SpiralingSilverandEyes
patreon
Book One, Chapter 2 - Raika the Bloody And Poor Decision Making
🕑 Added 2025-08-24 23:04:47 +0000 UTCAs promised, here we go! Updated chapters! Epigraphs! All kindsa shit!
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Throughout history, there has ever been one argument which has surfaced again and again from any scholarly age. It is a theory that is true and is hated, as all the most foundational truths are, whether or not they remain true evermore. The argument is the following: immortals, while born from and thus possessing the features and traits that define mortality, such as emotion, connection, interaction and a cyclical nature, have no choice but to discard such things or be unmade. Just as a man should not hold the behaviors and thoughts of a beast, so an immortal must not hold the behaviors and thoughts of man- for to be mortal is to be a part of the world, and thus a meaningless part of another’s existence, while an immortal must be anything else. There can be no motivation greater for a true immortal than immortality, and so the trappings of mortality, useful only in interacting with beings no more significant to a true immortal than sand on a beach, must be cast aside, lest they ruin those who hold on to them. Such is the pathway to existence beyond death- cut away all that once was, and which binds you to the earth and to lesser beings, lest you become mad, or worse, human.”
- Notes from a symposium on the philosophy of cultivation, volume 11652, reprinted in the year of the One Above All 3116
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It’s a pretty generic title, honestly. It’s not hard to get bloody as a cultivator. Fight hard enough, often enough, and you either get bloody or get covered in someone else’s blood almost inevitably. Especially when your main technique involves punching people really hard.
Among her fellows, she’s known as a bit of a brute. Ill-suited for illusions and arrays, untalented at energy manipulation, but impossibly stubborn in a duel. Most women who cultivate don’t end up with titles like “The Bloody” unless it’s an insult, but she wears her as a badge.
It’s said that she once drenched a field in crimson against an uprising. That she single-handedly tore in half a roving spirit beast attacking a town. Little things, barely notable, but enough for a generic title.
Truth be told, it’s most of what she’s amounted to. Willful, powerful, and driven; all words easily applied to her, but also to just about any cultivator worthy of the name. Some might say the qualities are intrinsic, and only in their quantity and application is there any difference between the wielders of Qi in pursuit of immortality. She’s not the least among her rank or Realm, advancing faster than most, winning more often than she lost, but such is the minimum, not the impressive. She does not have a great master, nor is she part of a sect beyond sects, nor did she advance through stages of cultivation as easily as a prodigy walks down a path.
But, if there is anything she considers herself talented at, it is being stubborn.
Others might surrender when a duel’s outcome is clear, but frankly, why not get the most she can out of it? Better to leave broken and unconscious than to slink away halfway through the fight. Others might try to think through or outfox a challenge, but it’s usually straightforward enough to just put herself against it and through it until it fails or she does. Yep, if Raika can claim anything at all about herself to be truly impressive, it would be the fact that she never gives up.
As she falls again, the floor painted in the red of her veins and dented with her landing, she does take a moment to wonder if maybe she should make an exception.
She dismisses the thought; she needs this. To give up here, even when it might be reasonable, would mean she could give up at the next most reasonable time, and isn’t that just a slippery slope? No. She needs this. It might not be the best decision, or the wiser one, or the right one, but… she needs to stay true to herself here.
Even if it kills me? She wonders.
Well, she thinks back to herself, if following my path and being my best self kills me, then that’s just how it’s gonna be. Better way to go than most.
“You dare!” booms a voice so loud she can feel her lungs vibrate. “You dare to stand here and make these ridiculous demands of your betters?”
Right. Focus.
She spits blood to the side, weakly enough that it ends up dribbling down her chin. “Nothing-” a cough, then another. Might be the busted ribs. “This one does not see anything ridiculous about claiming what has been earned, senior brother.”
The man before her widens his eyes in shock, before snarling in what looks to be genuine fury. “I am not your senior brother, you worm,” he growls. “If you were to call me teacher, or master, or even most revered supreme, it would not be enough for the distance between us.”
She sits up a bit, looking at the ten feet or so between them. “If you say so, most revered supreme,” she says with a bit of a grin. In for copper, in for silver, right? Might be the concussion talking. Eh, either way. “But it remains true, even if I’m a worm under your boots, that this worm fought and won. The promised reward is the fruit you now hold. By the rules of this tournament, it is rightfully earned.”
This time it is not only the man before who shows shock. All around them, clad in the vestments and bright colors of a half-dozen sects and in the simple robes of loose cultivators, disciples and the elders behind them both look at her like the blows to the head she’s experienced have left her entirely mad. Better that she speak gibberish than to say what she has now, to challenge the figure before them.
Judging by the look on the bearded face looking down at her, feigning madness might be the best way to go, really.
Oh well. In for a copper, in for a silver. In for a gold, as the case may be.
And if she’s being honest… she needs this. Bad.
The man before her could be fifty or a hundred or a thousand years old. Far enough into the process of ascension, it gets a little muddled. His ornate white beard is one of the few direct signs of age, though it moves strangely, like it’s not quite hair. However, the skin beneath it is smooth and clear, tanned by the sun or by the man’s will into a rich, earthen quality. His eyes blaze a violent green of jade and flora, and his robes, forest-green and gilded with imagery of great battles and poems, make for a striking combination all throughout.
His aura is a weight on the world, crushing the ground itself and making her teeth vibrate in her skull.
“If this master wants a gift worthy of his nephew, who are you to stand in his way?” thunders the elder. “This Clear Spring Blossom fruit may be beneath this old master’s gaze, but it is in my grasp, and you are not worthy to tell me what that grasp cannot take.”
“It might be beneath your gaze, senior,” Raika says, slowly sitting up, “but it is the sole focus of mine.” She drags her legs beneath her, standing and wobbling in equal measure. She’s never been hit that hard, and she can still feel the impact of the casual backhand in how her hands tremble and her heartbeat stutters. Several steps into the Core Formation realm, a remarkable achievement for one as unremarkable as she, and all it took was one blow to nearly kill her. “While I understand this old master can grasp what he wills, would he be so cruel as to take from his lessers? Surely you can find something more fitting to any prodigy of your own blood than such a measly thing, yet for me, it’s a crucial step to surviving my path.”
“And you think I care about your path?” the old cultivator scoffs. “Some nameless nobody in some nothing tournament? You are lucky I didn’t simply kill you with my first strike, just as this city is honored by my very presence. Take my mercy and begone from my sight, ant.”
He seems to be actually following through, too. For all that her mind aches under the pressure of the aura he exudes, he is, in the way of the mighty, showing her mercy. He turns his eyes from her and starts simply walking away, the fruit vanishing from his hand with a headache-inducing shift of space, falling into whatever artifact he has. He doesn’t even seem to consider her, except as a faintly irritating memory.
Until she steps towards him.
“Ant or worm,” she says, as respectfully as she can; “it would be a betrayal of self to be walked over by another. Please, old master, I ask that you leave me this trifle, and I shall do all I can to produce something equivalent or greater for your family.”
There is an audible shuffling in the arena. If the mortals hadn’t already run when the old master came crashing from the heavens above, stepping on-stage at the height of the tournament, they’d surely do so now at the sight of so many cultivators visibly stepping back from the center of the conflict.
He looks at her, entirely incredulous. Raika goes so far as to think she’s actually shocked him, a thought that makes her smile a bit.
“Are you mad, child?” The old master asks, seeming genuinely confused. “You see the difference between us, and yet you dare to stand in my way?”
She nods, stepping back into a stance, slowly raising hands that still tremble. Her face, though, is calm, her gaze fixed on him. “Isn’t it the burden and joy of any cultivator, to face the heavens and defy them, senior?”
He almost smiles at that.
There is a moment, then, where she thinks she may have charmed him. Not her strong suit, but there’s stories, right? An uppity, brash little cultivator getting the attention of a great hidden master, suddenly beginning their rise to glory.
Perhaps, in a better world, or if she had met a different beast, that might have been the case. As it is, she’s not quite that endearing, and the thing standing before her, ageless and arrogant, isn’t nearly so human.
Her mind registers a thunderclap sound.
She blinks, and it hurts. It hurts to blink. Then she falls, and that hurts more, parts of the wall she was embedded in falling on top of her. She sees him as she falls forward, and he hasn’t shifted into a stance; from the looks of it, he just pushed her.
It hurts.
Things are broken inside her.
She can feel her ribs grinding as she gets up again, slower than last time.
His eyes are even wider now.
Maybe, she thinks, I should stay down. If he can prove he’s wrecked her shit enough, easily enough, he can save face, offering mercy to some idiot too greedy for her own good. The narrative would shift, from an arrogant old monster taking from those beneath him, to one merciful enough to allow the survival of an uppity worm.
Nah. I can still stand. So I should.
She doesn’t see the third blow, either. One moment her face hurts, and the next part of it doesn’t anymore; her lower jaw, to be precise. Then she feels the pain higher up, and realizes it must be because it’s dislocated, nerves pinched, teeth shattered. Another backhand, then.
Three teeth hit the dirt when she spits this time, dribbling again. She doesn’t make it all the way back to her feet, but the effort is enough, and a foot lands on the side of her knee, and the pain there is excruciating as something pops and cracks and then makes a grinding noise that’s worse than both.
The next time she tries to get up, she has to keep all her weight on her left, but at her cultivation, it hardly takes more than a few toes to hold her weight. No big deal.
He took her shit. Something she fought for, something she can advance with, something she suffered for, and now he wants her to give up. After all the years of mediocrity, here is the single chance she has grasped to try to be more, and he wants to simply walk away with it.
No.
She loses track of the blows. She knows he is toying with her; how couldn’t he? In what world could he ever fight her as an equal? In what world was she ever going to win, a Core Formation cultivator against someone in the Warrior Realm, walking the Divergent Paths?
She has not even begun to form her Nascent Soul. His mere presence changes the fundamentals of the world.
But then. in what world was she ever supposed to cultivate? She was born to die, like any other mortal, and every step beyond that has been a struggle against what the universe claims “should” be. At least, that’s what her teachers tell her. She believes it enough to use it, at least.
If life is suffering on the way to death, then to stay alive is an act of will.
She doesn’t know how she gets to her feet. There’s gaps in her memory, most from around the points of impacts, but some seem to encompass whole wounds. She can’t feel her left arm much at all, just the fingers, and her breathing is raspy. Her eyes are swollen, and her right leg can’t really move anymore. There’s even more of her blood painting the sand now than before, some of it from cuts where she thinks she almost dodged. While she can barely see, she can smell the copper of her suffering.
But she can still stand. So she does.
The old monster walks forward, taking her by the neck. She cannot break his grip. She doesn’t try. He drags her close, hateful eyes, like green fire, like a forest, like an ocean made of sharpened leaves, burning in what’s left of her sight.
“You are the single most determined suicide I have ever met,” he snarls. “Time and again I spare you, lest this master be accused of bullying his lessers. Time and again you spit in the face of my gift.”
She laughs, though it comes out all wrong. This isn’t bullying? She marvels.
“I acknowledge your strength, worm,” the old master snarls, loud enough to be heard. “You have a cultivator’s heart. A pity you have no other qualities of one.”
Hmm.
Yeah, fuck him.
She spits.
He flinches back, blood in his mouth, landed perfectly on his tongue as he opened it to say something else. He flinches, then spits to the side, shock burning in his face, heat flushing his cheeks, hand raised to strike and end her entirely-
And she sticks her left thumb, from the arm she purposefully didn’t move, purposefully let him think was limp, directly into his eye.
Now here’s the thing; cultivation raises the density, toughness, and vitality of every part of one’s body, without exception (at least, if done right). To someone in the Warrior realm, an existence that might tear apart a city on a whim, that equates to a lot of toughness. That being said; an eyeball ten times tougher than a normal eyeball is still an eyeball. Gelatin and nerves and little else.
Her own skin, bones, or muscle aren’t ten times as tough as when she started. His eye may well be a hundred times tougher, old monster that he is. But a finger, and a nail, are not as soft or as delicate as an eye.
The figure she can barely see roars, actually screams out his surprise and pain, the sheer affront and impossibility of being hurt here crashing on him. The hand raised to strike grabs her by the wrist and tears, throwing her arm away with a rainbow of blood splatter following it.
It’s fine. She couldn’t feel it anymore anyways. So she grabs his shoulder with her other hand and pulls herself closer, and bites at his other eye.
She doesn’t quite get at the orb, her jaw nowhere near strong enough to so much as scratch his skin, but he doesn’t seem to enjoy having her teeth scrape his cornea, and the taste of vitreous jelly is a juice as sweet as she’s ever had.
There is another blank spot. If she survives this, she is going to be so concussed.
The figure before her is barely visible. She is on the ground again, and she can feel the dirt blocking up the blood flowing from her freely. But she can still feel him shift when she laughs. It’s a weak, ruined thing, bubbling with a punctured lung, with blood loss, with pain and a throat half-crushed, barely able to hold air, let alone giggle. She laughs anyways, choking on it.
“I…” she chokes. Stops. Starts again. “I win,” she gurgles.
“Oh?” the old master says. His voice is slow. Quiet. Maybe he’s in shock too. That’d be nice.
“Didn’t.. Break me,” she gurgles. “Big as you… lil as me. Broke my… pieces. Beat me. Coul- couldn’t. Break me. Never-” a gurgle. She almost stops breathing, and shifts, panic overriding pain long enough to cough. “Never gave up,” she whispers in red bubbles.
He kneels down. For a moment, she actually sees him again, through swollen eyes, through bruised orbital bones.
“This old master is known as Feng Gui,” he whispers to her. Only to her. “Remember it, and see how long that victory lasts.”
Then he hits her in the stomach, behind the stomach, behind her body and above it and below it in one strike and she feels something break, shatter, disintegrate entirely and then Raika the Bloody is no more.
Comments
Nathan Hartye
Yet still something closer than Feng. Somehow I can't imagine Raika, even in her full glory, rolling up to a random tournament just to snatch the prize from the winner.
Unwillingmainer
And so begins Raika's journey into something anything but human.
Nathan Hartye
Cannot wait for her to meet this ass again and throw those words back in his face!
