Cultivation
For the children of blood
The words inked onto the book were wrong, five of them hadn't existed when Rocco picked the book up from the storage room.
But, none of that mattered. Rocco needed strength, his remaining two brothers needed strength. They had already paid the price for being weak.
"So… open it." Bartok was the one to break the silence.
Rocco slowly dragged his thumb to the top corner of the book, hooked it under the cover, and pulled.
It didn't open, no matter how hard Rocco tried, the book would not open. It was like the entire book was made from a single piece of marble.
Rocco gave it to his brothers, still nothing.
Silence settled again. Rocco's mind slowly shifted back to his aching body as his left shin flared. Bartok seemed to notice as he tore a strip from his clothes and bound it along with a stick to brace the leg.
The motion sent a hollow ache through Rocco's stomach, sharp enough that he had to swallow against it. His mouth felt dry and rough, every breath tasting faintly of ash. He pressed his lips together and forced himself steady.
"I'm thirsty," Rocco swallowed quietly. "We need water."
His brothers nodded in agreement and helped him up.
The road beyond the orphanage should have been quiet. Instead, it was crowded. People stood in loose clusters, all of them facing the blackened shell of the building behind the fence.
Whispers followed as the boys passed.
"Survivors…"
"Poor things…" "Did anyone make it out?" "Their burn marks…"
Rocco kept his eyes forward. Each step made his head swim, his throat burning with thirst. Bartok stayed close, one hand hovering near Rocco in case he fell.
A wooden wagon creaked as it slowed alongside them. A young man hauling it stopped when he saw their faces. His gaze caught on Rocco's leg, then on their peeling skin glinting in the sun.
"You look like you've been through hell," he said quietly.
Rocco stiffened.
"Easy. I won't force anything." He hesitated then continued, "If you've nowhere to go, you can stay under my roof for a few days. No charge."
Tylussian shook his head. "Our grandmother told us not to follow strangers."
The man studied him for a moment, then accepted it with a small nod. He reached into the wagon instead and drew out a skin and a small bundle wrapped in cloth.
"At least take some water," he said. "And bread."
Tylussian opened his mouth in refusal but nothing came out, he then shook his head in refusal.
The man didn't argue. He set the bundle and the water skin on the edge of the wagon and stepped back.
"Keep it," he said. "If you find food later, good. If not…better you have it."
Rocco hesitated, then reached out with trembling fingers and took the skin. "Thank you sir!" he whispered.
The man gave a brief nod, then tightened his grip on the wagon and started moving again.
"Take care of each other." The wagon creaked away, leaving the smell of bread and damp wood in the air.
Tylussian stared at the bundle. Rocco noticed and broke the loaf, passing a piece to him, then to Bartok.
They moved off the road and sank onto the dirt where the crowd thinned, their bodies finding relief under a tree. The bread was dry, but it settled the ache in Rocco's stomach, and the water burned going down before the relief followed.
For a while, none of them spoke.
Bartok was the first to break the silence. "Now what?"
Rocco wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "We need money." Two gazes turned to face him.
He hesitated, then said, "If we're going to eat again… we'll need coin. The city center's busy."
Tylussian nodded once. "Then we start there."
_ _ _
The inner city swallowed them whole.
Noise pressed in from every side — shouting voices, clattering wheels, metal striking stone. The air smelled wrong. Too many things at once.
Tylussian slowed, turning in a slow circle. "It's… big," he said quietly.
Bartok's eyes shifted from stall to stall, never stopping anywhere for long.
Rocco stood, silent. People moved too fast here. Someone shouted. Someone else laughed. A ragged body lay where no one seemed to look.
"We look like beggars," Bartok muttered.
Tylussian glanced down at himself. Soot streaked his face. His clothes were stiff with dried mud and burned through in places. When he lifted his hands, they still trembled.
Rocco followed his gaze; then looked at his own reflection in a stall's brass pan. Ash in his hair. His leg dragging behind him. His skin frayed, shining against the harsh sun. Suddenly, his skin shivered as if something was slithering up his spine.
Tylussian stared at Rocco with anticipation. "So…any ideas?"
Rocco met Tylussian's gaze, then he turned to face Bartok.
"I think we should ask a stall owner for work but…they'll think we are beggars," he said quietly.
Bartok frowned. "So what?"
"So you go first," Rocco said. "At least you look like a…normal beggar."
Bartok stared at him. "Normal?"
Rocco nodded once. "You don't limp, you're not burned, and you don't look like you crawled out of a fire."
Tylussian didn't argue.
Bartok exhaled through his nose. "Fine."
He squared his shoulders and stepped toward the closest stall.
"I am looking for work."
The stall owner caught him with the corner of his eye, "scram, go beg somewhere else."
Bartok tried again, at a different stall.
"I need work, sir."
"Go steal somewhere else."
He failed again.
" Kind sir, I am a hard wo—"
***
The sun had begun to fall.
"See, Bartok just isn't cut out for this." Tylussian declared with a concerned voice.
"No, he just needs to try harder." Rocco retorted.
He started limping as he said with a firm voice, "Look at how it's done Bartok. Tylussian, come with me."
Rocco walked up to a nearby stall with his crooked gait.
"Oh kind, noble—"
"Go away," the stall owner snapped. His gaze dropped to Rocco's peeling face and lingered. "I don't hire thieves."
Tylussian stepped in beside him. "We're not thieves," he said evenly. "We're looking for honest work."
The stall owner paused, "I like your spine kid, but I have no money to spare."
Rocco swallowed and forced the next words out.
"We'll work for food and water."
That finally grabbed the man's attention.
He looked them over—burned clothes, mud-caked legs, the way Rocco swayed.
"One loaf a day," he said. "Two cups of water."
Rocco hesitated—then said it anyway.
"Six loaves. 18 cups. Between the three of us."
"Deal." The stall owner agreed, too easily, a smile suddenly plastered on his face.
"Well what are you waiting for? Get kneading." The trio had escaped unemployment.
***
"We messed up," Rocco said quietly.
Tylussian sank against the wall beside him, breath shallow. "I know."
Bartok simply nodded as exhaustion took over their bodies.
The trio napped on a lonely street, away from the bustling city. Moonlight gently caressed their tired bodies, the gentle calm of wind lulling them into deep sleep.
Voices came before the sunlight, soon the street filled with tapping of countless steps, the commotion woke the trio up, still groggy but well rested.
"Rocco, I think we are getting late…"
They were always late.
The days blurred.
Work. Heat. Hands in dough. Smoke in their lungs. Water measured out and gone too fast.
By nightfall, they were back on the same street, against the same wall.
"My forearms are numb," Rocco said the first night.
The next night, he didn't bother speaking.
Tylussian checked his hands each morning. The skin tightened. Cracked. Split again.
Bartok stopped counting the days.
Footsteps woke them every morning.
The street filled. The light rose.
Someone limped more than before.
Someone worked slower.
Someone slept through the cold.
By the end of the second week, the wall felt familiar.
They lay down without speaking.
Sleep came quickly.
Morning came sooner.
"I am tired." Tylussian had grown thinner and pale, his face looked at Rocco with sorrow.
Rocco's entire body shivered, his broken leg trembling, his skin still flaking where he was burned.
"Your leg is getting worse by the day. We still need new clothes. Coins. And… "
Rocco didn't listen, his mind was preoccupied with pain.
The dark night fell silent, as the exhausted trio succumbed yet again to slumber.
The patter of steps again told them to wake up, as the same day that they had lived for the past two weeks commenced once again.
But today was different, today, they were determined to find a new job, one that gave them more than just food and water.
***
They walked farther than before, leaving behind the familiar maze of stalls and narrow streets.
"There are more stalls near the Saha Sect," Rocco said quietly. "At least… that's what I've heard."
He hesitated, then added, "I wonder what it looks like."
They didn't need to walk much farther to find out.
The sect rose from the old city as if it had always been there, as though the streets and markets had merely grown around it in quiet submission. Massive stone walls smoothed by centuries of hands enclosed layered rooftops that climbed upward in deliberate order, their curved tiles catching the moonlight like still water. Vermilion pillars framed open courtyards beyond the gates, cracked just enough to prove their age, etched with fading beasts and clouds worn thin by time.
Even the air felt different.
The noise of the city dulled as they drew closer, voices softening, footsteps slowing. People passed without lingering, eyes lowered, as if instinct alone warned them not to stare too long.
Rocco stopped without realizing it.
Standing there, staring up at the stone and wood and silent authority before him, the weight of his own words returned to him — there are some people who don't belong under this sun. The thought twisted in his chest, no longer fueled by anger, but by the cold realization of just how vast the gap truly was. He felt small, painfully aware of his burned skin, his broken leg, the thinness of his breath.
How could someone like him ever stand against people who lived behind walls like these?
Beside him, Tylussian didn't stop.
His exhaustion didn't vanish, but something else pushed through it. His eyes traced the rooftops, the courtyards, the quiet discipline etched into every line of stone.
This was what strength looked like.
A voice spoke from behind them, smooth and unhurried, carrying the ease of someone who had never worried about being overheard.
"Are you interested?"
Rocco stiffened. Bartok's shoulders tensed.
Only Tylussian answered
"Yes."
The cultivator smiled faintly. "Oh? Do you wish to join the sect?"
Tylussian didn't hesitate.
"That's ridiculous,"
Determination now poured through his words.
"I want to make one."