Behemoth [Primordial Titan Cultivation/LitRPG]

Cyril ended up sitting in the darksteel throne a bit longer than he intended.

Visions played in his imagination, vivid yet possessing a dream-like quality, with the finer details a nebulous blur. Mostly he thought of Behemoth, stomping throughout the world in its endless pilgrimage, worshipped and feared by all living beings that witnessed its passage.

Perhaps in response to his desire to escape the Underdark and return home, vague memories of humans rose to the surface of his half-conscious mind--sparks of life that had broken the monotony of the Behemoth's solitude. Despite its seeming indifference, the Titan had not remained completely divorced from the affairs of mortals. It had no home itself, but to some, it had literally served as one.

Various human figures had attempted to commune with Behemoth over the ages, though none managed to succeed. If they had, their minds and souls would have shattered under the pressure of the Titan's regard, and so it had never bothered to establish a connection with them. Its thoughts were too grand, too esoteric, to comfortably fit within the confines of the human psyche. At least, until it had managed to bond with Cyril, though his memories of the encounter had all been suppressed, and he could only sense the spirit on a surface level.

The lack of communication didn't mean that people avoided Behemoth altogether. Though one had to be either mad or incredibly resilient to seek it out. Unless the Titan restrained itself, no one below the Early Spirit Severing Stage was able to survive its sheer metaphysical presence. While such exalted beings were rare, they were often risk-takers, seeking opportunities that would help them break through bottlenecks in their cultivation. As long as they did not succumb to a fatal encounter, such individuals would live for millennia.

And so, over time, powerful cultivators had gravitated toward Behemoth, hoping to baptize their souls with its profound energies. They tempered their bodies within the hurricane winds encircling the Titan; the gravity of its domain crushed their cores until they were like diamonds formed deep within the earth. All the while, Behemoth paid no heed to their foolish endeavors.

At first, small communities gathered at a safe distance, brave nomads that sought to attune themselves over generations. The greatest of these cultivators eventually grew bold enough to climb the Titan, finding refuge within one of the fissures in its left shoulder. There, they established formations and arrays to stabilize the area. And, eventually, they realized the start of their great ambition: the founding of Fissure Village.

Behemoth simply continued walking, uncaring. Though it hadn't escaped anyone's notice that the Titan adjusted its course ever so slightly, allowing it to stomp along the coast instead of descending into the ocean depths.

The residents, as well as the ever-growing horde following in Behemoth's wake, took this as a sign of approval. More cultivators risked the journey to Fissure, emboldened by the success of their predecessors. Over time, the village grew into a town. And, eventually, the town became a city.

Protective barriers transformed Fissure into a sanctuary, where even children could survive the brutal gravity and reality-warping effects of the Titan's existence. Entire clans flourished. Each generation prospered, exposed to transcendent insights from the first moment they opened their eyes to witness the divine nature of their cradle.

Behemoth had spared no real thoughts for the community. It was like a scar upon its being, a minor annoyance that sometimes itched. Yet, it did not scratch them away. Once, when Behemoth stumbled and fell, its hand had instinctively moved to cover up the fissure upon its shoulder, protecting them from utter catastrophe.

Sitting upon the darksteel throne, Cyril attempted to piece together the significance of these memories. Random thoughts from Behemoth that leaked through their bond? Was it attempting to communicate in a tangential way without obliterating his soul?

He wondered what had happened to the city of Fissure. Unless the Titans were an exception, spirits disappeared from the material realm after bonding with a partner. It was possible that the animated shell of Behemoth's body continued to wander about without the spirit itself, but Cyril doubted it. Which meant the city no longer existed, either.

In the back of his mind, he noticed that his Dominion of Knowledge was ticking upward from exploring these memories. Even better, the pure qi circulating throughout his body seemed to resonate with the darksteel throne beneath him, as if it was a high-quality cultivation mat meant to aid his meditation.

As his qi passed through his channels and back to his core in a continuous loop, it grew more refined, more concentrated. Each revolution throughout his body compressed his overflowing energy tighter and tighter. While before, it had felt like water coursing through his body, it now had turned into sludge. In a strange way, the viscosity comforted him, like relaxing in a mud bath.

Droplets of the dense qi splattered down into his core with every loop. Unlike the unrefined pure energy, it had taken on a strong earth aspect--the familiar dark brown hue, tinged with green. Once the refined qi filled his core to the brim, the transformation to the Middle Condensation Stage would be complete, and all future qi he produced would take the form of the dense earth energy.

He hadn't exactly meant to begin advancing his core, but his soul had accumulated enough experience and insights that entering a state of meditation had triggered a breakthrough. As there was no real benefit to delaying the process during such a trifling stage, Cyril was happy enough to let nature run its course.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, reminiscing over ancient memories. Eventually, the process ended up condensing all but a wisp of his former energy. Much of it had been lost to entropy, leaving his core only half-refined. A shame, but he could repeat the process and complete his ascension to Middle Condensation after his core refilled in thirty minutes or so. Unlike rising through the higher realms, the first spiritual step required no treasures or insight.

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He was on the verge of breaking out of his trance before he noticed an influx of qi seeping into his body. It was compatible with his spiritual essence, but exuded no sense of comfort or strength like his own qi; it whispered of lost hope and sharp misery.

His heart pounded in worry. Had he accidentally started absorbing Hunger-Made-Alive's soul gem? But no, it remained on the floor in front of the dais where he had left it, inert.

He realized after a moment that he was instead absorbing the darksteel throne. Fragments of the right arm of the chair disappeared as if some spectral hand was chiseling away at it. The energy seeped into his prosthetic and up through his shattered channels; its passage renewed the agony until it felt like volcanic qi was flowing back through in reverse.

Biting back a scream, Cyril almost cut the connection before he noticed an interesting transformation. When the darksteel qi brushed against his own, his own internal energies consumed it and expanded slightly. The entropy loss was worse than his own unrefined qi, but that didn't matter. He had no real use for the darksteel throne after already adding its material to his list of Transmute options. It may as well serve as a natural treasure for his advancement.

The agony wasn't worth saving himself thirty minutes. What made it worth it was how the darksteel qi reforged his broken channels, bridging the gaps between shattered pathways and reinforcing them until they were stronger than before. Even the bronze prosthetic underwent a transformation, darkening into a lusterless alloy.

Cyril lost himself in the pain. Catharsis and punishment. Time and time again, his mind insisted that he was mad, that he had suffered enough. But the universal truth of body tempering was that it was never a pleasant experience. Embracing the opportunity now would spare him far more pain in the future if he sought to repair the arm back to its full potential.

He had already suffered through the pain before. If he could survive it for one second, he could survive it for another. He repeated the mantra to himself, over and over again, until the last drop of refined qi finally filled his core.

The pain vanished. Gasping in relief, Cyril stood and flung himself away from the throne. It had melted down to slag, little more than an elaborately deformed stool.

He held his alloyed prosthetic before him, rotated it to examine the transformation. It still looked rough due to his amateur sculpting abilities, but the metal had an exotic, ferocious quality about it. Though his channels were far from fully repaired, a single branch connected the prosthetic to the rest of his body. The surrounding network was twisted and shunted with bits of darksteel qi. It was a start, even if it wasn't perfect, just like his attempts to heal the gardener-djinn.

Smiling, Cyril read his soul and confirmed his advancement to Middle Condensation. Besides his arm, the energy from the darksteel throne had been successfully transformed into his own personal qi. Any worries about having tainted his core vanished after a brief inspection. Behemoth incorporated all concepts of Earth within itself; it would have no trouble integrating related aspects of qi.

The sight of an ivy tendril approaching his face broke Cyril out of his reverie. Behind it, the gardener-djinn stood as still as a statue. He hadn't even noticed its approach.

"Hello," Cyril said to the gardener-djinn, trying to hide the annoyance from his voice.

The ivy tendril coiled and whipped about a few inches from his face. Then it pointed down at his prosthetic arm and back toward itself.

Cyril leaned away, hoping the mad spirit would take the hint. "Still can't speak?"

The ivy tendril pointed at his face once more, then itself, impatient.

"Let me guess," he said. "You saw that I managed to partially heal my arm, and you're feeling left out? Want some more of my qi? How shameless."

The tendril drooped, retracted back into the gardener-djinn. Like an ashamed child, the spirit suddenly pivoted and rushed away, fleeing the throne room.

Cyril stared after it, blinking. "I was joking," he called out.

He grabbed his spear and followed. Inside the atrium, the spirit wandered back and forth, tending to the once-empty plots of the botanical garden. While he had been sleeping and meditating, the djinn had been hard at work.

Monster corpses had been arranged in neat rows, and from their bodies bloomed twisted assortments of bloodflowers. One of the humanoids was rooted in a standing position, clusters of tiny scarlet flowers sprouting from its hollow eye sockets. Beside it, a sandwyrm was impaled upon a sturdy, blood-red sapling that twisted and burrowed throughout its length.

The humanoid twitched. Still alive, or a death reflex?

Cyril frowned at the disturbing totems. They served as an important reminder that, while spirits influenced their bond-partners, their bond-partners influenced them in return. As long as the brutality wasn't directed at him, he wasn't too concerned. The gardener-djinn was trying to fulfill its basic functions, using what limited materials it had.

Still, Cyril couldn't suppress his distaste at the profane effigies. They looked like sacrifices for some taboo blood ritual. Unburdened by such delicate mortal sensibilities, the gardener-djinn carried out its work, adjusting their position slightly with its vines before moving along.

After observing for a few minutes, Cyril shook his head and left to wander the rest of the palace. Out of curiosity, he attempted to cast Mind Scroll as he walked. He half-expected the conversion from Earth to Knowledge qi to feel awkward, but if anything, it was more natural than using pure energy. Now that his core was attuned, utilizing his primary affinity as the base more than tripled his efficiency.

After a moment's delay, a papyrus scroll blinked into existence. He flipped through it until he came across an old map of the palace he had acquired from the Library. Despite falling into ruin, the layout had not changed. His feet carried him through the desolate chambers until he came across his destination. A quick glance at his Cantrip confirmed he was standing right in front of the burial chamber where High Priestess Anadei had been entombed.

The thick iron door was sealed shut. After muttering a quick prayer for forgiveness, Cyril blasted it off its hinges with a Pressure and stepped inside.

The room was smaller than he expected. Faded murals decorated the stone walls, too . A marble sarcophagus in the center dominated most of the area. It was carved in the perfect likeness of the woman he had seen in the memory shard--the ill-fated bride, slain on the night of her wedding. The figure's hands were clasped across her lap, and she stared up at the ceiling with the distant calm of a saintess.

Cyril swallowed as he approached. The lid of the sarcophagus had been shifted off to the side, leaving a dark crevice of the interior exposed.

As much as he hated disturbing the dead, he floated his Flicker closer. The pale orb of light shrank until it was no larger than a candle flame. It slipped through the crack in the sarcophagus, illuminating it from within.

The sarcophagus was completely empty.