beyond his comprehension laced the qi. The djinn viewed it with the same unbridled gluttony as he felt when looking at the feast it had provided for him.

It seemed a fair enough trade. Judging from the feverish tinge to his wounds, without the djinn's help he would most likely be suffering quite a bit more than he already was. Throw in a stone table loaded with meat, dried fruits, and fresh vegetables, and he was feeling quite generous; he would have kissed the bizarre flowerbud head if moving didn't hurt so damn much.

Unfortunately, the djinn had to settle for Cyril directing the strands of Earth qi into its outstretched vine. For a moment, the energy flickered, as if it had been rejected, before diving into the gardener-djinn with reckless abandon. More and more qi unspooled from Cyril's core, surging into the spirit.

The tendril grew more vibrant, and small white flowers bloomed along its length. Its pathways pulsed, directing the qi inward. Once it reached the base of the vines sprouting from the gardener-djinn's back, they lifted and spread out like wings. Old pathways in the djinn's chest mended, and new ones branched off from the ones that were too damaged to heal, reconnecting with deeper parts of its disjointed network of channels.

The vine wrapped around his hand squeezed, a surprisingly crushing grip. The spirit may have been of middling-rank, but it had persisted for countless years within the material world. It was at least an equal to Hunger-Made-Alive in strength.

As beautiful as the transformation was to behold, Cyril watched his own core with some concern. A quarter of it had already been depleted, and the gardener-djinn lapped up more like a man dying of thirst. He had expected the process to look similar to restoring the Library imp, Barnabas; while that spirit had taken a decent chunk out of his core as well, it had been because of the difficulty of forming pure Knowledge mana.

This gardener spirit was simply…too greedy.

Shaking his head, Cyril cut off the flow of qi. The vines burst into a frenzy, tying themselves into knots and slapping at the floor in a tantrum, but the rest of the gardener-djinn remained still. Cyril poured Gravity qi into his hand, prepared to blast the gardener-djinn halfway across the Underdark if it attacked him.

After a few seconds, the spirit calmed, its flowerbud head drooping. While it was hard to judge in his current state, it looked like the petals had opened slightly, as if the earth spirit had survived a long winter to bask in the glory of a new spring. Faint traces of vibrant light leaked through the gaps.

It bowed its head slightly lower, then waved one tendril in the direction of the feast. Cyril offered a hesitant smile. The gardener-djinn turned and, without a backwards look, departed.

Before the spirit fully exited the throne room, Cyril summoned a Mind Scroll and roughly sketched out the djinn's channels. He was curious to track its progress, and perhaps glean some insight from which parts of it correlated with specific improvements. It looked more focused, more solid, but he suspected it was far from a full recovery. Healing fractured pathways in its torso and limbs was one thing, repairing its mind quite another.

Cyril ran his hand through his hair and considered his future. He mentally flipped to a new page of Mind Scroll and compiled a list of tasks. The simple act helped him reassert control over the situation. Unless his fortune was truly cursed by the gods, he should be the most powerful entity within this region of the Underdark. As much as he wanted to rush home to his tribe, there was loot to be had.

First, he constructed a new forearm and hand from bronze. He gritted his teeth against the agony of metal growing over the stump, but after the initial few inches it was manageable.

Staring at his shoddy work, he coughed and bumped 'practice willshaping' higher on his to-do list. The prosthetic was little more than a block of burnished metal with five awkward nubs at the end. Even while resting it on his lap, the sheer weight of it felt like it was flaying the scabbed-over flesh of his stump back open. With a thought, he hollowed out the internal metal until the prosthetic was little more than a shell.

What's the point? The construct was useless, but in a strange way, it made him feel better.

The phantom sensation of having a tightly-clenched fist, nails digging into his nonexistent palm, remained. He lengthened the primitive fingers and added joints in the middle. Though he was unable to actually wiggle them mentally, he bent them back and forth with his real hand; to his surprise, the majority of the phantom pain abated.

Though his various wounds itched and nagged at him, Cyril forced himself to his feet. The lacerations along his thighs burned, but no new blood leaked through the bandages. One tiny step forward, then another. Though he felt like an arthritic grandfather, he was able to shuffle over to the basalt pit where he had turned Hunger-Made-Alive into slag.

A small smile broke out across his face. Cyril may have been crippled, at least for now, but the Ascended Wyrm wouldn't be coming back from that. Limbs could be regrown, spiritual channels could be repaired, but the Ascended's soul had returned to the cycle of reincarnation.

As he stood there, his face slowly grew more solemn. He had taken the life of another sapient individual. There was no remorse, no guilt, that accompanied the thought. But it was worth some consideration.

Hunger-Made-Alive's base nature, its origins, had offended him, though he liked to imagine he could overlook such a personal affront. The feral Ascended had never been afforded the opportunity to become civilized. It was, perhaps, a shame, though it was likely some human cultivator from a less tolerant sect would have slain Hunger-Made-Alive on sight, simply as a matter of principle.

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No, despite his hatred of its monstrous species, that wasn't the reason that he had killed the Ascended. From the beginning, their battle had been one to the death. Killing intent had bled into every attack, even the ones meant to batter and maim him.

Hunger-Made-Alive had chosen to court death and found itself properly judged.

From the lowest insect to the highest gods, all lifeforms struggled against one another. This was merely natural order.

To become a cultivator, to absorb the energies of the world and manipulate reality to one's will, took this conceit to the utmost. Ascension was an inherently selfish pursuit. No matter the justifications, no matter the cause, cultivators through their very existence declared themselves more worthy than their lessers. Every natural treasure expended, every pill or elixir consumed, was a resource they decided suited them better than it did another.

As such, all cultivators sought to consolidate power for their own goals. To fulfill the full potential of their Destinies.

In the civilized world, this manifested in various ways. Politics; laws; treaties; trade. Sects sought to empower all those under their banner, though they often had rigid hierarchies where the upper echelons benefited many times over from their investments.

Outside of civilization, all of this was cast aside. Power was distilled to its most primal form: violence. Any being that attempted to kill another invited the same unto itself. This rule, this reciprocity, was the underpinning of almost all sapient interactions. Only once they moved past the threat of violence could civilized behavior emerge.

Their meeting had become a battle to the death, and Cyril had triumphed. Hunger-Made-Alive's soul had moved on, but anything it had left behind was his to claim by rite of conquest. As much as the thought made him want to spit, if he had lost, then his corpse and all of his belongings would have belonged to the Ascended. At least until Behemoth manifested right on top of it.

Cyril cast out his spiritual senses toward the grave and found himself justly rewarded. As he had hoped, a dark glimmer registered within the depths of the pit. It took three Pressures to break the floor open enough to view the treasure within.

A few feet down, a black spirit gem streaked with silver and crimson emitted a profane glow.

In death, an Ascended's core would often crystallize into such a gem. This one was the size of a fist. Small flecks of green also glittered within the depths, resonating with his soul. The Dominion of Plants, if he had to guess. Hunger-Made-Alive had neglected to invest any death essence into improving the affinity.

Slaughter and Darkness must have been its innate Dominions, manifesting once it bonded with the gardener-djinn. If it had bothered to better assimilate with the spirit, it would have no doubt proven even more troublesome.

Cyril cast a final Pressure to loosen the basalt surrounding the spirit gem, then extracted it with a long pair of bronze forceps. He dismissed the tool and examined the gem. High quality, with a score of facets brimming with energy.

Unfortunately, he had no real use for it. Simply absorbing the gem would potentially grant him the Dominion of Darkness, but he had already decided to pursue his own Destiny. A true scion of the Underdark would have probably have sacrificed a second limb for the opportunity. Too bad none of them were around.

He would figure out what to do with it in time. Maybe give it to his tribe in order to empower a loyal vassal. The Dominion of Plants aspect resonated with his soul, but it would be a waste to consume the gem for such a small, undeveloped aspect of it. In the meantime, he could find a variety of uses for it, such as socketing it into his prosthetic arm or spear to artificially imbue it with some of the dense qi locked within.

Next, he shuffled on over to the darksteel throne. The sunken dais looked like an insurmountable mountain in his current state. More to amuse himself than anything, he fired off a couple Pressure at it. The throne absorbed them without the slightest hint of disturbance.

I want the whole thing, he thought to himself. The mental image of him lugging the oversized chair across the desert made him chuckle softly.

He turned his back to it and headed over to the atrium to retrieve his trusty spear. Making a new one would not have taken long, but he had already transmuted chunks of it into rotten oak and rusted iron. It had also proven itself a valuable companion during his time in the darkness. It didn't deserve to languish for an eternity in this cursed palace.

Hauling himself to the spear sapped the last of his strength. He kneeled down beside it, futilely attempting to convince himself he was resting upon a luxurious pillow or mat. Before closing his eyes, he scratched a couple tasks off of his Mind Scroll's list of tasks. Writing out his progress proved strangely satisfying.

Glancing over his core, Cyril estimated that he wasn't far from breaking through to Middle Condensation. Once he consolidated his gains and spent enough time in secluded meditation, the breakthrough would soon follow. Behemoth would both help and hinder him in that regard; their bond had expanded his already-prodigious core, meaning he had more qi to condense, but the Titan's insights would serve as a priceless catalyst for his evolution.

It took a few minutes of banishing intrusive thoughts before he managed to slip into a meditative trance. Memories about his recent struggles in the Underdark painted his imagination. The conflict against Hunger-Made-Alive in particular offered many insights and avenues for his subconscious to explore.

After less than an hour, his meditative trance slipped into a restless sleep. Somehow, he felt even worse when he woke up, but his minor scrapes and burns had mostly faded; fresh, pink tissue had grown in their place.

Cyril flexed his legs. The muscles on his thighs ached but seemed otherwise whole. Groaning, he stood and worked his way back to the darksteel throne. Slowly, he ascended the dais and plopped himself into the unyielding metal chair. A quick glance at his soul confirmed a new addition at the bottom of his Transmute list: Darksteel (???)

He rested his chin on his fist, staring off into space. There was much to do still. Hundreds of monsters to purge, including a veritable wyrmhorde. Once he was ready, he would have to speak with Lanazael once more. After all, he had promised to give her a new name.

Conquering the rest of this forsaken land should prove simple enough. Then, he would claw his way back to the surface and find his way home. Through his trials and tribulations, he would grow, until his current state was no more than a grain of sand before a mountain.

Never again, he resolved. Never again would he allow himself to be so weak, so broken. A Titan, brought to his knees by a mere monster. It stung his pride, but he knew this was but the first step of his journey.

Throughout the aeons, Behemoth had stumbled and fallen, but every time, it found its way back to its feet, eventually.