Time happened, things went by, and sooner, rather than later, Kalon returned to his training with a pulsing, black arm of liquid Rottweiler puppies filling in for the amputated one while a new appendage, small , frail, and exempt from taxation, developed from the scarred tissue. Jagger didn’t ponder long about why Kalon had regenerative capabilities. He arrived to the conclusion that the genes of an organism generally only know each other for a lifetime, and then are often at odds and have unresolved quarrels. Kalon’s genes knew each other since generations ago, and therefore could afford to ask their fellow loci for little favors, like regrowing an arm.

  “Heavens, Pi?a colada.”

  A holy light descended over him from a crack in the clouds, illuminating both puppy and the green field of neatly trimmed grass around him. “No, you are designated driver today.” The voice of heaven boomed.

  “Serve me a bowl of water at least.”

  “No.”

  Jagger let out a silent fart in frustration. The fart used its invisible arm to produce an invisible towel out of an invisible pocket to dry off the invisible sweat in its invisible brow because the invisible stairways to the high atmosphere were long and winded and, worst of all, invisible.

  “I’ll make you rue this day, heaven.”

  “You and what army?”

  Jagger lowered his head, his face wrinkled form the sheer intellectual effort the pup was realizing. “I think I know a couple of girls who love male musicians of the oriental persuasion.”

  The heaven refused to communicate further.

  A squelch. Kalon’s puppy arm crushed between the muscles of the chiseled cheeksword of the Bodiceattva (Imagine it as you will, because I wont describe it further). The puppies quickly returning to the form their summoner needed as he dodged an horizontal slash by refusing to understand how swords were supposed to work when they tried to decapitate you.

  “Kalon, you should be dead,” The Bodiceattva informed, looking at his sword, befuddled. It wouldn’t be the first apprentice that he accidentally murdered in the heat of battle. It wouldn’t be the last.

  “You didn’t aim for my heart.” The boy shrugged. “The neck isn’t stab-able.”

  “I swear the only reason we are alive is because you are a goddamn Saturday cartoon, Kalon,” the puppy who had exploded randomly in the past said, oblivious to the irony. “How ironic that it’s me saying that.” And dismissive of the narrator. Don’t cross me, I am not a bridge.

  The battle was about to resume when the characteristic alarm call of the sentinels began to sound. Their long (LONG) horns tilting ever so slightly, getting them out of balance and causing a domino effect at the outer wall of the sect.

  The invader, which we will describe as probably a boy, stepped over a fallen bull, drank a full espresso she carried stashed on a utility belt, flung the empty can of coffee over her head, hit another bull with it, called down the Covenant of Frog Butt to ease the bull’s pain form the can impact, and proceeded to sashay into the training circle the combatants had drawn in the point where tall barns of the sect faced towards.

  “Ah, Kalon, your female friend is here.”

  “I am not a b— Did you call me female?” Samari said, her eye twitching from excitement. She squealed in glee while Jagger scratched his head.

  “The city life broke her.”

  Samari rushed to pat Jagger in the head, and she did so with such speed that he had to pull away, his scalp polished bald and red from the heat friction had produced.

  Kalon jumped between them two and Gave samari’s short hair a long sniff. “Guh, you stink of cinnamon.”

  Samari wondered how to react to someone invading your personal space just to complain that the cappuccinos you so dearly love are taking a toll on your body odor. “In other news, guys, I did some bloodwork, and the results came back today.”

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  “What do the results say?” asked Jagger as the cows of the sect gathered around them to gossip about the well-grounded visitor.

  “I am the spectrum.”

  “Oh, you are autistic? And they gleaned so from a blood test?”The puppy kept inquiring, incredulous, as the circle of cows and bulls closed nearer, SP getting closer than all the other cows, that shall remain a nebulous entity from here onwards because I forgot their names. Except for Preterit Creature Auntie Lola.

  Samari produced a neatly crumpled paper out of her jeans, unfolded it, and showed it to Jagger.

  “Dear Samari:

  Thank you so much for sending us your blood samples. The interns exposed to tis vapors have completed their studies and been rendered permanently unable to sleep. My wife, a crossfit enthusiast, took a few milliliters of it as a pre-workout and never felt better. Then she enjoyed a heart attack. Now, I am free and don’t need a divorce. Thank you dearly.

  Our coffee machine broke down last month, so we hope you can send us more blood samples soon. Warm, if possible. We also want to extend our aid in finding you a boyfriend/husband from Agua Ligeramente Helada in the future. When you are in the age to raise a family of your own, necromancy notwithstanding. We believe breeding a new generation of humanity who bleed mocha could be the right kind of eugenics to usher forth a new age and dethrone the bean cartels of old. Our higher-ups have given us the greenlight to pay for all the expenses and metformin for such an experiment.

  Lastly, you are not diabetic, your electrolytes are normal for someone who practically bleeds energy drinks, your thyroid — I pity it, and you are autism. Not autistic. The condition is you.

  Best Wishes,

  The Ilure’s Central Hospital Lab Team.”

  While Jagger Read, she gave Kalon a once over and noticed something was armiss.

  “Kalon! What happened to you?”

  “Well, I grew inside my sister’s tummy…” he began recounting, and Samari’s trained palm found Samari’s untrained face.

  “To your arm!”

  “Well, it grew inside my cousin’s tummy…”

  One could see the veins in Samari’s forehead radicalizing. “What made you lose your arm?”

  “Ah, he puree’d it.” He vaguely gestured at the Bodiceattva, and then at the little limb growing from his stump. “It’s growing back. Part of training.”

  The cultivator shrugged, and Samari’s face scrunched into a grimace of disgust and confusion and lack of affogato. “Fine. You know what? It could be worse.”

  “No; we are bovines, not equines.” One of the bulls wrongly corrected her.

  “I said… forget it. When are you coming back to civilization?”

  The Bodiceattva dispelled his energy body and floated up to Samari. “His training is nearing its conclusion. Then you will have to vaccinate him like the dog he is so he doesn’t get tetanus again.”

  “Hey!” Jagger interjected. “Samari makes sure I keep my shots in order after every death.”

  “Anyhow, the fact of the matter is that Kalon is a suicide mission away from graduating in this sect. His intensive training has surfaced some hidden talents and…” The Bodiceattva held in the air, expressionless. “I am gesturing for you to lend me an ear, child.”

  Samari sprung closer to the floating entity, and tilted her head, exposing her left ear for the Bodiceattva to speak on it.

  “I am tired of training this moron and he’s nigh-unkillable.”

  Jagger, with his superior puppy hearing, listened intently. “I … totally get you. Give us that suicide mission.”

  “Yes, there’s nothing logic can throw at the Rottweiler squad that we cannot overcome.” Samari crossed her arms smugly, seemingly leaning against the air.

  “Using your spirit to hold yourself standing in impossible positions. Typical Arcagnostic,” the piece of cloth said, “The mission consists in raiding an illegal operation happening on the outskirts of Ilure. A seeming bathhouse guarded by fierce cultivatresses that guard their master’s property. The place belongs to an old enemy of mine that… folded me in the past, so to speak. I want you to destroy it to prove your power, Kalon.”

  “But are they bad people?”

  The Bodiceatttva remained floating in place, no signs betraying his feelings. “I am blinking in astonishment,” he informed.

  “Yeah, that’s a way too sensible question for you, Kalon,” Samari added.

  “Psst. Psssssst.” Jagger pssst’d at the floating master. “Psssst.”

  “Yes, dog-weapon-dog?”

  He led the cloth away from Kalon , behind one of the barns. “He cannot listen to us here,. He can read my mind but reading is beyond his capabilities so we are good.”

  The Heaven’s began coughlng loudly, battering the earth with powerful gusts of wind. “What the hell did you eat, puppy?

  “Kobe!” Jagger exclaimed, for his fart-shot landed square on his target. “Back to the matter at hand, just tell him this operation belongs to Cutbastra.”

  “Oh, but it does. I will never forgive his manly hands manhandling me (And the housewife wearing me) before tossing me to a side, hearing me complain and carefully folding me over the bed like I was just a mere garment!” One could feel the hurt in the commonly-serene cultivator words. And it felt good if you ask me.

  Jagger blinked twice. “I may have some bad news for you, bud.”

  But the bodice ignored the puppy and flew back with the children, informing Kalon about the mastermind behind the bathhouse operations. Immediately our valiant protagonist stormed off, steps heavy and determined as he marched in the diametrically opposite direction.

  “Go fetch him, female.”

  Samari squealed in glee again and obeyed immediately. It was not every day that she got called a girl, or a synonym thereof, twice in a row.