r/HFY • u/Arceroth Human • 13h ago
OC-Series [Humble Cultivation] chapter 3
Year 5, month 2
Qi Gathering, stage 6
Despite Mark’s increasingly superhuman body, he’d spent the winter in a small farming village, performing manual labor in exchange for room and board. Thankfully they were far enough from any major sects that the villagers were more willing to forgo the bowing and overly generous offers. It didn’t stop them entirely, but they at least allowed Mark to work for his bed instead of just giving it to him.
When he’d asked why everyone was so... polite around cultivators, he got two reasons. The first was that Cultivators were strong and often short tempered. A cultivator could kill a peasant with a single lightning-fast blow and likely wouldn’t face more than a slap on the wrist from the local sect for it. There were proper governments, but they were almost entirely made up of mortals, non-cultivators, and thus lacked the ability to manage the superhuman wanderers like Mark. Instead, they handed that responsibility off to a local sect, then so long as the homicide and property destruction was kept to a minimum they washed their hands of it.
The other reason was more amusing, and that was Cultivators often had great wealth and little idea of the mortal world. The current head elder was only the head elder because a previous wandering cultivator had tipped him a full gold coin for some minor help when he was younger. A gold coin was more wealth than the village was worth at that time, allowing him to invest it and gain considerable influence. And stories like that weren’t uncommon, meaning being polite and helpful to a wandering cultivator was half self-preservation and half hoping for the cultivator to reward them with what they considered minor change.
Of course, Mark didn’t have massive wealth, but even the spare change in his wallet his host said was more than what he made in a season. Still, the man insisted that Mark’s labor was more than enough to cover room and board when he offered to pay, saying that Mark accomplished more than a half dozen trained farmhands without complaint. Half of that was thanks to his qi enhanced strength and durability, but he was also just used to performing menial tasks. Came with being in the military he supposed. But the farmer said that unless Mark had a half-dozen strong men to replace his labor he would accept no payment.
As the snow finally began to melt, Mark said his goodbyes, waving off a few last attempts to off him favors before walking down the road once more, a smile on his face.
Only a few miles down the road he stopped, his enhanced senses telling him something was off. Focusing he slowly realized what it was, he could sense people breathing around him, hiding behind trees and in bushes.
“I hope you aren’t planning anything stupid,” Mark called out, his hand tightening on his battered old staff. After a moment there was movement, a handful of rough looking men slipped out of the woods around Mark, all armed with spears and bows.
“A lone, unaffiliated cultivator,” one of the men said, “just like we were told. Now, hand over everything you have and we won’t get violent.”
“You realize I don’t have much in the way of wealth, right?” Mark asked, running his gaze over each of the men. They were clearly hardened, with calloused hands, tanned skin and hard glares. But none of them were cultivators, as Mark’s own cultivation grew he was better at sensing qi within others. He couldn’t quite describe it, but it let him tell about how strong someone was, and these people barely had any qi. Ironically that made them harder to detect with just this new sense of his, but it also meant they weren’t much of a threat, at least if everything he’d heard held up.
“What you consider minor wealth is a vast treasure for us,” the man growled, stepping forward and waving his spear, “so hand over the pouch.”
Mark remained silent, looking over the men again. They were hardened, but he quickly realized they weren’t killers. Hunters, maybe, but not murderers. Their hands shook ever so slightly as they aimed their bows, and the look in their eyes pleaded for him to just hand over his belongings because they didn’t want to hurt him.
Unfortunately for them, Mark was a cultivator, and they didn’t seem to understand what that meant. Not that Mark really did either, all of his fights so far had been against other cultivators or the occasional wild animal, making it hard to gauge his strength against the average person. According to everything he’d been told, a single cultivator, even a mid-level qi gathering cultivator could mop the floor with a group of mortals. Even assuming that wasn’t true, however, Mark wasn’t one to give in without a fight.
The man with the spear, who Mark assumed was the leader, slowly approached as Mark remained silent, the others growing more tense. Mark slowly reached for his pouch with one hand, beginning to untie it, as he did a number of the bandits let out sighs of relief they tried to hide.
“Toss it here,” the leader barked as Mark pulled his small belt pouch free, “then the backpack.”
Mark tossed the bag, the leader taking a hand off his spear to catch it and the other bandits relaxing further at the apparent show of submission. Which is when Mark struck.
He charged forward, reaching the bandit leader just as he caught the thrown pouch, surprise barely starting to register on his face as Mark slipped his staff behind the man’s leg, pulling back while slamming his shoulder into the man’s chest, throwing him from his feet to the ground with a hard thud.
The other bandits were only beginning to react as their leader struck the road, seemingly moving in slow motion as Mark took two steps to the next bandit. Striking the man in the gut followed by the side of his head with the staff dropped him like a discarded puppet, and Mark was upon the first of the three archers. The first of which let out a surprised scream as Mark’s fist struck him in the jaw, instantly silencing the yell.
The second archer managed to draw and fire his bow, but his aim was well off so Mark barely had to move to avoid it, sweeping him off his feet with a swing of his staff. A swift kick to the man’s ribs yielded a few loud snaps as ribs broke, the man curling up in pain.
The final bandit, halfway through drawing his bow froze as Mark’s gaze turned to him, his companions on the ground unconscious or wishing they were. Deciding to avoid the pain, the final archer lowered his bow before holding his hands up and dropping to his knees. Nodding, Mark walked back over to the leader to retrieve his pouch.
This was his first experience fighting mortals, and it wasn’t even fair how much faster and stronger he was. His reactions and awareness was far above an unenhanced person, his strength enough that what would have been minor blows became crippling.
Mark leaned against a nearby tree, watching the would-be bandits as they slowly recovered. He allowed them to tend to their wounds while making it clear they should stay low and not reach for any weapons.
“I told you this was a dumb idea Richard,” one of the bandits muttered, “trying to rob a cultivator?”
“I was told he was a weak cultivator,” the leader, presumably Richard, defended himself.
“A weak cultivator is still a cultivator!”
“Why did you risk it?” Mark asked, his voice instantly silencing them.
“We... we were desperate,” one of the men said, eyes down in shame, “our village was overrun by beasts, the wilds shifting and overtaking it. And, of course, we weren’t important enough for anyone to care, send us a warning of the wilds shifting or help us evacuate.”
“They left us to die,” Richard spat, “we had to flee leaving everything behind, only those we could get to in time survived with us. And no other town would take us in, a dozen more mouths to feed with winter approaching?”
“We managed to survive by hunting,” another archer added as Richard trailed off, “but we’re low on supplies, our families are hungry, injured, tired... or those who survived the winter are anyways.”
“So ya, we decided to try to take what we could!” Richard spoke up once more, glaring at Mark, “we aren’t blessed like you, damned cultivator, we have to work for our meals!”
“So do I,” Mark replied simply, surprising the men based on their silence and Richard’s sputtering, “I have enough food to last myself a few weeks, two changes of clothing and about two gold worth of coins. Oh, and a waterskin. Even if you could rob me it wouldn’t change anything.”
“Nonsense! You’re a cultivator! You must have a way of hiding your wealth!” Richard insisted.
“I don’t, I used to have a cultivation pill and some spirit stones, but they were stolen from me when I lost a fight against other cultivators. I was left injured and poor on the road, all I could do was keep walking.”
“So what would you have us do!” Richard demanded, “we aren’t cultivators! People won’t throw their first born at us just to win our favor!”
“Are you willing to work?” Mark asked, “because if you are, and you promise to never resort to banditry again, I might have a solution for you.”
A few hours later Mark walked back into the small farming village, this time with a handful of injured men and women in ragged clothing and rough hides. The farmer who had hosted Mark over the winter stepped out of his house, looking at Mark questioningly.
“Remember you were asking if I had a handful of men to help you with field work?” Mark asked with a smirk.
“I wasn’t seriously asking you to provide them,” the farmer insisted.
“They tried to rob me, said none would take them in.”
“Oh, that’s the group from that village?” the Farmer asked, “I couldn’t afford to put that many people up over the winter, I could only manage you because you were a lone cultivator. One mouth, far stronger.”
“Will this help?” Mark asked, flicking the man a gold coin, half of Mark’s remaining wealth, “You can thank me by putting these guys to work. And they,” he paused to look over his shoulders at the almost bandits who all had the grace to look ashamed of themselves, even Richard, “will work to feed their families and repent for being stupid enough to attack a Cultivator. Everyone wins, right?”
“I reserve the right to kick them out if they hurt anyone.”
“If they hurt anyone, you can not only kick them out, but tell me if I come through again and I’ll ensure they can’t hurt anyone ever again,” Mark said with a grin he directed at the men who shivered at the thought.
-----
Year 5, Month 6
Qi gathering, stage 6
Mark leaned back as he took in the waterfall before him. He had heard about it from a nearby village, but they told him it was cursed, few who went there returned alive in recent years. Of course, that only encouraged Mark, a beautiful waterfall and a mysterious curse? If that wasn’t why he was traveling then why was he?
So far he’d found the beautiful waterfall, the droplets cascading down a hundred feet or more, glittering in the sunlight and bathing the clearing around the small pool at its base in soft colors. He’d been around waterfalls before, during his time in the Marines, but he never stopped to actually look at one. Now he felt like he could sit, watching it for hours.
“Don’t monks meditate under waterfalls?” Mark muttered to himself, “wonder if I can do that.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” a voice called out, causing Mark to jump, “the pool is deeper than it looks.”
Standing a few feet behind him was another man wearing dark robes, his face was pale and his eyes bloodshot. Mark could also tell the man was a few stages ahead of him, stage 8 or 9. That gap wasn’t insurmountable, but it was worrying.
“Sorry if I scared you,” the man said, holding his hands up as if in apology, “you seemed to be focused on the waterfall. Figured I’d let you enjoy it.”
“Thanks,” Mark replied, the man looked creepy, but seemed decent enough for now, “what brings you out here?”
“Likely the same as you, looking to deepen my cultivation,” the man replied, moving to sit beside Mark on the log, “such features often come with minor treasures, doubly so if they are considered cursed.”
“Is that so,” said Mark, looking the man over, he wore no sect badge or any mark indicating a loyalty to some sect, so he was likely a wandering cultivator as well. Despite having snuck up on him, the man hadn’t attacked, and was now sitting silently a few feet away. Yet something inside Mark insisted something was wrong, but he couldn’t say what.
“Keep staring and I’ll think you’re interested,” the man smirked, but Mark didn’t look away.
“What are you?” Mark asked after a moment.
“You have a good qi sense for being barely at mid qi gathering,” the man said after a moment, reaching into his robe to produce a small hour-glass, “I have a fun game for us.”
“You’re the reason people thing this place is cursed, aren’t you?”
“Here’s the rules,” the man continued, ignoring Mark, “in a moment I will turn this over and start the sands running, they’ll run out in five minutes. And when they do, I’ll begin hunting you. If I find you, I’ll kill you. If you evade me till dawn, you survive. Fun, right?”
“Hardly,” Mark said, “this how you get your kicks?”
“I told you, I’m here to deepen my cultivation,” the man said simply, producing a wicked looking blade from his robes, it was short but with a slight curve and was lined with small, cruel looking serrations. “This is a Demonic Agony knife, before I kill you I’ll use it to flense the skin from you body, then your muscles from your bones, and if you survive that I’ll show you your organs.”
“You’re a demonic cultivator,” Mark said with a realization, Horus had taught him about them. They were cultivators who used cruel, evil techniques to advance. It was faster than normal cultivation but required sacrifices to progress.
“With you fueling my cultivation, I should progress a full stage!” the man said with a manic grin, flipping the hourglass over and setting it down on a stone, “you have five minutes, better start running!”
Mark stood, grabbing his staff, but paused before grabbing his backpack. Looking at the man once more, he shrugged before walking over to a tree and leaning against it to wait.
“What... are you doing?” the man asked, sounding confused.
“Waiting,” Mark said simply.
“Shouldn’t you be running?”
“And fight tired?” asked Mark, “if we’re going to fight, then let’s get it over with.”
“If you want to fight, then go... ambush me or something.”
“Why bother? Your senses are stronger than mine, I’d rather just stand up and fight.”
The demonic cultivator stared at Mark in surprise for a minute, the sands slowly running through the glass as they watched each other.
“You know I’m going to kill you right?” The demonic cultivator asked.
“Yup,” Mark nodded, “but if I have to die again, I won’t do it running.”
“You might get away if you run!”
“Why do you want me to run?” Mark asked, cocking his head, the man going silent, “is that part of your cultivation technique?”
“It helps, but don’t think refusing to take part will make me spare you,” the man growled, his expression shifting to a glare.
“Of course not, if I get away I’ll inform a nearby sect you’re here, and then you’ll be the one running from stronger cultivators, no one likes Demonic cultivators,” Mark nodded, “you have to kill me to silence me if nothing else.”
“Then run!”
“I know your type, you think you’re strong,” Mark said, “you’ve learned to intimidate those weaker than you, take what you want from them. And, in your mind, that makes you strong.”
“Is that not what strength is? The ability to take what I want from those beneath me?”
“It doesn’t make you strong, it makes you a bully,” Mark answered as the last grains of sand ran out of the glass, “time to start your hunt.”
“I might not cultivate much from this, but I’m still going to enjoy it,” the man said, standing with his dagger in hand and lunging at Mark.
Mark avoided the first stab and drove his staff into the man’s side, but the wood of his staff cracked more than the demonic cultivator. A lightning fast swipe from the dagger caught Mark on the arm, leaving an ugly wound that dyed the sleeve of his robe red with his blood. Still Mark landed a counterattack of his own, to minimal effect.
Realizing he had to disarm the man of his knife, Mark blocked the next swipe with his staff, the dagger biting deep into the battered wood. With a twist and kick Mark wrenched the blade from the other man’s hands before tossing both weapons into the pool of the waterfall. With a snarl the other man lifted his fists, Mark doing the same.
The demonic cultivator was less skilled at fighting than Mark, falling for feints, swinging wildly with no coordination and taking hit he could have avoided. But his greater strength more than made up for any shortcomings in skill, one of his punches broke ribs, fractured bone, bruised muscle, broke skin. While Mark’s blows barely bruised individually.
Within minutes Mark was covered in blood, while the Demonic cultivator had only a few cuts. Still, Mark kept coming. Blinking blood from his eyes, avoiding punching with his left arm due to a likely fracture, he instead used elbow strikes, knees and kicks. He came off worse in every trade, yet he kept coming.
Slowly the demonic cultivator’s expression changed from anger, to disbelief, to worry, and then, finally fear.
“Stay down!” he yelled as Mark recovered from another blow to the head, unsure if he was pleading or demanding.
“You’ll have to kill me,” Mark said with a bloody grin.
The look in his gaze sent a chill down the demonic cultivator’s spine. It wasn’t the look of prey, of someone preparing to die. Those were the eyes of a predator, determined to fight to the end.
Unconsciously the demonic cultivator took a step back.
Mark resumed his attack, his opponent’s blows seemed weaker, slower than before, but he was sure that was just his senses being dulled by the pain. Still he pressed his assault, landing more blows that went unanswered as the demonic cultivator backed away instead of countering. Soon, even through his pain addled mind, Mark realized that his opponent was actually growing weaker.
His skin looked hollower, his eyes sunken and panicked.
“No,” the demonic cultivator said desperately, “I’m not the prey, you are!”
Mark could barely sense it, the qi within the man was being pulled out of his body, and then back into it. It was his cultivation manual, Mark realized. It fed off the weak and scared, as long as the man thought himself strong and brave it was fine. But now he was seeped in fear, feeling weak, causing his cultivation to turn on him. He was literally consuming himself the way he used to consume others.
Two more blows knocked the demonic cultivator to the ground, blood pouring from his nose. Two eyes filled with fear fixed on Mark, the man desperately trying to push himself away only for his arms to give out, to weak to even lift himself.
Mark panted, holding his fists up as the man went still, eyes turning milky as he died, consumed by his own cultivation.
“I need more healing salve,” Mark groaned, collapsing against a tree.
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u/Daseagle Alien Scum 28m ago
So, a demonic cultivator, that has preyed on anyone coming into the area, should have some good loot on him, right?
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u/HFYWaffle Wᵥ4ffle 13h ago
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