Unintended Cultivator

Already exhausted by the advancement, Sen had to force himself to stand. He briefly considered putting on fresh robes before the uselessness of that struck him. Why put them on simply to have them destroyed by lightning or whatever else the tribulation might hurl at him? He had stories of tribulations other than lightning, but they had the air of third-hand accounts that were long on speculation and short on facts. The conundrum in front of Sen at that moment was what he should do. Some accounts said that cultivators facing this tribulation simply needed to endure it, that it would provide some benefit if they survived, while others said that it was always the right course of action to weaken the lightning as much as possible. He certainly had more than enough qi to put up a defense. If anything, his core and dantian were overstuffed with it having gotten comparatively little use recently. On the other hand, he was loathe to forego the possibility of a benefit.

He stared up into those storm clouds, hoping for a moment of inspiration or simply a hint of the right course of action. The heavens, as always, remained indifferent to his unspoken question. You face the heavens alone, Sen told himself. In the end, it’s all about choices. What will you risk and for what gains? He stood there, locked in a one-sided staring match with the gathering power above. More safety on one side, more benefit on the other. He supposed that was ultimately a false choice. Cultivation was risk. A lifelong bet that you would succeed where so many others failed. There was no place in that calculation for intentional weakness. Sen knew that the tribulations would not grow easier as time went by. If he couldn’t face this now, how could he ever hope to survive what was to come?

Clenching his fists and lifting his chin, he said, “Get on with it.”

He’d never know for sure if the heavens were listening, or if the timing just worked out that way, but the first bolt descended on him then. He managed to keep his feet, but he felt the rock beneath him shatter under the colossal force of the heaven’s wrath. What he felt in that moment went beyond pain, beyond agony, and became what he could only describe as perfected suffering. There was no part of him that didn’t feel like it would boil away. He was certain that his eyes had exploded, that his lungs had melted, that his bones had proven to be fragile twigs that snapped beneath that weight. Yet, his vision cleared, his bones remained unbroken, and he could still draw breath. What he couldn’t do was stay on his feet. He dropped to his knees and felt the jagged rocks try and fail to pierce his hardened skin.

Clenching his teeth, he planted a fist on the rubble beneath him and heaved himself upwards. He saw the scorched flesh on his arms. The open wound on his chest leaked a strangely dark blood in a steady trickle. I guess I wasn’t just imagining shadow qi taking up residence in my blood, he thought. He could feel the power condensing above, readying itself for a second strike. Sen knew it would be worse. It was as if the heavens punished cultivators for having the temerity to survive each strike by making the successive progressively worse. It seemed particularly malicious because the cultivator’s natural defenses would grow weaker with each bolt of tribulation lightning. There was nothing for it, though. Sen would endure this as he had endured so much else.

He did allow him the single weakness of closing his eyes when the second bolt crashed down on him. He didn’t keep his feet that time. He didn’t even try. Most of what happened was lost to him in a haze of blue-white and the terrible noise of his own screaming. He dragged himself back to sanity through pure force of will. He ignored the state of his own body. He could heal injuries. Even if he could see pieces of his bones where the tribulation had burned away flesh. No matter how excruciating the experience, it was ultimately temporary. It didn’t matter that he felt more like a piece of roasted meat than a man. It was neither here nor there that his body didn’t want to do his bidding. He would stand. He had to use the wall of the crater he was in to drag himself upright. He gripped that tortured stone with an equally tortured claw of a hand. He turned his face to the sky, opened his mouth, felt the burned skin crack, and felt the blood flow. He screamed his defiance to the sky one last time.