Tantra takes a sip from her tea, dignified and demure, just as Ral had taught her. It’s important to sell an image when surrounded by nobles, and in this case that image is to be a dignified and proper lady. Even though the noble ladies don’t have to maintain the same image.

  “Then he said I was a ‘star too bright for one's eyes’,” a collection of girls giggle.

  “That’s so passé, he obviously got all his romantic advice from his father” One of them says.

  “Perhaps he should try his luck with the whores,” another comments.

  The first girl snorts, “honestly, who does he think I am? If he wants to speak to me he might as well say something worthy of my name. Tantra, what do you think?”

  Tantra, frankly, can’t muster the energy to care. She’d rather be doing anything else than to hang around these pampered patsies, but connections are important for a reason, and sometimes when life shoves a sour lemon down your throat, the best course of action is to swallow.

  “Simply foolish, Lady Synthia, that a mere viscount’s son would think to impress you with such paltry flattery.”

  Synthia barks a laugh, “this is why I like you Tantra, you always have a way with making simple statements sound grandiose”

  “My sincerest gratitudes my lady”

  “None needed little Tantan.”

  Tantra scrunches her brow, “Tantan?”

  Synthia smiles something wicked, “that’s what you go by now right? A silly little nickname from a daemon girl of all things. I’m honestly surprised you managed to tolerate her presence for so long, let alone become friends.”

  The other girls giggle as Tantra stares, “apologies my lady, have I done something to offend?”

  Synthia sighs, “that’s your problem Tantan, you're somehow both smart and dumb. You really think the rest of us don’t see how you think you're above us? Always saying the right things at the right times, like a puppet designed to be inoffensive. Honestly, it’s exhausting to deal with you, if it weren’t for your father you’d just be another peasant to ignore.”

  Synthia takes a long sip of her tea and lets out a satisfied sigh, “and now you’re a cultivator, I can only imagine how insufferable you’ll be once we see each other again”

  -

  Tantra wakes to the clattering of plates and the chattering of tongues. It’s all a little bit of a haze as she has yet to fully wake up. She sits up from her cot, stretches, and lets loose a long yawn. Her brain reminds her that she is, in fact, in the presence of company, and proper ladies don’t yawn in front of company.

  Tantra grumbles at herself, who is she to tell herself how to act?

  Which, since she thought it, is a perfectly logical statement.

  “Someone’s finally awake,” she hears a boisterous voice say, “come cultivator, join us at our table so that we may break the fast.”

  Tantra blinks the haze out of her eyes to see eleven people staring at her, a few clearly impatient.

  “Apologies,” Tantra says, holding back another yawn, “I seem to have lost myself to the cot.”

  The man who spoke earlier snorts, and it is loud, “sleeping on the road will do that to you cultivator, or should I call you Tantan? My son says that is your name.”

  Tantra scowls at Yorin, “my name is Tantra” she says.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  The man nods, “very well Tantan.”

  “Tantra.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Tantra glowers, “he's worse than you Yorin”

  A few chuckles radiate from the table.

  “My husband has a way with teasing people,” a woman says from beside the man, “but hurry and come, I’ve made quite the meal to celebrate the occasion”

  -

  “Greetings honoured cultivators, it is an honour that you would grace this one’s humble village,” An older gentleman of grey hair and profuse wrinkles bows deep to Rakan and Tantra in the middle of the village square, there’s quite the audience surrounding them, though most give a generous amount of space.

  Those that don’t are children that have a tendency to get pulled back into the crowd.

  Rakan chuckles, “it is about as much of an honour as housing a wolf, honoured elder”

  The elder doesn’t rise from his bow, and doesn’t react to Rakans comment. Rakan sighs, “you are the leader of this village?”

  “Only so much as the village allows, the baron is the true head”

  “I care little for nobility, so long as you're the one organizing the defence for the beast tide.”

  “I am”

  Rakan smiles, “good, we have quite a bit to talk about then.”

  -

  Etra and Yorin are sparring.

  Mostly to entertain children, but also to train. They can’t use proper weapons for their spars yet, their bodies are too fragile, but soon, so long as they keep practicing the control exercise. She's surprised Kisrin hasn’t reached three threads yet, he’s only a few months behind where she started, and it’s been a year at this point. Did the librarian really expect her to reach three in little over half a year? The longer it takes the more she’s impressed by her own progress through control.

  She still vomits blood when she goes too far in controlling four threads though.

  A not insignificant part of her wonders why she’s trying so hard, she’s already reached foundation, why maintain the effort to advance quickly.

  That part is reminded of the bear.

  She’s had dreams, frequently, of that encounter.

  A lot of them involve her and her friends dying because she was too weak.

  She knows it’s foolish, knows that she can’t be expected to match such a thing so early into the journey, but it doesn’t change the fact that if she doesn’t get stronger she’ll eventually be dead, and so will those she cares about.

  Then there will be no merchant Tantra, just a rotting corpse.

  So she keeps pushing, further and further, she’s gotten to her elbow with the rope of four, a marked improvement and proof of her efforts. She’s also started to boost her blood while moving, just a little bit, to test if she has enough control to actually follow through with her plans.

  A few times she misses and boosts her heart, leading to a kind of crushing pain that doesn’t go away for hours, but mostly she’s on point.

  Maybe if she reaches five threads she can manage a continuous stream.

  -

  Cultivating a dao isn’t the same as proper cultivation. You can’t just brute force your way through enlightenment, you have to understand. Some of the peasantry think that to cultivate dao one must broaden their understanding of the concept, while they’re not technically wrong, that method is extremely slow and difficult. Take a simple dao, like that of the spear, can you, as a practitioner, learn how to perfect every aspect of the weapon, or would it be easier to master specific motions?

  So the way most cultivators interact with dao is to dig deeper into what they already know, until the dao changes into something that fits that specific application.

  Jorin received enlightenment long ago, when he used to walk from one battlefield to another. It helps mainly with endurance, keeping him fighting for much longer than cultivation would normally allow.

  Which is convenient for a beast tide.

  He rips a worm/wolf thing in half as a rodent of sharp teeth and a dozen eyes bites at his ankles. Jorin crushes the thing under his foot and moves on to the next beast. Jorin is like any cultivator, he enjoys the thrill of combat, but not when that thrill might come at the cost of children. It tempers his more bloodthirsty side, to be reminded of those that fight beside and those that wait behind. He wishes the elders would have brought some inner disciples, considering all the violence they’ve had to endure, but no, apparently they aren’t worthy of assistance. His heart beats with a fire that might be rage, fueling him, guiding him.

  He is taking on half of the tide all on his own, something only possible because of how much Qi he’s stored waiting for this moment. If he’s judicious, it might last him the whole month, the core is the easiest part to cultivate, you just have to fill it, then drain it, and considering most aspects of cultivation require Qi it’s not exactly a big ask.

  A claw manages to cut through the skin of his forearm as he grunts and drives a fist through a sloth with four arms and a disturbing smile.

  The strength of his skin isn’t strong enough to be impenetrable to the claws and teeth of proper beasts, and he expects he’ll need to visit the medicine hall by the end of this, but that’s fine.