Reforged from Ruin [Eldritch Xianxia Cultivation]

The black cat hunts along the pathways, finding trails and escapes in impossible configurations and dancing between wilderness and artifice in turn.

A step, and the flash of treeline shifts to a cobbled path. A leap, and the cobblestones become stones, a river bubbling against them and splashing lightly against the night-black hunter. A pounce, and the stones are the side of a mountaintop. Three more steps, a jump off the top of a cliffside, and she lands on rooftops, shingles ringing musically with feather-light touches.

With another step of the Wyld Hunt, Maen vanishes, leaving behind a dreamlike impression in the eye of a child looking out their window at the right time.

She looks at the world, and sees where to move as naturally as a pathway laid out before her. The shadows beneath, the angles beside, the right way to step and launch oneself further.

Deep inside, roiling within a core of citrus-gold and shadow, a part of her roils and turns, shifting to the tune of her travels. On occasion she feels it shift in one direction or another and follows it instinctually, the trust inherent, intrinsic. It is a part of her, and a reflection of her, and the path is mirrored in eyes that are not yet born.

Slip a corner and city streets become grassland. Duck beneath the waving green and emerge from a shadow cast by beating wings. Fall into a crevice in the ground and rise from a flurry of fallen petals, the colors of pale flowers reflected against black fur and tan skin.

At last, she allows herself to exhale, collapsing to the ground amidst the trees.

It takes her a few minutes to recover enough to move again, her breath hoarse, her throat sore from the effort of inhaling enough to recover. The original technique has changed from where it originated- what began as a fusion of techniques picked for her has become something wholly distinct from either, continuing to develop alongside her. It helps that she gets so much practice; she's been run ragged the last few months, traveling up and down the Empire.

As she's gotten stronger, so has her technique. The Path of the Wild Hunt has shifted in her mind, become something she's not sure she could teach to someone else- ergo, the little name change. Path of the Wyld Hunt, as a little nod to her chosen nickname.

It started as a silly thing, but it's become more. Wyld. A name she wears as a reminder that she's no domesticated beast, in spite of appearances, and one that's rapidly become recognized throughout the circles she now travels in.

Her other, deep within her soul, stirs, and she nods. Enough time to recover.

She rises to her feet, her breath even. Some of the flowers around her have dissolved, drifting like smoke and color, and she inhales one last time, pulling it deep into her body and delivering it to the being-that-is-her within. It consumes and cultivates in equal measure, devouring the world around her and returning it to the rest of her to cycle.

It's imperfect, but as techniques go, once again, it is hers. Someone she cares a lot about once told her that she shouldn't neglect either side of her cultivation, to embrace using Orthodox and Bestial cultivation at once, and she's stuck by it, in spite of the difficulty. One wants to absorb and transform the Qi, the other wants to consume and transform into what it consumes- balancing the two practices has been frustratingly intuitive and impossible at the same time.

She's done alright, though. The Nascent Soul growing inside her is proof enough of that.

She exhales, breathing out air from what was molten color and Qi. Enough delaying. She has work to do.

She looks up from the flower petals, above the treeline, towards her destination.

Three sect plateaus, stumpy compared to those of the second ring but still towering over the city. A single grander plateau above the rest, a palace of white and gold implanted upon it like a machine into flesh. Beneath them, a city, tinged blue and purple, with flowing banners visible from the roads that lead to it.

Maen crouches, focusing Qi down to her legs, and jumps over the wall, onto the rooftops of Paleblossom City.

It's changed little in the time since she's been gone. She's not sure how to feel about that. The last time she was in this town, she was a servant, barely into the Qi-Gathering Realm, living at the whim of the Purple Flame Burning Lotus sect. Now, she wields power that all but the sect elders and patriarchs would run from, and gives herself even odds in a proper ambush against any of those higher-ranking powers. She travels across the rooftops, stealth and technique leaving her as unseen as a ghost, and watches the city below.

It's an unassuming place. Large enough for a palace, far enough north to both require a stronger Imperial presence and act as a hub for the smaller towns and villages around it. Looking at it, one wouldn't expect it to be the origin of some of the most dangerous beings in the third ring and beyond- the buildings are mostly wood, painted in simple colors and dressed in fine fabrics reflecting the local flowers. People walk with carts along semi-paved roads, so unlike the poured concrete and architecture of the second ring, and she can't sense anyone above the halfway mark of the Qi-Gathering realm before she reaches near the city center. Even then, the guards and richer merchants in the Foundational realm are lackluster, their cultivation styles simple and shallow.

It's a space that holds tens, hundreds of thousands of souls- and it is so small.

She travels across brothels, over the roofs of doctors and restaurants, across the tops of three-storied houses of the richest folk in the city, and marvels at it all.

It's so small, and it's a whole world.

She travels, and does not look back.

She passes the lesser sects, fallen to the wayside in the changes to the city. She passes the Imperial soldiers, their golden armor shining along the most important roadways, along the priority centers of the city.

She passes the noble's district, the homes so much more complex and grander than any of those that orbit them.

And then she steps onto the Path, and arrives in one bound at her destination.

She steps through the open doorways of the building she has emerged in, gilded with jade and gold. She steps forward onto a carpet so dense and so soft it feels alien to the touch. She steps at last to the foot of a throne, sits on her knees, and bows before the one seated on it.

They have no face. Not really. They have no eyes, and no mouth, no nose or ears or any other feature that the world demands of a living thing- and yet they have the illusion of such. On their surface, like a doll-face, like a doll-mask, is the impression of a person, and it bears a weight that presses down on her like the gravity of the world itself.

The Imperial Scion leans its head on one hand, crosses its legs, and stares down at her, waiting.

"Honored one beneath the Heavens, blood of the Emperor, blessed upon creation, this humble servant greets you."

The impression of a smile. If she looks at it, she knows that she will see a smile, even as her training keeps her from falling for the illusion that there is anything to look at in the first place.

"Such a sight it is, to see one possessing a Soul so humble. Any sect in this city would be honored and humbled at your feet should you offer to join them as a visiting elder, and yet you bow so willingly before the throne."

"It is only my assigned role to bow before my betters, lord Scion. As the judges command the law of the Empire, so does the bloodline of the Emperor command its movements. How could a lowly member of the Divisions stand arrogant before such majesty?"

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The delusion of a chuckle echoes in the chamber, real-and-not and hurting her skull to think about.

"And what brings such a well-mannered envoy of the Divisions to the throne room of this Scion, without appointment and without alarm?"

She raises up from the bow, but keeps her eyes downcast, not looking at the thing on the throne. Even if it wasn't as strange as it is, even without the presence it exudes like a weight on the room, she wouldn't dare to accidentally insult this thing.

She can't sense its cultivation. At all. It is omnipresent in the room, suffocating in its intensity, and yet the details of it, the form or concepts within it, elude her completely. The being has no Soul that she can discern, does not bend the world with its weight like one on the Divergent Paths, and yet carries more power than she's seen from anyone in the Warrior Realm.

It's unnerving, and she has to suppress a shiver as the Soul that is-and-is-not her hisses at the sensation.

"I do not dare to waste your time, honored one. I have been sent as an envoy of a certain individual within my Division, having been informed of your own potential interest in the given matter."

The pressure increases by yet another margin. Something fills the room, drowning it, like falling a step deeper into a profound sea.

"And what interests might those be?"

"One perhaps best left to your siblings," she whispers, "and my benefactor."

The pressure increases another step, and she actually starts to feel a pressure inside. It undercuts her body directly, bypassing her defenses and her spiritual organs as if they're not even there, and instead presses directly against her Core.

The Soul that is-and-is-not-her, which has yet to truly become what it will be, quivers, hissing impotently against the power of this strange energy. It's like the Scion doesn't need to bother with the conventional metrics of Qi manipulation, ignoring the rules of combat between cultivators like only someone from a higher realm could. And yet… it shouldn't be that powerful. Nothing should be that powerful without a Soul, or some sort of equivalent level of power.

And then the pressure lightens, dissipating out into the wider Palace, leaving the room marginally easier to breathe in.

"Well then, I suppose I should ask who your benefactor might be."

She inhales, reaching into a storage ring to pull out a small cube and collection of alchemical powders. "With respect, honored one- I think, perhaps, that a deeper conversation than I can provide might be in order."

The pressure shifts, the illusion of a face turning to look closely at what she's summoned, and she raises a hand in appeasement.

"I can guarantee the sanctity of the materials, as well as the quality of the formulae in use. It shall brook no alarms, summon no response, and provide only a simple doorway between two locations."

An impression of a smile and a little scoff. "Well, I see you've come prepared then, haven't you? Good to see such efficiency in a supplicant. Very well then. If your benefactor has gone to such lengths to arrange a proper meeting, I suppose I should accommodate. Go ahead."

She nods, and sets down the cube. It begins to glow, Qi cycling through it in ornate patterns that she can barely even begin to follow, and within moments it begins to grow. The metal multiplies itself, feeding off an internal battery to spread into a complex pattern of arcane signatures, bridging the gap between a formation and an array and something entirely distinct. Some of the runes and kanji are so minute that even with her level of cultivation, she can't quite see their shape distinctly, and they flow together like something in between art and mathematics.

Even still, there are further measures in place, things to ensure that the work can't be interfered with or stolen. She adds her own instructed work into the matter, following memorized patterns to carve with chalks, flags, and reagents complementary sigils, deepening the complexity of the work with further layers.

It takes her almost ten full minutes, watched by those not-eyes the entire time. She can feel her blood pumping in her body, her meridians fighting back against the impossible, ethereal density of the presence before her, and she does not let it distract her.

Only when the work is perfect does she open a small vial from within a different spatial ring, letting a drop of blood fall onto the activation sigil.

In a flurry of gold, blue and green, flickering in different layers of iridescence and rainbow-hued flame that seems to bend reality around it, the final stage commences. The metal of the runic script rises, like liquid falling opposite from gravity, and forms into a doorway, filling it with that same glow.

As soon as the portal stabilizes, three figures step through.

Horns first, capped in gold that mirrors the formation-work on the ground, the bull-man of the Division of Altered Cultivation enters the Palace chamber. The pressure against Maen shifts, swirling around him instead, like it's being drawn into a center of gravity. He sits in the same realm as her, the Nascent Soul realm, but his weight feels unfathomable, profound in a way that defies description and seems like it should belong to someone far more powerful.

Taurus steps forward, hooved feet clicking unnaturally against the ultra-dense carpeting, and gives her barely a nod of acknowledgement.

Behind him and to the left comes a sense of sweetness and softness that fills the chamber in a similar way to the Scion's nature, if vastly reduced. The figure enters, their skin a mix of gold and the light pink of a peach, wearing a complex kimono with distinctly masculine elements mixed between the fabrics. They've grown, but only by small steps- their unique constitution keeps them from cultivating as a traditional figure might. And yet, the complexity of comprehension, hints of Dao and more esoteric things beside, tint the air around them. Kaena glows, drawing attention to themselves in a way reminiscent of the smoke of a censor, or the glint of sunrise across a horizon.

Finally, standing to the other side of Taurus, stands a young man almost as gorgeous as a fruit of the Garden. The air in the room grows tense, tight, as if the moisture in it has simply evaporated in his presence. In his hands is a guandao, carrying a weight all its own, mirrored against the young man's, who already seems to hold… more than he should. Like there's more than one set of eyes in his head, glimpsed through the same gelatin.

Shin Ren, champion of the Purple Flame Burning Lotus sect, the Prince of the Wall, brings forth an impossible heat and a sharpened edge of violence into the room.

The Scion gives off the impression of a smile, leaning against one hand.

"Quite an introduction, but I suppose it's warranted, given the presences before me. The greatest and grandest of the Division of Altered Cultivation's menagerie, a genius amongst geniuses. A Peach of the Garden, ripe and flush, and a particularly controversial figure amidst your generation. And, of course, the youngest prodigy of the Wall, come in resplendent flame and war-honors. I'm almost flattered to have such attention directed to my little corner of my parent's Empire."

Taurus speaks with the grinding of a mountain, making a polite laugh appear from the vibrations.

"I would not think the presence of such lesser beings would flatter such a high and mighty existence, honored one," he says with a bow. "Your recognition is already a boon from a most gracious host."

"And if I am to host such a controversial series of individuals, perhaps I might be allowed to know the reason for their visit."

"That's quite simple, honored one. I merely wish to follow up on a conversation I overheard, between yourself and a… sibling of yours. Given the subject matter, I wanted to extend my congratulations, and offer assistance for when your choice of personal emancipation is carried out."

The room empties of pressure.

It's like the exact inverse of the being's attention before. The Scion, faceless, self-less thing of illusion and impossible weight, draws back from the words spoken as if stung, and the constant presence of the power beyond what should be possible drifts away from the room entirely.

Taurus does not smile, but Maen knows him well enough to know that he wants to. Or at least, he pretends to want to, the mask he wears a multi-faceted thing that she has trouble with even now.

The Scion sits on its throne, but its… changed. The illusion of identity has… drifted apart, no longer requiring her training to notice its inhumanity. Like a coat of paint, allowed to drift away on strange tides, it sits there in a truer form, losing even the impression of personhood.

A whisper, carried through invisible winds, reaches them.

"Emancipation?"

The word is spoken as if it's dangerous. As if it hurts to say it.

It's a challenge, holding hints of aggression, of fear, of caution.

She recalls the pressure the being on the throne can wield, the way that it eclipses them all by a realm or more in spite of its strange nature. It can still kill them all if it chooses, wiping them across the floor like bugs.

And yet, it withdrew. Some crucial element of itself, pulled back and away, until what's left is vanishingly little, barely even a being.

This time, Taurus does smile, a cold and calculated thing. It is precise, crafted, as accurate and well-crafted as the alien formulae which allowed him to step unseen from beyond a hundred thousand miles, beneath the notice of powers that can wipe them all out in a heartbeat.

"Indeed. It's interesting what you can hear, given the right venue. Whispers carry in the wind, ripples carry in the water- but I'm fond of the sorts of ideas one can find in-between Pearls. It seems a useful coincidence that you hold one such item in this very Palace, no?"

The silence bears a presence all its own, in spite of the absolute vacuum that the Scion has created.

And then, from a thing with no face, no lips or teeth or muscle or bone or capacity for emotion… the Scion smiles back.

A whisper, inaudible to all but the most specialized of ears, from the most powerful of still-mortal cultivators.

"I believe I might be very interested indeed in hearing what you have in mind."