Behemoth [Primordial Titan Cultivation/LitRPG]

Cyril observed the stars for the next hour until he was confident about his approximate orientation. His navigation skills left much to be desired compared to the real diviners within his tribe, but he knew enough to determine the cardinal directions. Lanazael's star rose in the sky ever so slightly, indicating he was facing east.

He had spent a chunk of his time in the Library attempting to pinpoint his exact location. While records indicated that he was somewhere in the southwest desert, the maps were no doubt greatly outdated. The sands had crept outward in every direction since Beljeza's halcyon days. He had finally managed to track down a map that stretched all the way east to the far coast, and though the edges of the continent didn't line up well with what he remembered, it at least reassured him that he wasn't halfway across the world.

Cyril summoned two specific Mind Scrolls depicting the map he had discovered and his own poor attempt at cartography. Overlapping them confirmed that, despite the desert's expansion, the continent was mostly unchanged. He added a mental marker of the last location he remembered the Wandering Phoenix Tribe had settled down, some five hundred miles northeast.

I can do this, he thought. He had all of the necessary equipment to return to his family, enough rations to sustain a lone cultivator, and a legendary Titan empowering him.

Finally, it was time to go home.

Excitement wormed its way up his chest as he set off. For the first time since he had woken up beneath the blistering sun, with no clue about his situation after fusing with Behemoth, he felt free. The cool winds played with his face and tousled his hair.

He walked for hours, focusing on the alternating sensations of heaviness and lightness with each step. As time went on, the conflicting densities of his body seemed to resolve, or perhaps he had merely grown used to the alteration in his physique. His soul revealed no new blessing or other obvious boon, but he suspected the trial had helped lay the foundation of a new constitution, if he wished to pursue that route.

Most cultivators chose not to invest their time and resources into developing a proper constitution. They were considered essential for those who aspired to reach the higher realms of the martial path; outside of that, the agony of body tempering proved a serious deterrent for those pursuing the heavens. Why suffer physical torment to acquire a body slightly better suited to scholarly research, for instance, when one could instead improve their mental or spiritual awareness?

As he walked, Cyril considered the potential of pursuing a Gravity-aspected constitution. Perhaps it would let him soar through the sky like a meteor, or irresistibly draw enemies into him, or repulse everything within a short radius. As appealing as it was, there seemed no benefit that he couldn't acquire from improving his Dominion of Gravity and overall qi control.

Still, he felt more in touch with the world around him than ever. The trial had subtly reforged his body to allow him to better manipulate Gravity and even Mass qi. His channels appeared unchanged, but the aspected energy flowed smooth and sure--around a 10% increase, if he had to guess. The effect would improve if he stopped and meditated deeper upon the mysteries that had been unveiled. For now, that wasn't an option, unless he wanted to force a breakthrough.

Grumbling, he glanced over his soul.

Prince Cyril, Vessel of Behemoth
Middle Condensation Stage

Dominions:

Sun, Second Sphere 957/1000
Knowledge, Second Sphere 968/1000
Earth, Third Sphere 0/10000
Gravity, Second Sphere 982/1000

Mass, Second Sphere 429/1000

Cantrips:

Flicker
Mind Scroll
Pressure
Reinforce
Transmute
Translate
Purify

Blessing:

Seed of Knowledge
A Beacon Home

Cursed Blessing:

Scion of the Underdark (partially suppressed)

Part of him wanted to take his time. He could only imagine the look on everyone's faces if he arrived home solidly in the Third Sphere. But he estimated that if he marched for most of the next few days, he would end up close to his destination. After he arrived home safely and made his rounds to visit old friends and family, he could head into secluded cultivation and emerge as a new pillar of the tribe.

As nomads, his family and their people tended to spend no longer than a year in any one place. Unless they moved early, he should still be able to find them. Even if they had departed the area, one of his tribes' edicts dictated they left areas in better condition than when they arrived. The region would have prospered in their wake, and surely anyone would be more than happy to direct a wayward son of the Wandering Phoenix Tribe in the proper direction.

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Optimism bubbling in his chest, he marched across the desert. No mundane human could have matched his pace over the harsh landscape, devouring one mile after another, all evidence of his passage erased by the incessant winds.

When the sun began to rise, soft lavender and peach gradually staining the horizon, he sat in place and broke his fast on a small wedge of cheese. After a few gulps of the purified river water, he brushed himself off and set off on his journey once more. Sunlight washed over him, its pleasant warmth reinvigorating his body and spirit.

The desert itself resonated with his soul--the heat, the endless expanse of earth, even the myriad secrets buried within its depths. His tunic, reduced to scraps that clung to his frame, no longer prevented sand from scrubbing his body; it scoured away the grime and sweat, leaving behind a revenant that at times blended in perfectly with its environment. As he crossed the desert, the ambient qi of the world trailed in his wake, swirling about him like a small cyclone of brown and orange hues. Hints of the sunrise flickered within his raging aura.

Midday came and went. He took another gulp of water, then splashed a small amount on his face to wake himself up. His mind had been wandering for a while, though based on the sun's position, he guessed he was still heading in the right direction.

He noticed the swirling mass of sand and qi around him and blinked. Its presence had lingered on the edge of his awareness, but he had strangely thought of it as some sort of mirage. Sheepishly, he calmed the flow of qi through his channels, and the sheets of energy-laced sand plummeted about him.

He had been leaking energy out continuously into the environment; his regeneration maintained the equilibrium so that his core remained filled to the top. Wasteful. Instead of venting his qi, he should have been using it for something productive. As he considered it, he realized the orbitals of sand contained a secret within their depths, one his subconscious mind was currently toying with.

A quick glance showed that his Dominion of Earth had increased a few points. Normal sand had also been added to his list of Transmute options, though he was hardly surprised by that particular revelation. In addition, the various individual components were available, such as jasper, azurite, and other types of quartz, though he saw no obvious use for them .

He shook his head at his carelessness and continued on.

A few hours later, the scent of damp vegetation caught his attention. Specks of green qi drifted up over the horizon. He quickened his pace, and soon caught sight of an oasis in the distance.

Palm trees broke through the shallow canopy of underlying acacias, like the spires of a natural castle. Within the center sparkled a lake of pure, calm water; it emanated such dense spirituality that a mist of cerulean qi floated above its surface. Saltbrush ringed the edges of the lake, and oleander shrubs in full bloom contributed an undercurrent of pink to the earthen palette.

Strange. This region shouldn't have an oasis, let alone one with such an abundance of spirituality. As mysterious and shifting as the desert could be, important surface landmarks were fastidiously documented. The oasis was distinct enough that flying cultivators would have noticed it long ago and recorded the location.

Legends told of ruins and other locations that only appeared under certain conditions. The oasis betrayed none of the telltale signs of such a location. Natural formations could sometimes arise from sandstone outcroppings or mountains, arranged in a manner that warped the ambient energies almost like an array of wards. But, as far as Cyril could sense, the only special aspect of the area was the existence of the oasis itself.

There were a few other possible reasons for the oversight, and Cyril didn't like any of them.

Movement on the outskirts.

A person. Another human. Difficult to make out, but he could detect the faintest hint of their pure aura. Likely an Early Condensation Stage cultivator. He traced it to a robed figure sitting on the ground in the lotus position, deep in meditation. After a few seconds, they stood up and faced in his direction.

Cyril's steady march turned into a full sprint across the sand. He calmed his pounding heart as he ran and reminded himself not to drop his guard. Plates of bronze armor spread across his body, encasing most of him outside of his head and joints. Sweat trickled down his body in rivulets as he baked in the humid heat.

The other cultivator, no doubt alarmed by the charge of a bronze spearman, retreated into the oasis. Shaking his head at his own stupidity, Cyril slowed his advance to a steady trot. After associating with spirits and ghosts for so long, he had altogether forgotten his manners.

Once he reached the outskirts of the oasis, he circled around the perimeter in search of other people. No alarms had been raised--not yet, at least. Outside of the purity of the waters--and its own unlikely existence--nothing about the oasis stood out to him as abnormal.

Then, he reached the other side and discovered a small hut that had been obscured within the thickets. A small dwelling, shelter enough for two people at the most. He may have missed it if not for the gently winding dirt path connecting it to the lake. Before heading toward the hut, he cast one last glance about.

Far in the distance stood another oasis, emitting an identical aura. Cyril frowned. Even stranger. It was possible for multiple oases to sprout up from the same topographical anomaly--if one could form, then so could two. Still, something about them struck him as bizarre. They were too perfect, too unnatural, as if each pocket of nature had been designed by a creator.

There was an obvious enough answer: the cultivator who had fled.

Cyril removed the excess weight from his body and, after some deliberation, kept the spear. He sealed the supplies under a bronze dome in case the oasis was more populated than it seemed. This part of the desert was considered a dead zone. An Early Condensation Stage cultivator alone wouldn't be able to maintain the grounds and protect themselves from the monsters that the oases would attract like vultures to a carcass.

Taking deep breaths, Cyril approached the hut. He cast his spiritual senses wide and discovered the other cultivator inside, shaping foreign qi into some unknown technique. That by itself wasn't alarming. When a stranger showed up on one's doorstep, it was reasonable enough to deploy some sort of protective ward or identifying technique. Especially in such a remote location.

No, what concerned Cyril was something else entirely.

He stood before the door and blinked at the symbol etched onto the wood: an eye formed from curving lines, with a pupil shaped like a teardrop. He knew that symbol. It haunted his memories--no, not his memories. Prince Cyril had only seen it once in a book, and idly noted it as a curiosity.

It was the sigil of the Cult of Leviathan.

Deep within his soul, Behemoth stirred.