Reforged from Ruin [Eldritch Xianxia Cultivation]

When you're immune to neither cold nor sneezing, winter tends to suck ass like it's going out of style.

Raika spent six years of her life learning to huddle indoors when the winter came. It was a time of warm fires, tea, and heated cakes from a warm pan, always just enough that so long as you huddled close and stayed indoors, things would be ok. Then, she spent the next twenty odd years learning that huddling with loved ones and cozy fireplaces is baby stuff for amateurs, and real badasses just refuse to be cold. She even got good enough that it started to be true; while she still prefers a heavier robe and shawl on a windy winter's day, she got to the point where she could have bathed naked in a river on the longest night of the year and come off maybe just a touch chilly. For this part of the world, she's pretty much immune to winter.

Or she was. Now, she doesn't even have a heavy or a shawl, because life isn't fair and winter clothing is apparently a thing for rich people now.

Raika started the winter with two blankets, both thin, the clothes she's wearing (and has had minimal chances to wash), and stray straw. She got lucky with an alcove behind an old building, itself wrapped by a few alleyways, enough of one of its walls eroded to make a little cubby one can vaguely curl up into. A broken box left nearby and the aforementioned straw and blanket makes for a "cozy" patch of real estate; she's got about a third of a poorly balanced roof, half of one wall, a quasi-tent for some privacy and to pretend to keep the wind out, and as much moldy straw as she can find for that chic in-home rustic look. A paradise fit for a queen, surely.

Unfortunately, even in this private paradise, resources dwindle. Rats, once plentiful in the quiet passing of summer and autumn, eager to reproduce and grow plump, are just as starved as the people that used to feed them. Those that remain are more than happy staying cozy with their litters underneath houses, in the cracks, in basements and warrens beneath the ground. Further, neither Li Shu nor Qen Hou have come by since the first snow fell. For Li Shu, she's pretty sure either she or her master realized the chances of Raika surviving any sort of winter and felt it best to cut contact before things got too sad; for Qen Hou, he probably just got bored and decided to pursue cute healers somewhere else. Either way, what little buffer they provided is as gone as the rats, now.

So once again, the curse of mundanity rises up, and she suffers just the same as any weakling without a pack or a cave to warm oneself in. About a week into the first cold snap, she gives up on begging entirely; the streets of the few areas she can hobble to are anemic with travelers and merchants both, and the only scraps being thrown out are the ones too spoilt to sell or burn. There's still some good to be found in the trash that's collected near business centers and residential districts, little bits of unspoilt leaves or scraps of skin and char that no one wanted; she focuses on these rather than praying for pits from the few stalls still open. Besides, the exercise is useful in the right doses. She doesn't have the stamina or well-being to actually work out, not to her definition, but moving the muscles makes for minor body heat, helps keeps her joints from stiffening up completely, and slowly helps her walk further.

By week three of winter, she can walk almost twenty minutes at a time without needing to stop and rest. She comforts herself that she only just started: she haunts herself with the fact she's been conscious three months and change and is only barely able to walk twice as far as when she started.

Still she keeps busy, keeping thoughts like that quiet and still like they should be. It really helps with her visualization practice to imagine those thoughts being spoken by Feng Gui or Qen Hou, trying to talk as she holds them under boiling hot water. Really cathartic, especially if she focuses hard enough to hear the screams.

While the illusory shitheads lay drowning and writhing, she keeps her mind on her focus.

Cultivating.

So to speak. Kind of. Not really. Actually, kind of insulting to compare it to that, but fuck it.

She alternates between tapping Dink against her forehead and her sternum, focusing on different things for each. With each tap against her skull she focuses on the feeling of the vibration, trying to attune herself to it until it's all she can sense, until it overrides other senses. A ripple from crown to feet, following what little she knows about how the brain extends down through the body. When used against her sternum, she focuses on her blood, on the thought of the note being carried to her heart and then back out to every part of her. She makes the two a constant pattern, now, stopping only to sleep or when exhaustion takes hold; walking, meditating on the notes, and picturing the violent torment of idiots. The three together keep her warm enough that she keeps going, day by day.

Interestingly, she starts to notice a difference in the behavior of her fellow homeless and downtrodden. She spent the first three months of her begging trying to avoid getting kicked by street urchins and drunks, trying to avoid them just reaching into her bowl to take what they wanted. Against the kids, at least, she can use her crutch for whacking without feeling too worried, but for the able-bodied? She's gotten kicked in the teeth a few times over that, and has learned instead to just memorize faces for later. And to aim for the genitals. Amongst humans of all realms, that shot never stops being useful.

And yet now, in winter, the most desperate time for the destitute, the need for defending herself has diminished somewhat. Most others she's met that call the streets their home turn away or duck their heads at her presence, avoiding her like the plague. Rag-clad and limping along on her crutch, the sound of a broken tuning fork ringing and announcing her coming, she's found herself almost alone in the cold, snowy streets of Paleblossom City. On the few occasions where she does run into or see anyone on the streets, even those wearing jackets and clearly walking home or to work, they tend to swerve to avoid her or take a different route.

Wonder why. Not like she's gotten uglier, or less vulnerable. One would assume that she'd be a more attractive target in the winter, not less.

So, starving a bit less than anticipated, (mmmh, yummy yummy trash), as fit as she's been since she woke up (competitive hobbling champ material, she's sure) and, despite the effort needed for meditation, bored out of her mind and cold as witch tits, when she hears a scuffling sound the next street over, she doesn't simply walk on.

It feels strange to interrupt her constant "Dinking". If she's awake, she's hitting herself with a tuning fork, even as she walks, as she eats, as she sits and tries to survive the cold. It's been a gradual but powerful change from when she could only do it a few times a day, and the sudden absence of it she can almost feel the gaps where the rhythm used to be. It makes her feel fidgety, holding the fork in her hand and pulling it forcefully back down to her side every time it comes up. Her heartbeat feels too loud, her flesh feverish, flesh aching in tune to a rhythm that is no longer there.

But she can hear the sound of shuffling and heavy, angry breaths, louder than her body's strange reaction to silence.

Fuck it. What else has she got going on today?

She turns the corner as quietly as she can, fresh fallen snow masking the clicking of her crutch or the awkward shuffle-step of her gait. Paleblossom has many of the markers of a pre-Imperial city, large sections of its streets built haphazardly and without much city planning- in turn, there are dozens of isolated corners and winding back alleys that shelter the "lesser" elements of society. Even after months, Raika still gets lost sometimes, beneath overhanging straw roofs and efficient but cheap walls.

In this particular alley, hidden down a maze of lesser turns and obfuscated structures, the white of snow and grey-mud of filth are interrupted by raindrops of scarlet.

Someone is bleeding.

That someone falls to the ground a ways down the alley, the trail of red marking their struggle. They're young, no longer a child but still trapped in the purgatory of adolescence, around the age that most would be searching for an apprenticeship, getting married off or working at a family business officially. Sixteen, maybe? They're gangly, parts of them mostly-grown and other parts still trapped by time and lingering childhood. More importantly, he's the one bleeding, a cut on his forehead leaking red as freely as all head wounds do, matched by visible browsing, a split lip, and bloodied, open knuckles. Standing above him, panting almost as heavily with exertion, is a larger figure, gut pudgy and soft from long term drinking, head half-bald and skin sallow. Both have the marks of hard living on them, the kid especially looking near malnourished, and that, combined with the obvious size difference, make it clear how the fight is going. The man is weathering the kid's punches and kicks, grunting at the impacts, but they're not enough to stop him from stomping the kid's head in.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Literally. He's stomping the kid's head in. Full body weight of a grown man, coming down as hard as he can muster against the boy's skull and against the ground behind it. The boy is still fighting, or trying to, grabbing at the man's shoe, trying to squirm away, but he's visibly exhausted and disoriented, likely already concussed.

A part of Raika stops and examines things.

The guys is pretty large. She can barely move, and it's been at least half a year since she's been able to fight. She doesn't recognize the kid, but for all she knows he's one of the ones that's stolen from her, or would if given the chance. She doesn't know them or the situation, and, quite frankly, it's not really any of her business. She was a Sect cultivator, not part of the damn Guard or one of the Divisions of the Empire, and she wasn't a particularly kind sect cultivator either.

In short- there's really no reason to step in. She should just turn around, keep walking, and-

Ah.

Yeah, the rest of her wasn't really listening.

Most of that analysis played out to the sound of a badly disjointed run, the point of a crutch aimed like a lance at the man's spine with her whole weight behind it. Her remaining hand, no longer holding Dink, has wrapped the man's thinning hairline and is yanking back as hard as she can, an animalistic growl coming out of her ruined throat.

There's so many reasons to avoid a fight. So few why she should even care about this. If she just-

Shut up, she thinks over the sound of her self-recriminations, her fear, her panic, and let me beat the shit out of this dude.

He screams, an angry and surprisingly melodious sound when she yanks. His scalp turns bloody, and she can feel some clumps of hair in her hands, but her grip is still mostly firm; as he tries to turn and swing blindly behind him, she just yanks it again. Her footwork is fucked, she can't even lift her right leg enough properly, never mind secure her stance, so dodging is out of the question. If she falls over, getting up is out of the question too, especially without her crutch, which went flying from under the barely realized hold she had on it when she hit the guy.

"The fuck-" he snarls, so she shoves forward this time, slamming his face against the bricks of the closest wall. The kid isn't moving to run or help, the little shit, but his eyes are pretty unfocused and he's breathing pretty hard, so fair enough. "I'll fuckin kill you-" another yank, this one the last as her hand comes up with a chunk of bloody hair follicles and maybe some scalp. He shrieks this time, much higher pitched, and curls inward to clutch at his head. This, fortunately, puts him closer to shoulder height, which is right where he needs to be to get a punch to the temple and a splatter of free scalp to cover his eyes with.

"What the hell!" He shrieks, trying to both rub at his eyes and open them in a panic. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"A lot," Raika rasps, circling him. She can feel her heartbeat, how it pulses in her and pounds against its cage. It's still hurt, still scarred, the rhythm uneven and honestly rather concerning, but it beats and it's loud enough that she wants to ask if he can hear it too.

Then he hits her, and she can't hear anything past the ringing in her ears. Shot to the jaw, hard enough to rattle her, the scarring screaming, and the reason she's on her feet is the wall there to catch her on gentle rocks and mortar.

"Who are you?" The man barks, one eye clear of blood and hair, the other still being rubbed at. "You dare? He's mine to discipline, the little shit! Mine! Don't you know who I am?"

Hmm. Better not to let this drag on. If he's talking he's distracted; if she's talking she's about to get hit. She starts tuning him out and rather than hobble, decides to just bodily throw herself at him as hard as she can. She lands more against his chest and belly than on his face, and he seems more surprised than put off balance, but, encouragingly, she finds out he has a beard!

She grabs that too, yanks as hard as her fucked up arm can manage, and uses the exposed gap between beard and throat to bite.

There is a minor hiccup, of course; between his frankly annoying panicked yelling and stumbling under the surprise weigh, he hasn't thrown her off yet, but she is still missing several molars, most of a cheek, and major functionality in her lower jaw. These factors, combined, do not a potent bite attack make.

Then again, it's also important to factor in that Raika really, really wants to hurt this dude, and a bite is what she has to do it with. Her jaw isn't strong enough, so she uses her neck, her whole body, hooking canines and jagged back teeth against his skin and dragging them as hard as she can.

And, like the mortal he is, his soft, quivering flesh parts.

She breaks the skin and maybe a quarter-inch past it, and it's more than enough for the man's drunken rage to turn to absolute panic. Whatever he was trying to tell her about how great he is, half naked and kicking a kid in the street, vanish beneath a scream. He gives a breathless gasp, like a prey animal that knows it's caught, and then he falls rather than try to stay balanced. It might have been the smartest thing for him to do, ironically; the impact jars her teeth away from him, and the impact of falling, even with his generous cushion, hurts everywhere.

She's had worse. She doesn't let go. She pulls as hard as she can against his greasy beard and drags herself back up to his neck again.

"Get OFF me!" He yells, scrabbling backwards, one hand behind him and the other pulling back for a blind punch.

Bad news; she still can't really dodge, and getting hit is going to hurt. Maybe enough to knock her out, at which point she'll die. Good news; they're on the ground now, and while it felt like a million miles away at her pace, she technically didn't drop Dink that far from them when she rushed him.

So she lets go of his beard. She uses a mostly functioning right arm to block his hit and redirect some of it with old instincts. And she reaches, stretching as far as she can, feeling joints and still ruined ribs and a messy spine popping and straining and screaming, grabs her tuning fork off the ground and shoves it into the open red of his throat.

Tuning forks, even one as hard working as Dink, are not designed with violence in mind. They're not good at stabbing, bashing, anything of the sort, really.

But anything with a line to it can be a lever. And open wounds are not known for being particularly hard to penetrate.

She lifts herself, feeling her flesh scream in protest, and then falls on her arm, shoving it forward at an angle and tearing open the would like opening an oyster.

He gurgles, once or twice. She can relate.

He's still moving. He grabs the back of her head, his other hand punching for her ribs, making her flesh scream and crumple.

She still has his blood in her mouth, running down her chin.

Supposedly, cannibalism has serious consequences- it's illegal, for one thing, and for another, it's supposed to be possible poisonous or something. And the guy doesn't exactly seem… the healthiest.

Still. In for a copper, in for a silver.

In for a pound.

She levers his neck wider, ignores the whimper and the way his fist feels like it's collapsing her liver, and bites down.

Over the course of the next few minutes, the sounds of soft tearing and slow chewing overtake the sounds of struggle.

Eventually, the only sound is the trickling of blood.

And then, just silence.

Slowly, Raika drags herself back through the snow to her crutch. She's not sure how long it takes her to make it back to her feet, gathering her strength and hoisting herself up against the wall, bit by bit.

She swallows, her throat wet and dry at the same time.

It's still a little warm going down.

She looks down at the kid, who has apparently recovered enough to stare back, if not much else. His breath is still shaky, his hands trembling, and his eyes clearly unfocused. She's not sure what he sees, looking at her, but the tears, be they from stress, fear or relief all paint a vivid picture.

She just nods at him.

"Dink," goes Dink as they walk away.