Soulbound: Dual Cultivation

Lucas had not intended for his rest to stretch on for so long, but when his eyes finally fluttered open after what felt like a single blink, the room was dark, the candles long since melted to stubs, and his body heavy as though it had been pinned beneath stone. He lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, realizing with no small measure of dismay that he had slept for more than a day and a half. His first instinct was to curse himself for such recklessness, but as he sat up and rubbed at his eyes, the truth of it settled upon him. His body had been too far gone with fatigue, his mind stretched thin by study, practice, and endless calculations. It was not laziness that had pinned him in slumber but sheer exhaustion, and in a way, he was grateful that no servant nor attendant had come to rouse him. Had they disturbed him, he might have dragged himself back to work in half measure, and that would have been worse than this long, dreamless rest.

Still, time was a relentless foe, and now it was pressing on him like a tightening noose. Only two days remained before the emperor of Rus would set foot within the capital. Two days to polish his research, to solidify a breakthrough that had eluded the greatest minds. The thought drove him to his feet immediately, his limbs stiff but filling quickly with renewed determination as he paced toward his workbench. His manuscripts were still scattered where he had left them, his quills dried but ready, and the faint glow of the array he had inscribed days before still lingered in the air, though it flickered weakly like a dying ember.

He poured water into a basin to splash across his face, letting the coolness sharpen his senses, then lit a fresh series of candles to chase away the gloom. The hours that followed were consumed entirely by his mind. He combed through the notes he had penned before his collapse, his hand tracing lines of theory upon parchment and his lips muttering calculations under his breath. Again and again, his eyes fell upon the sketch of the spatial tear he had succeeded in opening before, its edges jagged, its surface unstable, and its pull unpredictable. That success had been only the first step. To open such a tear anywhere, at will, required precision of the highest order. More than that, it required the ability to control the tear's stability, to close it just as easily as it was opened, and finally to shape it into a true path of travel.

He began working tirelessly, adjusting inscriptions, drawing new formations across the polished wood of the table, his fingers smudged with ink and his eyes burning from strain. Time seemed to vanish again, hours slipping past unnoticed as he pushed himself into the depth of his studies. He tested theoretical models by releasing controlled threads of Qi, watching as the air rippled faintly with distorted light before snapping back into place. Each failure, rather than discouraging him, sharpened his resolve further. He corrected the diagrams, refined the formulas, and pressed on, ever chasing the elusive thread of perfection.

At last, after what felt like another endless stretch of hours, Lucas leaned back from his work with his breath caught in his chest. His hand hovered over the diagram he had refined countless times, but this time something was different. He felt it....a subtle harmony, a resonance between the lines of theory and the pulse of Qi within his core. His heart beat faster as he drew in a slow breath, carefully channeling energy into the formation array he had inscribed in the air.

The space before him shivered like a pond struck by a falling stone. The ripple deepened, widened, and then began to stretch open, a narrow tear unfolding like a seam being pulled apart. Unlike before, it did not shudder wildly nor collapse in a burst of unstable force. It held. The tear hung in the air, faintly glowing, its edges soft but defined, a gateway waiting to be shaped by his will. He opened the spatial tear in his room because he could control it better.

Lucas exhaled shakily, his palms damp, his mind racing with both triumph and unease. This was the point where theory could no longer serve him. What he had before him now required a practical trial. He would need to test the tear, to step beyond parchment and ink, and to see whether this path would bend to his command, or destroy him in the attempt.

Lucas fixed his gaze on the spatial tear, watching its unstable edges ripple like a wounded veil. At this moment it was holding at roughly seventy percent stability, a remarkable feat for someone attempting this for the very first time, but he knew well enough that appearances were deceptive. The tear could only remain in that condition while he stood outside. The true test would begin the moment he crossed the threshold. As soon as his body entered, the delicate balance of space would react violently to his presence, straining against the weight of his Qi and threatening to collapse in on itself. That was the dangerous reality of space manipulation. It was not simply about opening a rift; it was about holding it together long enough to survive the passage.

He felt a quiet pride that he had reached this point. Few cultivators at his stage could even dream of opening a tear, much less pushing it this far without external aids or prearranged arrays. Yet, he had solved the Qi of spatial equations in his own way, and his growing comprehension of spatial laws gave him the confidence that, if he dared step inside, he could force the tear into final stability. Without that understanding, without that refined grasp of space itself, the tear would collapse into chaos the moment he made contact, shredding his body to fragments in a storm of nothingness.

With a deep breath he steadied himself, then moved forward. The instant his foot touched the interior of the tear, it buckled like a mirror splintering under pressure. The hum of distorted energy roared in his ears, threatening to consume him. Instinctively he poured his Qi outward, weaving it with his comprehension of spatial law, but it was barely enough. For a terrifying moment he thought he had miscalculated, because the tear trembled so violently it seemed certain it would implode. His chest tightened, his heart hammering against his ribs, and his mind raced with the grim reality that he had only seconds before the unstable vortex swallowed him whole.

The tear's edges quivered more violently, the inner currents lashing at him like invisible blades, and the timer inside his head began to count down. He estimated that no more than fifteen seconds remained before the tear collapsed entirely. Gritting his teeth he raised his hand and began inscribing runes into spatial tear, each stroke burning with the essence of his Qi. The symbols glowed faintly, struggling to take hold against the distortion. He poured more of himself into each one, sweat breaking across his brow as he fought to keep his focus steady.

Ten seconds. The tear's shrieks grew louder, space folding and unfolding around him like the world was gasping. Seven seconds. The runes were incomplete, their structure faltering. Four seconds. His lungs burned, his spirit screamed, and the final symbol refused to settle into place. Then came the thirteenth second. With no time left to hesitate he forced his will into the last rune, shaping it with everything he had. It locked into position at the very instant the spatial tear reached the brink of collapse, only two seconds from total implosion.

And then it happened, the trembling stopped. The runes fused with the tear, threads of stability running across its unstable frame, holding it together in a way that no brute force could ever achieve. For the first time since stepping inside, he could breathe freely. The tear had stabilized.

It was only then, in the silence that followed, that Lucas realized his body was drenched in sweat. Every muscle ached from the strain, his robe clung uncomfortably to his back, and yet his heart was racing with something more than exhaustion. It was exhilaration. He had brushed against death and won. He had proven to himself that pressure was not a weight that crushed him but a fire that sharpened him. Even under the threat of instant annihilation, he had succeeded, he knew with certainty that he loved the danger, the pressure, the unbearable thrill of it all, because it was in such moments that he excelled most.

Now that the tear was no longer on the verge of collapsing, Lucas understood that he could not allow himself the luxury of dwelling on the small yet significant progress he had made. Stabilization was only the first hurdle. If he lingered here too long, his accomplishment would be wasted. The next task was far more delicate and required even greater precision than anything he had attempted so far. He needed to fix the coordinates, to lock onto a destination with enough clarity and certainty that the path through the void would not cast him into some random expanse of chaos.

He centered his breathing, feeling the thrum of spatial currents pressing against his mind, and reminded himself that this step demanded more than brute force. It required a heightened sense of spatial awareness, the ability to stretch his perception beyond the turbulent veil around him and anchor it onto a point in the real world. Without that clarity he would be drifting aimlessly into nothingness, lost in an abyss from which no cultivator had ever returned.

As his thoughts raced, he recalled the countless hours he had already invested into this particular stage of the process. He had mapped out the theoretical frameworks, dissected the nature of spatial laws, and practiced the resonance of coordinates until it felt as natural to him as channeling his breath. All of it had been preparation for this moment, the culmination of calculations and instinct, but theory was nothing compared to the unforgiving weight of reality pressing against him now.

Even while he focused on aligning his perception, he became sharply aware of another problem creeping into his body. The spatial tear was draining his Qi at a pace far faster than he had projected. It was not a steady consumption but a ravenous pull, leeching from his reserves as though the tear itself sought to devour him. His core churned, circulating energy to keep pace, but the scale of loss was undeniable. A cultivator of his calibre possessed vast reserves, a foundation that would allow him to outlast most Cultivators in his rank, yet even with his strength he could feel the pressure mounting. If he delayed any longer, even his reservoir might not be enough. He had to be fast.