Shadowwwing
patreon
78. Gifts and Burdens
🕑 Added 2025-07-29 22:00:07 +0000 UTCJiang stared at the old woman. He didn’t doubt her sincerity for a second – this clearly meant a lot to her. But he also wasn’t blind to the fact that she didn’t necessarily care what happened to him.
What she could be getting out of this, he had no idea, but… well, at the end of the day, it didn’t really matter to him what she got out of it, as long as he got what he wanted. Still, he wasn’t going to leap over this particular cliff without asking some questions first.
“What will happen when I absorb it?” he asked slowly. “Could anything go wrong? Will it… change me? Will it hurt?”
Old Nan had already laid out a few of the downsides – he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea that normal cultivators would have a reason to kill him on the spot, for example – but he doubted that was all of them.
“Whether it will hurt is not the question you should be asking, boy,” Old Nan rasped, her eyes boring into him.
…That was a yes, then, it would hurt.
“The question is, will it make you strong enough? And the answer to that is yes. It will give you the foundation you need.” She scoffed. “And of course it will change you – change is the point of the Pact. You will be elevated, shown the world in a way most cultivators can only dream of.”
Old Nan paused, losing a bit of the frantic energy that had gripped her. “It was the best decision I ever made,” she whispered, looking down. “Even now, I don’t regret it.”
Jiang took a slow breath.
Well then. That was all the confirmation he required.
At the end of the day, he was never the type of person to carefully weigh the risks and benefits of a choice before committing. From Old Nan’s explanations, this would bring him that much closer to being able to help his family. There were downsides, of course – and doubtlessly more than just the ones she’d mentioned – but there was no such thing as a perfect choice.
Besides, a part of him, deep down, was telling him that this felt… right. He wasn’t sure if it was his instincts, something deep in his Qi urging him onwards, or the influence of the raven itself.
It didn’t matter.
Jiang squared his shoulders, but before he could fully commit, Lin finally broke her silence.
“Hold on—just hold on,” she said sharply, her voice edged with an unfamiliar brittleness. She glared at Jiang, eyes fierce, though he could see the flicker of uncertainty beneath. “Are you seriously telling me you’re actually a cultivator? Like a real, honest-to-gods cultivator?”
Jiang hesitated, caught off guard by the accusation in her tone. He glanced at Old Nan, but she merely watched, silent and patient. Finally, he turned back to Lin. Not exactly the way he’d wanted her to learn his secret, though, in fairness, he hadn’t particularly wanted her to learn it at all. “Yes,” he said with a shrug. “I am.”
Lin stared at him, blinking rapidly. Her jaw worked soundlessly for a moment before she turned abruptly to Old Nan. Her expression twisted into something raw, the hurt in her voice barely masked by anger. “And you – have you been lying this whole time? Pretending to be senile, letting everyone think you’re just a crazy old woman?” She swallowed hard, blinking away angry tears. “Was anything you told us ever true? Or was it all just some big joke to you?”
Old Nan’s severe expression softened, though there was still an echo of intensity in the deep lines on her face. “Lin, my girl, I’ve never pretended anything. I am old, and what’s left of my Pact is burning away, little by little. My mind truly is clouded, most of the time. I’ve no reason to fake it.”
“Then why—” Lin began sharply, then stopped, her voice breaking slightly. She took a breath, regaining control, though her tone remained brittle. “Why are you suddenly acting so different now?”
“Because I chose to,” Old Nan said gently, her voice tinged with quiet regret. “The power left in me is not infinite. Every time I draw upon the remnants of my Pact, it makes me clearer, sharper. More like the cultivator I once was. But it burns through what little remains even faster.”
Lin looked away, a muscle in her jaw tightening. “And so what? We weren’t worth talking to until now? Not worth losing a little bit of your precious clarity for some street rats?”
Old Nan’s lips thinned into a sad, patient line. “It is not that simple. With clarity comes pain. My soul was shattered, child, and I feel the loss every waking moment. Every scar, every wound from that old war, is all sharpened by clarity. It’s not just lucidity – it’s agony.” She paused, leaning heavily on her cane, and now that he was looking for it, Jiang could see the tremble in her hands.
“In truth, I prefer the fog,” she admitted bitterly. “It’s… easier to live with. A kinder sort of forgetting.”
Lin’s anger seemed to collapse inward at those words, and she sank down heavily beside the fire. The resentment faded into weary confusion, leaving her looking impossibly young and vulnerable. After a long moment, she let out a short, bitter laugh, shaking her head at Jiang. “Gods, what a mess. I thought you were just some rich kid slumming it, or maybe a gang member, not—” she gestured vaguely, helplessly, at him, “—whatever this is.”
He had no response to that. What could he possibly say? The plain truth of the matter was that as difficult as this no doubt was for her to learn these things… none of it really made a difference. Lin had no stakes in this matter, and as helpful as she had been over the last few days, once he left the city Jiang probably wouldn’t ever see her again.
He wasn’t quite so harsh as to say it, though.
Jiang glanced at Old Nan. The old woman’s strength seemed to be waning again, her shoulders slumped, and her breathing increasingly laboured. Whatever conversation was left to be had would need to wait. If Old Nan was right, and the raven’s construct truly was waiting for him, then now was the time to see this through.
If anything was going to go wrong, better for it to happen where there was someone who might know enough to help.
Jiang drew a slow breath, settling himself more comfortably before the fire. He allowed his eyelids to drift shut, sinking quickly into the now-familiar rhythm of his cultivation. Immediately, he felt the dense, sand-like Qi within his dantian respond, swirling with a purposeful heaviness, almost eager. It no longer resisted him; instead, it seemed poised, waiting for something.
Time stretched and lost its meaning as Jiang cycled Qi through his meridians. It was actually the first time he’d properly cultivated since he’d arrived in Qinghe, and to his surprise he found he’d missed the sensation. His heartbeat slowed, and the crackle of the fire faded into distant white noise. He felt a subtle shift in his perception – not the overwhelming clarity from before, but a quieter sharpening of his senses. The world around him became more tangible, more real.
Then he felt it.
It began as a whisper in the edges of his awareness, a ripple in the currents of his Qi. Jiang paused, holding his breath, his senses straining as he focused on that gentle disturbance. It was as though a shadow had brushed across the tapestry of the world, leaving behind the faintest of trails. It was subtle, barely noticeable, yet he could sense it clearly, more vividly than ever before.
Cautiously, Jiang opened his eyes, though he did not stop cultivating. Across from him, Lin had tensed again, eyes wide as she stared at a darkened corner of the room. Old Nan was utterly still, her expression one of deep, expectant reverence.
The raven construct emerged from a patch of shadow, as though stepping from behind an invisible curtain. Its shape solidified gradually, darkness coalescing into a sleek, feathered form, indistinguishable from a normal bird.
…Besides the whole ‘emerged from shadow’ thing.
“What the hell,” Lin whispered hoarsely, pressing herself backwards against the wall. “Is that… is that the raven thing?”
Old Nan reached out gently, placing a comforting hand on Lin’s arm. “Stay calm, child. It won’t harm you. It’s here for him.”
Jiang barely heard their voices, his attention locked entirely on the raven. It tilted its head, watching him with its deep, unfathomable gaze. There was a question in those eyes, a quiet invitation. An expectation. Jiang paused, suddenly realising something. He was supposed to open his dantian, to accept the raven fully.
Except that he’d never done that before.
“How do I open my dantian?” he asked softly, hoping it wasn’t a stupid question.
Old Nan answered calmly, voice carrying softly through the quiet room. “You must consciously let go of the control you hold over your Qi. Let it unfurl, like loosening your grip on a tightly held rope. Your dantian is a vessel – right now it is sealed shut. You must choose to unseal it, knowing you surrender your control.”
A vessel, sealed shut. Jiang frowned, focusing inward again. The Qi in his dantian spun lazily, dense and heavy. With cautious intent, he tried reaching out, opening himself up to… something.
Old Nan’s reedy voice cut through the quiet. “You’re pulling, boy. Like a fisherman trying to haul a net. That is not how you welcome a guest.”
Jiang’s concentration wavered. He opened his eyes, frowning at her. “Then what am I supposed to do? I have to draw it in, don’t I?”
“You must open the door,” she said, her voice faint but insistent. “Your dantian is a house. You cannot drag a visitor through a closed window. You must unlock the gate and invite them inside.”
He stared at her, the metaphor both making perfect sense and no sense at all. He knew how to move his Qi, how to cycle it, how to draw it in from the world around him. But opening his dantian? It wasn’t a physical thing with a latch and hinges. It was… well, he didn’t actually know what it was. A reservoir of power? The core of his being?
Either way, the idea of just… letting it open felt profoundly wrong, a violation of every instinct that told him to hold his power close, to guard it.
“Stop thinking of it as a muscle to be clenched,” Nan whispered, her eyes closed now, as if sensing his struggle. “It is a hand. Uncurl your fingers. Let go.”
Trust wasn’t something Jiang gave easily – but in this moment, he allowed himself to believe. He took a final breath, and released his mental grasp.
Something shifted. A faint tremor, deep inside him. The boundary wavered, thinned. It was a terrifying sensation, like standing on the edge of a cliff and choosing to lean forward, the frozen moment before committing himself to a fall. He took one final, steadying breath, pushed past the screaming instinct to hold on, and opened his dantian fully.
The raven construct dissolved. Not in a flash of light, but into a cloud of pure, cold shadow that rushed towards him. It flowed into him not like a river, but like a thousand icy needles, piercing his meridians, flooding his spiritual centre. It was a violation, an invasion of alien instinct and cold, ancient knowledge. But beneath the shock, there was a startling sense of familiarity, a feeling of a missing piece of himself finally clicking into place. The raven’s chaotic, natural power was a storm, and his own structured, human mind was the dam, holding it, shaping it, giving it form even as it threatened to overwhelm him.
The room, the fire, the world – it all vanished. He was adrift once more in the infinite, shimmering tapestry of Qi that he had glimpsed during his first breakthrough. But this time, he was not an observer about to be torn apart by the currents. He was a part of it. He could feel his own Qi, a single dark thread, now inextricably woven into the whole, connected to a vast, unknowable consciousness on the other end. He felt the life of the city around him, a thousand small, flickering lights of mortal Qi. He felt the deep, slow pulse of the earth beneath, and the cold, empty expanse of the sky above. He was a node, a connection point between the wild and the tamed.
Power surged through that new connection, a torrent of raw, untamed energy that his mortal pathways could barely contain. His meridians expanded, clearing blockages Jiang hadn’t even realised were there. The density of his Qi grew sharper, more refined, each cycle purer and more potent than the last. It was the sweetest agony Jiang had ever felt, and his consciousness flickered like a candle in a storm.
The barrier to the fifth stage dissolved like it wasn’t even there.
He came back to himself with a gasp, sprawled on the floorboards, his body drenched in sweat. The room was the same. Old Nan was slumped against the wall, her breathing shallow, but a faint, peaceful smile touched her lips. Lin was pressed into the far corner, eying him warily, like she expected him to suddenly spout feathers.
“Jiang?” she asked softly. “Are you… alright? Squawk twice if you feel like eating us.”
He snorted despite himself, slowly pulling himself into a sitting position as the sensations receded into something more manageable. “You’re too scrawny to worry about that anyway,” he snarked.
“The Pact is sealed, child,” Old Nan said, opening her eyes enough to send them both a faintly chiding glance. “Your true path has begun.”
Comments
Dick Dastardly
Poor Lin got caught up in a mess.
Hermes
"And Here We Go"
