He was getting close to seven summers, the age when the Vavilon academy would claim him. Before, the academy had been a distant concept, a place other children went. Now, it loomed, a tangible marker on the horizon. He needed information.
When Lucy next arrived for her training, he steered the conversation.
"Tell me about the academy," he asked, affecting a casual tone. He watched her carefully, noting the faint blush that always crept onto her cheeks when she spoke of the place.
"It's amazing," she gushed. "So many cultivators, so much knowledge. You learn proper forms, meditate with the elders, and the qi flow exercises are incredible." She paused, her blue eyes shining. "You're going to love it."
"How many males are there?" he asked, cutting to the core of his concern.
Lucy's enthusiasm deflated. She chewed on her lip, her gaze dropping to her intertwined fingers. "Well," she started, her voice barely a whisper. "There's Master Hecktor."
Andrew waited, a knot tightening in his gut.
"No, I mean male students or teachers, any males at all," he pressed, his voice flat.
Lucy looked up, meeting his eyes with a shrug. "Just Master Hecktor," she repeated. "He's the only one who teaches the Foundation Establishment students. The other masters are all women, too. And all the students…" She trailed off, her meaning clear.
Andrew stared at her, the blood draining from his face. Only one male, a teacher, and that was it? The academy, a bastion of cultivation and learning, was exclusively female, save for a single male instructor? He felt a strange lightness in his head, a disorienting blankness.
He had expected a skewed ratio, perhaps even an overwhelming majority of females, but this? This was beyond anything he had conceived. A faint buzzing began behind his ears. He blinked, shaking his head slightly to clear the fog.
"What do you think their reaction will be to me?" he asked, the words feeling foreign on his tongue.
Lucy offered another shrug, a sigh escaping her lips. She picked at a loose thread on her simple tunic. "I don't know. They've never seen a boy like you before. Not a student, anyway."
Andrew watched her. She avoided his gaze, her expression drawn. That alone told him enough. He knew. He knew with a cold, sinking certainty that the academy would go absolutely insane.
He had enough trouble managing the unpredictable emotional torrents of Lucy and Amara. One represented unrestrained passion, the other a simmering, fierce desire. Both, in their own ways, demanded his attention, his focus. Adding a horde of crazy, horny females to the mix would be a catastrophic detour. His cultivation, his progress, everything he worked for, would grind to a halt.
He closed his eyes for a moment, a groan threatening to escape him. The Matriarchy, in their zeal for human preservation, had painted him into a corner. They would provide solutions, he knew, they always did. But even with their intervention, the sheer social pressure, the constant barrage of attention, would be too much. He sighed, a long, weary exhalation that seemed to carry the weight of his premature celebrity. The future, which had once felt open and full of possibility, now felt like a gilded cage. He imagined himself at the center of a swirling vortex of desire, unable to escape. He needed silence, focus, not a frantic mob.
Andrew's seventh birthday arrived, not with celebration, but with the familiar sight of Matriarchy representatives at the door. Two women, their faces etched with the perpetual solemnity of their calling, entered the small apartment. They carried the usual array of scanning equipment, their movements precise and practiced. He had come to anticipate these visits, the quiet hum of their devices a regular soundtrack to his early life.
They ran their scans, their eyes wide as the numbers flashed across their screens. Fifty percent. The organ tempering, a process meant to take years, was already halfway complete. A flicker of incredulity crossed one woman's face, quickly suppressed. Andrew noted it, a small victory in his otherwise mundane existence. They were numb, he realized. His accomplishments, once startling, now simply confirmed their expectations.
He waited for the assessments to finish, for the customary pronouncements about his exceptional aptitude. Then, he moved.
"How am I supposed to learn anything?" he demanded, his voice belying his small stature. He gestured vaguely towards the door, towards the world outside. "How am I supposed to study when a horde of women will want to… screw with my head?" He stumbled over the euphemism, frustrated by the inadequacy of his own vocabulary. He meant more. He meant the carnal hunger, the raw, unfiltered desire he knew they would project onto him. "How is this going to work?"
The representatives exchanged a blank look. They had no script for this. Their mission involved monitoring, assessing, protecting. Not answering existential questions from a precocious child. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.
Finally, one of them cleared her throat. "Andrew," she began, her tone measured, "we have made arrangements."
He crossed his arms, impatience prickling at him. "What arrangements?"
"You will be driven to and from the Vavilon academy each day," she explained. "A private transport. You will attend a special class."
"Special class?" He raised an eyebrow, a gesture he'd picked up from observing adults.
"Separate from the main student body," the other woman clarified. "Few students will interact with you during those hours."
"And outside of those hours?" he pressed, the real concern bubbling to the surface. "What then? When I'm not in this 'special class'?"
The first representative wrung her hands. "We are still… strategizing for those periods."
"Strategizing?" Andrew scoffed. He understood. They had no solution. They were as lost as he was in the face of this peculiar problem. He imagined himself adrift in a sea of expectant gazes, each one a tendril seeking to entangle him. The thought made his skin crawl.
He ran a hand through his short hair, a long, weary sigh escaping him. "What the hell?" he muttered under his breath, not expecting an answer. The words hung in the air, heavy with resignation. The Matriarchy, in their clinical efficiency, had overlooked the fundamental chaos of human nature. They could organize his education, control his movements, but they could not control desire. He saw his future not as a path of cultivation, but as a perpetual dodging of unwanted advances. He had to prepare for battle, not with spiritual beasts, but with the relentless tide of female attention.
Andrew cultivated with a desperate intensity. He poured over techniques, pushed his qi through his meridians, and hammered at the gates of higher stages. Each breath became a focused exercise, each meal a strategic intake of energy. His small room became a crucible of his ambition. He was not just aiming for advancement; he was building a fortress, an impenetrable shield against the chaos he so vividly imagined.
His body, once soft with childhood, began to harden. Muscles rippled beneath his skin, still boyish but dense with nascent power. His movements gained a fluid grace, a silent efficiency. He moved through his forms like a phantom, each posture precise, each flow of energy deliberate. He knew what awaited him. The Vavilon academy, a den of ravenous cultivators. He pictured them, a pack of wolves, and he, the lone, vulnerable lamb. He would not just be a prodigy; he would be a seasoned warrior before he even stepped foot on their grounds.
He also subjected Lucy to his newfound zeal.
"Spar with me," he demanded, his eyes gleaming with an almost feverish light.
Lucy, initially thrilled, found her enthusiasm tempered by Andrew's relentless drive. He fought with a fierce urgency, his small frame twisting and turning, striking with surprising force. Their sessions evolved from playful exchanges to genuine combat. He absorbed her techniques, learned her tells, and anticipated her moves.
"Again," he gasped, pushing himself off the ground after a particularly heavy blow from Lucy. A red mark bloomed on his cheek, a badge of honour.
Lucy rubbed her side, where a sharp kick from Andrew had landed. She caught her breath, watching him with a mixture of awe and concern. "You're getting stronger, Andrew," she said, her voice laced with an undeniable respect. "Really strong."
"Not strong enough," he countered, already assuming his stance. "I need more."
The sparring became a grueling ritual. Andrew learned to absorb blows, to channel pain into power. His foundational techniques solidified, transforming from learned movements into instinctual reactions. He discovered a brutal efficiency in his fighting, a cold logic that sought out weaknesses and exploited them without hesitation. Lucy, initially hesitant to push too hard against a child, found herself fighting a miniature whirlwind of focused aggression.
One afternoon, a bead of blood traced a path from Andrew's lip. He had misjudged a block. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving Lucy's.
"We'll only spar during our meetings from now on," he instructed, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "I need every moment of my time with you for this."
Lucy simply nodded, her blonde hair rustling as she shifted her weight. She understood. The boy, barely seven, was gripped by an obsession. She saw the shadows under his eyes, the almost manic glint in his gaze. He wasn't just training; he was preparing for war.
Andrew continued his solitary cultivation, his meditations stretching for hours, his focus absolute. He ate simple, nourishing meals, spoke only when necessary, and slept little. Each day brought a subtle shift in his aura, a growing density of qi within him. He was a small, self-contained engine of cultivation, humming with suppressed power. The prospect of the academy, once a distant fear, now fueled his every action. He would not be caught unprepared. He would not be anyone's prey.