Fat darses! What stars aligned so terribly in the sky that all of you ended up here right now instead of minding your own business? Vartus! It hasn't even been an hour since I begged you for just a scrap of meat-root in exchange for the barely-met stone quota I managed in two days. I specifically chose this time—late in the long day, with about two hours left before work usually ends and the hunters return. How is it that you're all back early, and who's manning the intake station instead of you?
Yesterday, I felt that strange sensation again. The one where you pick up something familiar and suddenly realize it feels odd to use. You start paying attention and notice—it's become a bit lighter, almost floating in your hand, barely touching your fingers. A breakthrough to a new star, when your strength jumps in a sudden surge.
I asked my mother about it, but she couldn't recall ever feeling anything like that. I figured it must be because of the speed of my Ascension. Her strength grew slowly and steadily, while mine is surging ahead much faster. My body just can't adapt quickly enough to the growth. It's been the same with previous stages. But this time it's even clearer. Hatred, it seems, had stalled my Ascension, and forging the dagger felt like breaking a dam. In these last ten days, I sometimes felt like I was this close to actually seeing my inner energy move through my body.
As soon as I started imagining threads of energy flowing around me, I'd catch a faint glow out of the corner of my eye—just hanging in the air. My mental training, when I'd paint imaginary energy onto clouds, birds, people, and random objects, started making me question reality itself. Was I seeing the truth, or were they just figments of my mind?
That damned shack—yeah, I climbed back in just to confirm my suspicions. I believed I'd reached the sixth star. The stone weight, marked by a seal and made of a type of stone we couldn't possibly mine in these ruins, confirmed my level. But now what?
I looked around. Since my last visit, there were even fewer weights left here. If I rearranged them… or rather, if I only moved the ones I could lift… then I could build a niche along the far wall and hide in it until nightfall. The main thing was to do it quietly and hope no one noticed the rearranged layout inside.
So I got to work—nervously listening for shouts from the training yard, freezing every time someone raised their voice, constantly peeking out through the gap in the wall. I dragged everything under seven-star level across my side with quiet determination. And it worked. No one heard me. And the hiding place I made—honestly, a masterpiece. In the corner, I found a few more gaps in the wall—no one around to force the apprentices to smear them shut with clay and whitewash—and so I built my niche there.
Now, comfortably nestled on top of the weights (thanks to my toughened body), I lay there watching the evening training session unfold in front of me.
"I'm lifting the six-star weight eight times today!" Shigo declared proudly, throwing his arms up.
"You've been trying to lift that thing for a month," Porto replied with a dismissive wave, wiping sweat off with a piece of chamois as he sat on a bench.
"No!" Shigo wagged his finger. "I can feel my arms getting stronger! Today I'm sure of it! Watch!"
He squatted over the weight, gripping its handles with effort. With a guttural grunt, he started lifting and counting out loud:
"One! Two! Three! Four! Fiiiive! Siiix! Seveen! Aaaargh—Eight!"
He dropped the weight with a loud thud, sending sand flying, then threw his arms up in triumph and started yelling:
"Yes! Yes! I did it! My new record! I'll repeat it four more times today!"
That's weird. Is it really that heavy? I literally just lifted that same two hundred kilograms… and I moved at least twenty massive weights around earlier without even breaking a sweat.
Sometimes, when she finds the time, Mom loads up my carry-frame with stones until she's at her limit. Alongside the regular cargo, that's often the max she can lift. Not to mention her bread quota always beats everyone else's. And she walks like that for hours.
I hesitated. I had already decided to avoid touching heavy weights unless absolutely necessary. No need to become one of those sweaty brutes yelling over their reps. I was only here to confirm something… and, well, I'd already done more than enough "touching."
"Alright," I told myself. "Just once. To test my limits."
I checked again—no one was near the shed—and slipped through the gap under the roof and to the entrance.
Twelve.
I lifted it twelve times and barely broke a sweat. I only stopped because I was worried someone might hear me. Peering through the gap in the door, I looked over at the next weight with uncertainty, then grabbed its rough handles anyway.
Seven stars.
I managed to budge it—maybe even lift it off the ground by a hair. But no more.
Settling back into my stone hideout, I started to puzzle over these oddities.
"Why are you acting like a girl? Aren't you tired of playing with baby weights?" Shigo barked from the training yard. "Why don't you grab the twos while you're at it!"
"There are no exam weights rated at two stars," Porto replied calmly, still sitting on the bench and retying his hair into a simple tail.
"Oh gods, you know what I meant!" Shigo rolled his eyes.
"I want to try my luck with the seven," Porto said, standing up and nearly bumping into Shigo.
"Oho! So that's what you're after," Shigo clapped his hands as Porto walked away, not acknowledging the shove. "Go on, go on!"
"Spoken like a true warrior," came a voice I loathed—Virgl. Unfortunately, I could barely see the part of the yard he was in. "So, will you be joining me? Another seven among us?"
Porto stopped silently in front of the stone pedestal. He inhaled deeply, exhaled, and gripped the handles. He stayed hunched over for a few seconds, unmoving. Then, shifting his legs and arms strangely, he let out a loud roar and began to lift.
He couldn't straighten fully—he froze mid-lift, still growling, then the weight slipped from his fingers and crashed down, nearly crushing his feet.
"Pathetic," Vartus scoffed with a mocking laugh.
"It went better than last time. I'm getting there," Porto replied, sweat-drenched and gasping for air.
"Boss, how come you're not training today?" Shigo blurted out again. I hadn't realized how much of a chatterbox he was.
"I was waiting to see how you all performed. Disappointing. I expected more," Virgl finally stepped into view through my gap. He still hadn't taken off his expensive shirt—even here, he made no effort to protect it. The others, by contrast, were either in rough leathers or shirtless.
"Not much time for training," Larg muttered nearby. That was rich, considering he spent half his days on lookout duty, doing absolutely nothing except sleeping. What, do they think lifting weights is the only form of training? I smirked—notice he never mentioned that their boss was a year older than them. He should really start shaving. That patchy stubble on his lip looked disgusting.
"I'm busier with village affairs than any of you," Virgl shrugged. "And yet I'm stronger. You're just not working hard enough."
"Give us some advice, boss!" Vartus jumped up, which looked ridiculous given he was the same height as Virgl.
"When you train, imagine yourselves growing stronger. Every time you lift a weight, visualize it bringing you one step closer to the stars!"
What is he spewing? I was stunned. Where, in all the teachings on Meridian Tempering, does it ever mention anything like that?
"Show us, boss!" Skirto, the rat-faced one, stared at their leader with sparkling eyes.
"BOSS! BOSS! BOSS!" Shigo started chanting, clapping so hard that the tail of hair on his head bounced and whipped his back with each smack.
Virgl smiled and walked lazily over to the weight Porto had failed to lift. But he didn't get the chance to touch it.
A clay jug shattered on Shigo's head, cutting his shouting short like a knife. Snap! Just like that rope on the river. One second he was yelling, the next he was face-down in the sand, surrounded by thick shards of red clay. The yard froze in stunned silence.
"You all need to shut up," came a raspy, annoyed voice—Orikol. "Your yelling makes my damn teeth ache. I thought it was cultists chanting to their fake gods again. But no—it's just a bunch of filthy brats worshipping an even filthier idol. And without a drop of wine, I can't even decide which is worse."
"Teacher?" That was Larg, who hadn't said a word until now.
"Are you brain-dead? Who the hell else did you expect, you lazy mutt?"
With a dramatic flip of his mat, Orikol appeared in the doorway. Wait—did he seriously throw the jug through the window? His house is usually sealed tighter than a storm bunker. He scanned the training yard, slapped his palm to his forehead, and suddenly let out a raging bellow—like a wild bull—then charged across the yard, striking out at everyone in sight with kicks and open-handed smacks. I pressed against my spy-hole, soaking up every hit like they were food for my soul.
"You thick-headed brats! Useless scum who only needed to read one—ONE!—single book and follow it! Absorb the world's energy! Absorb! Its! Energy! Where—where in the damn manual does it say to bust your asses lifting these dumb darses weights?! What weights, you idiots?! The Ancients didn't have any weights! None! You stinking morons!"
"They didn't even notice the tempering phase! They left thousands of writings on the later stages, and only one—ONE!—on tempering. And you can't even follow that! You jeyr-brained idiots! I've banned you from bringing those damn exam weights out here forty times! They're for exams! Not for tempering meridians!"
"Tempering takes will and a brain! Believe and imagine, you freaks! You stupid freaks!"
Suddenly Orikol calmed, practically collapsing onto the bench—the same bench he'd drop-kicked Larg off of a second ago. Same old woven shirt, so stained it barely resembled its original pale shade, unlaced at the collar to reveal a bushy chest. He wore rugged leather pants—standard gear for dirty jobs—and they looked like he'd just crawled through the wastelands. He gazed around at the now-empty yard, where only Shigo was left groaning in the sand, then looked up to the sky with a heavy sigh.
"Have I still not paid for my foolishness?" he muttered to the heavens. "How am I supposed to leave this place with disciples like these? Oh gods, how am I not supposed to drink myself into oblivion watching this brain-dead pack of fools?"
"Up! In line, all of you!" he barked, pointing.
They lined up by power rank, shoulders hunched. The only one who didn't quite fit was that rat Skirto, practically glued to Virgl's side.
"What's the core of tempering?" Orikol asked. "What, no one's got a tongue now? Shigo!"
"Uh…" Shigo bleated like a jeyr. The same guy whose moccasin once burned my cheek in that memory. "Absorb the world's energy?"
"I'm stunned that you managed to remember that, you dumb little bastard." Orikol jabbed a finger into Shigo's chest. "Did you imagine it pouring into you today?"
"Yes!" Shigo nodded furiously, dropping his arms for emphasis—only to get launched backward by a single flick of Orikol's finger.
"Liar. Even drunk, I can smell that bullshit. You spent the whole day thinking about weights. And maybe girls."
He turned to Porto.
"You?"
"I tried, but seeing the invisible isn't something I can do," Porto answered steadily.
"Not great… but at least you try. There's still hope for you—if you stop dragging those weights around." Orikol turned to Larg. "What about you?"
"I'm like a jug… the energy pours into me," Larg said firmly. Wait—he's not actually sleeping all day?!
"Hm. Color me surprised, but you're not lying." Orikol raised an eyebrow and moved on.
"Vartus. Your thoughts?"
"All this imagining energy stuff is nonsense," the tall, dark-skinned boy said boldly. "I believe in raw strength. Pictures won't help me in the wastelands."
"A cocky, smug little kwyrgal who sleeps in his burrow and knows nothing of the vast, colored wastes beyond it," Orikol muttered—and then, in a flash of motion, kicked Vartus square in the chest. The boy flew backward across the yard, landing in the sand wheezing and clawing at his ribs.
"I rarely see such complete morons. Go ahead, believe in the power of my fist, then. A fist fueled by 'nonsense.'" He turned. "And you? I'll admit, I thought you had the best chance of reaching the peak in this village."
"Forgive me, teacher," said the boy standing before Orikol, bowing respectfully with his hands clasped. "I follow the tempering manual to the letter. But I haven't seen the slightest progress in Ascension for years. I fear I suffer from the third barrier, and this unworthy one will never fulfill his teacher's hopes. I rose for a moment—then fell."
That was Rikto. The oldest among the village boys. In just half a year, he'd be considered an adult. I knew he ran with Virgl's crew, though I rarely saw him with them. Thin—dangerously thin—and wiry. Only five stars. Which, at his age, made him pathetically weak.
Strangely enough, his tone—like his bow—was full of genuine respect for Orikol. A kind of reverence I'd never heard from anyone else in the village. His speech, too, flowed smoother and richer than any of the other boys. In fact, I realized with some surprise, I'd only ever heard such polished language in my own family.
"I never imagined I'd end up a teacher," Orikol replied, his voice unexpectedly soft. "And I never tried to walk that difficult path. I'm just a washed-up drunk drifting through life. I don't deserve to be called that."
He stared at Rikto.
"But you… any real teacher would be proud to have you as a disciple. For your persistence alone. I can only repeat my advice: you're almost grown. Go out into the Wastes. Fight. Find worthy enemies among the beasts. Find those stronger than you. Force your body to break its foolish limits."
How interesting, I thought, watching Orikol as he stepped away. Those words… they echoed the same advice that once helped my father. Advice that pushed him through his breakthrough, that led our family to these black ruins amid white sands.
Orikol stopped in front of Skirto, and I leaned closer to the peephole, regretting how narrow it had become from this angle. But he didn't disappoint. Orikol didn't say a word to the rat. He simply grabbed him by the waistband and launched him into the air.
Skirto landed square on top of Vartus, who'd just started to rise. The impact knocked the wind out of both of them.
Perfect.
And now, for the best part. Like saving the juiciest piece of meat-root for the end of the day.
Virgl had already taken one slap today—that I saw with my own eyes. But that wasn't enough.
"I'm most eager to hear your answer," Orikol said, scratching his unshaven neck. "Do you have any idea why?"
"No, teacher," Virgl replied, bowing deeply. And I nearly swore aloud from shock—nearly gave away my hiding spot. What the hell is wrong with him?
"Someone once tried to hurt me with polite titles," Orikol muttered. "I told him his words were full of poison. But you… Your poison is so well-hidden, so smooth, nine out of ten people would drink it gladly."
"Forgive me, teacher. I don't understand your metaphors," Virgl replied, bowing again.
"Tell this old drunk—why do you work so hard to lead others off the path of Ascension?"
My heart skipped a beat. I leaned so hard into the wall I nearly bashed my forehead against it.
"Teacher, I only give advice when they ask me. Isn't it natural to follow the words of the strongest student when no teacher is around?" Virgl raised his head and looked Orikol in the eyes.
"You need more practice—not with weights. With acting, freak." Orikol's voice dripped venom. "With every word you speak, your fangs show clearer, your stink grows stronger. You irritate me."
"I drink this cursed wine your father keeps pouring down my throat. I watch you climb stars while leading everyone else astray. And I keep my mouth shut—just as we agreed. But the year is up. You're fifteen now."
"At this exam, don't bother showing up. You're still a miserable seven. You've hit your ceiling, trash. Tell me, scum—how does your father expect a worthless son to drag him out of this shitty desert?"
I saw Virgl's back twitch at the word "freak." And yeah, the guy wasn't exactly a looker—not a monster, but definitely not handsome. He'd inherited the worst traits of both parents. With each new insult, his shoulders rose higher. I was sure that with one more jab from Orikol, Virgl would lunge at him—and get the beating of his life.
But no. Fate had other plans.
"Virgl!" a loud voice cut through the air like a blade.
Virgl froze.
Our glorious chief had arrived. I ground my teeth in frustration.
"Kardo," Orikol turned toward the voice, scratching his neck again. That awful rasping sound of his bristles—I swear I could hear it even from here.
"Orikol, what's with all the yelling?" Kardo's voice had dropped to a stern murmur. "You're disturbing the villagers. I thought we agreed on peace."
"Kardo," Orikol ignored the accusation, "I was asking your failure of a son a question. Maybe you can answer it."
"What did you ask?"
"Watch and learn, brat," Orikol jabbed Virgl in the chest, nearly knocking him over. "Ten out of ten would've believed him. But not you, Kardo. You've been here too long."
"Orikol, as any loving father, I believe in my son," Kardo said smoothly. "He will still shine with talent—blinding everyone around him."
"You keep wriggling out of the truth." Orikol spat at Virgl's feet. "Fine. I'll see it for myself—next year."
I watched as Orikol walked off, having turned the entire situation on its head, made me see it all from another angle. His short roar had scattered Virgl's mutts, made them scramble. Or were they mutts? Some of them… I'd started to see differently, too.
Suddenly, a deafening slam made me flinch so hard I nearly melted into the stone. Someone had torn the woven door off its straps.
I held my breath. I could feel it: a heavy, terrifying gaze slid over the stone weights, landing somewhere on me. I couldn't see it, but I felt it like ice in my veins.
Silence.
So quiet I could hear the insects rustling in the dragon grass thatch on the roof.
"You little brat!" Kardo hissed, and the gaze vanished. "You're disappointing me!"
"Forgive me, Father…"
I began to breathe again—slow, shallow. So close. Their voices were nearly right next to me!
"But I lack talent! I can't break through to the eighth star like you wanted!"
"This isn't about that!" Kardo snapped. "I've made peace with that—and even found a way to fix it. I'm talking about your antics with that gang! Yes, I told you to learn how to gather people around you. But you—lazy bastard—you took the easy way out."
"Father—"
"What? Rakot respects me. Zakir gave his life for me. And you?"
"What about Ma? And Paurit?" Virgl protested.
"Lapdogs, chasing scraps. I meant loyal people. I taught you how to earn hearts. But you chose numbers over trust—and faster results. Porto, he takes after his father. He might've been loyal. But no—you picked Vartus. And rats."
"I let it go. You're my son. I even stayed silent when you harassed that boy just to unite your lapdogs."
"The son of the bastard who raised his hand against you!" Virgl shouted, cutting his father off. "If not for your order, I would've killed him myself!"
"I already took his life. And avenged myself on his wife," Kardo said coldly.
I heard the sound of a slap—sharp and clean—but I wasn't even happy. I was all ears.
"That had nothing to do with you. Who gave you the right to decide who lives in this village?"
"Father, it burns my heart to see him!" Virgl hissed. Was that… teeth grinding?
"You don't think, do you? I didn't take away their hope. I almost broke them—but left a way out. I know the recipes and the hammer. But you… you keep pressing harder and harder!"
There was rustling behind the wall, and Kardo leaned in, his voice now a vicious whisper.
"You used my name to starve them. What do you think will happen?"
"They'll suffer!" Virgl nearly shouted.
"You fool. Heavens! How did I raise such an idiot for a son?!" Kardo snarled, then asked, venomously calm: "Are you immortal?"
"…No," Virgl faltered, caught off guard.
"Then tell me—if Eri comes home and finds her daughter dead of hunger, what will she do?"
"She'll scream. But you're stronger. You'll have a reason to kill her," Virgl answered confidently.
My mother? Cry out? I grinned darkly. You haven't seen how Rakot flinched. She's barely holding on.
"You stupid mutt," Kardo growled. Wrong again, Kardo, I thought. Most of this scheme reeks of that rat Skirto.
"She'll come to our house when I'm not there. And she'll kill you—and your mother—before I can stop her. Will it make you feel better on the other side if I kill her in return?"
"W-wait, kill her?" Virgl bleated like a jeyr.
Easily, I thought with hate. Maybe I'll beat her to it.
"She'll curse me in front of the whole village. And she won't come alone," Kardo said, delivering a slap so loud it echoed. "I already told Rakot you were using my name. He understood. From now on—you stay out of adult affairs."
"…Understood, Father. As you wish."
"All of that was small stuff," Kardo growled. "The real reason I came—"
"Because that drunk crawled out of his hole!" Virgl cried again, desperate to shift the blame.
"No! Maybe I can beat some sense into you," Kardo slapped him again. "Because now the entire village knows you've been leading their kids astray!"
"Who'd believe that drunk?!"
"Everyone. Everyone who remembers how he arrived here. Son… I did so much for you to reach the tenth star," Kardo said softly, dangerously.
"Then they want it less than I do—if they stayed silent under the whip!" Virgl shot back proudly.
"You idiot!" Kardo had lost it—shouting now, slaps raining down like hail. "I'm done spoon-feeding you your own shit! From now on—no more joint training for your gang! And if I so much as hear a whisper of, 'Boss, give us advice!' again—I'll remind you what a whip tastes like!"
Kardo had long since dragged off his beaten son. Night fell, swallowing the yard in thick darkness. I stayed in my stone hideout, lying still, thinking.
How many secrets have these walls heard?
Apparently, Virgl has just a year to jump three full stars and pass the exam. His whole family is counting on it to finally escape this village they've bled dry.
And here I was, worrying about being watched all the time. Maybe I was wrong.
Kardo still can't find out that I'm successfully tempering my meridians. But maybe half the pain our family suffers… comes not from his orders, but from the malicious schemes of others who've made us their target.
Has that made me hate Kardo less?
No.
Kardo and Paurit still have to die.And I only have one year left for revenge.