The morning mist had thinned, but the clearing still held its quiet magic. Pale shafts of sunlight pierced the canopy, scattering across the dew-laced grass like shards of crystal. Each blade shimmered, wet and delicate, bending slightly under the weight of the droplets. The air was cool, tinged with the earthy scent of moss and bark. Every breath felt like inhaling a piece of the forest's soul.
Kael sat cross-legged in the center of the clearing, the cold dew soaking through the hem of his pants. His back ached, his shoulders protested, and his hands were stiff from hours of holding the sword yesterday. Yet beneath the pain was a flicker of exhilaration—a sharp, thrilling awareness of the strange new energy coiled within him.
His core pulsed faintly in his chest, a fragile sphere of blue and silver light. It was alive. Not like blood, not like breath, but like the echo of a heartbeat that wasn't entirely his own. He could feel it even without focusing, a gentle warmth and steady pressure, a tiny sun suspended inside him. The memory of forming it yesterday—the struggle, the pain, the adrenaline—still lingered, shaping the way he breathed, the way his muscles coiled.
The cursed sword leaned against a nearby tree. Its hum was quieter than yesterday, almost respectful, but Kael still sensed it. That latent hunger—patient, calculating, coiled like a serpent—stirred beneath its steel. It was waiting for weakness, for any lapse of focus. And Kael knew, deep in his chest, that it had learned to watch him, just as he had learned to watch it.
The old man stood before him, arms folded, cloak fluttering in the morning breeze. He was silent, still, his expression unreadable, yet the calm authority in his stance commanded Kael's attention like gravity.
"Today," the old man said as he yawned, voice low and deliberate, "you learn to circulate Essence. You've built the vessel. Now you must learn to move the river."
Kael's throat tightened. He nodded. His body still felt like it had been hollowed out and refilled with fire, yet there was no fear, only anticipation.
"How does it work?" he asked, voice hoarse from yesterday's effort and nights of restless sleep.
The old man crouched beside him, tracing lines in the soft dirt with a stick. "Your body has channels," he said. "Spiritual conduits. Not veins, not nerves, not anything visible. But they follow the contours of your body, mimicking your breath, your blood, your muscle. Most of these pathways are dormant. They wait. You must awaken them, one by one, and guide your Essence through them."
He tapped the center of the diagram. "Start here," he said, "with the core. Then upward, to the heart. To the head. Downward, to the limbs. Slowly. Carefully. If you flood a channel before it's ready, it will rupture. Essence will spill. You will feel pain like nothing you've experienced. You will bleed it. Lose control. That is why focus is everything."
Kael studied the lines in the dirt. They were deceptively simple—curves and circuits—but he knew better now. Nothing about Essence was simple.
"Close your eyes," the old man instructed. "Feel your core. Let it pulse. Sense its shape, its rhythm. Then send a thread of Essence upward. Just a thread. Like drawing water through a straw. Too much, too fast, and the channel will reject it."
Kael inhaled, closing his eyes. He focused inward, on the warmth and pressure in his chest. The core responded, pulsing once, then twice, then thrice. He imagined a single thread of blue-silver light extending upward, toward his heart.
At first, nothing.
Then—a flicker.
A trickle of energy began to rise, slow and hesitant, like water drawn through a tiny crack in stone. It burned and froze him simultaneously, a strange contradiction that made his stomach twist. His heartbeat stuttered, then slowed, as though recognizing the flow and yielding. The channel accepted the Essence.
"Good," the old man murmured. "Now hold it. Don't push further yet. Let it circulate."
Kael's breath came in shallow bursts. The Essence moved as if alive—curious, testing, flowing and retreating with a will of its own.
From core to heart, it travelled, then looped back, forming a delicate circuit.
His muscles tingled, his skin hummed. Every nerve felt electric. His blood did not run as usual; it carried the Essence itself. He was not just breathing; he was pulsing.
Then, the cursed sword reacted.
Its hum sharpened, insistent. Kael felt it tug at his Essence, attempting to twist it, corrupt it, to draw the energy toward itself. His core pulsed in warning, faltering, threatening to shatter.
"Focus!" the old man barked. "Ignore the sword! It's testing you, as it always does."
Kael clenched his fists. The sword's presence was like a scream in his mind, a hunger demanding everything. He pictured Elara's face—her laughter, her courage, the warmth of her hand in his. He let that memory anchor him, refusing to allow the sword to corrupt it.
The Essence steadied. The sword quieted.
Kael exhaled, sweat sliding down his temples. "It's… hard," he whispered.
"It's supposed to be," the old man said, voice calm. "Every channel you open is a battle. But each one shapes you, strengthens you. The pain is the price of power."
Hours passed. Slowly, methodically, Kael opened channel after channel. The flow to his head tested him most—memories flashed like lightning, images of the woods, the screams, fire, blood. He nearly lost focus, nearly surrendered to panic. But he held.
Then the arms, then the legs. Each new circuit brought fresh resistance, waves of pressure and heat. His body shook with effort, the core flaring like a miniature sun. The cursed sword screamed intermittently, each time stronger, hungrier, but Kael endured.
By midday, a full circuit had formed. Core to heart, to mind, to limbs, and back. The Essence flowed like a river, steady and unbroken. Kael felt… different. Taller, sharper. The air seemed to hum, the wind carrying whispers only he could sense. He had changed.
The old man watched silently, pride barely showing in the subtle set of his jaw. "Most take weeks to form a full circuit," he said. "You did it in a day."
Kael collapsed to the grass, chest heaving. His skin glistened with sweat. "I feel like I've been struck by lightning," he said, voice strained.
"You have," the old man said simply. "But now, you can wield it."
Kael looked down at his hands. Veins glowed faintly, silver-blue, coursing with Essence. He clenched them, feeling power surge—not chaotic, not cursed, but his own. His core hummed in his chest, steady and alive.
The sword remained silent. For the first time, Kael didn't fear it.
He stood unsteadily, approaching the tree where the blade rested. He gripped it with both hands. The weight was familiar, heavy but manageable. The pulse of hunger was there, but it was measured, aware. He could feel both his strength and its desire—two forces coexisting.
"I'm not yours," he whispered to the sword. "Not anymore."
The old man approached, placing a firm hand on Kael's shoulder. "You've taken the first true step," he said. "You've formed your core. You've circulated your Essence. You've resisted corruption. You're ready to begin cultivation properly."
Kael's eyes burned with a newfound fire. "What comes next?"
The old man smiled faintly. "Next, you learn to shape the Essence. To form it, to wield it. Force, will, magic—it is all one when controlled. And one day, you will learn to bend even the cursed sword to your command."
Kael looked around the clearing, at the dew-laden grass, the swaying canopy, the sword. He felt the weight of power for the first time, not as a burden, but as an extension of himself.
He was no longer just surviving.
He was becoming.
And this time, he would choose the shape of what he became.
...
The clearing was quiet now, still carrying the faint hum of morning energy. The dew glistened on the grass, each drop catching the light like a tiny crystal. Kael's chest rose and fell steadily, the pulse of his nascent core resonating in his chest. The silver-blue sphere of energy throbbed gently, no longer fragile, but solid, familiar. He could feel it, fully, like a second heartbeat.
The old man stood across from him, observing in silence. His hands were clasped behind his back, posture relaxed, but the sharpness in his gaze betrayed the awareness of someone who had seen far too many failures—and too few successes.
"Now," the old man said, voice low and deliberate, "you must learn to shape the Essence. You have formed your vessel, you have moved the river. But without control, it is nothing. Without direction, it will destroy you before anyone else."
Kael swallowed. He knew this was the moment that would mark the first true step beyond survival. Circulation had been about endurance, discipline, and focus. Shaping, however… shaping was creation. Force. Will made tangible.
"Essence is obedient," the old man continued. "But it also tests you. You cannot force it—it will break the channels. You must guide it. Form it. Ask, don't demand. Shape it, don't wrestle it."
Kael nodded, closing his eyes. He drew a deep breath, letting the air fill his lungs and the core respond with a steady thrum. Then, hesitantly, he extended his focus outward.
At first, nothing happened. The silver-blue energy remained coiled inside him, dormant, quiet. Kael imagined it as clay, soft and malleable, responding to his hands rather than his thoughts. Slowly, he allowed a strand of Essence to extend from the core, a thin tendril of light curling toward his fingers.
It quivered, unsure, wavering like a candle flame in the wind. Kael's hands twitched in response, guiding it, encouraging it, without pushing. The old man crouched beside him, watching every motion.
"Good," he murmured. "Feel it. Listen to it. Do not hurry."
Kael exhaled, his chest tight. The thread of Essence responded to his guidance, extending further. It thickened slightly, coiling around his palm, shimmering faintly with the same blue-silver hue as his core. It felt alive, aware, like a living tendril searching for purpose.
He tried to shape it into a simple attack—a slash of energy. The thread resisted, bucking against his control, and in a flash of heat and pain, it recoiled violently. Kael grunted, almost losing balance, his fingers burning with raw energy. The sword, leaning against the tree, pulsed sharply in response. Its hunger was awake again, coiling, curious, testing him.
"Don't be afraid of the sword," the old man said. "It will always test you. But remember—this is not a battle. This is practice. Use it, or let it pass. Do not fight blindly."
Kael exhaled and returned his focus to the thread. Slowly, he extended it again, letting the energy wrap around his hand like water around a stone. His fingers flexed, guiding the flow into the shape he imagined: a blade, long and thin, glowing faintly blue-silver.
The sword hummed, its presence pressing into his mind. He felt the hunger, felt the pull, but this time he did not panic. Instead, he let it watch. Let it test him. Let it see that he would not yield blindly.
The energy in his hand thickened, solidifying into a blade of pure Essence. It felt heavy, real, though intangible. His core pulsed in response, reinforcing the flow. He grinned, teeth clenched with exhilaration, and swung the blade in a shallow arc.
The blade extended outward, slicing through air with a sharp, humming sound. The wind seemed to bend around it, and Kael felt the raw force of creation in his hands. He could shape it, guide it, extend it. It obeyed—not perfectly, but obediently enough to be wielded.
"Excellent," the old man said. "You've made your first weapon. But that is only the beginning."
Kael's pulse raced. He felt the energy in his hands thrumming, eager to move, eager to act. He tried again, swinging in a wider arc. The blade followed seamlessly, coiling and extending, longer, sharper, more solid. His core flared as it reinforced the weapon, and for a moment, he felt invincible.
Then the cursed sword twined its influence around the energy in his hands. The blade of Essence wavered, twisting, trying to bend toward the old sword's hunger. Kael felt the pressure, the tug, the whispered voice of the cursed weapon testing his resolve. Panic flared, but he remembered the old man's words.
"Do not wrestle it," the old man said. "Guide it. Ask. Command. Do not demand."
Kael's fingers flexed, not to fight, but to steer. He imagined the cursed sword's influence as a current in a river. He could not block it; he could only redirect it, letting the energy flow around it without breaking. Slowly, carefully, the Essence blade stabilized, bright and obedient.
He exhaled sharply, sweat running down his temples. "It's… alive," he whispered.
"Yes," the old man said. "Essence is alive. It is will. Thought. Action. Every movement, every choice, every spark is a part of it. Respect it, or it will consume you."
Kael nodded, wiping his forehead. He felt exhaustion creeping in, but also a strange clarity. His senses were sharper. He could feel the pulse of the core, the hum of the sword, the flow of the energy. He was aware of the clearing in a way he had never been—every leaf, every shaft of light, every whisper of wind.
"Now," the old man said, "try combining what you have learned with the sword. The cursed blade responds to Essence. It hungers for it. But it can also amplify it, if you are careful. Use it as a focus, not as a master."
Kael approached the sword slowly. The pulse of hunger was strong, coiling like a living thing around him. He touched the hilt, and the Essence in his hand reacted instantly, flowing into the cursed blade, wrapping around it, feeding it without letting it dominate. He could feel the hum intensify, the energy of the sword merging with his own.
Carefully, he swung. The Essence blade in his hand extended, trailing a ribbon of light that cut through the morning air. The cursed sword pulsed in tandem, amplifying the attack, feeding off the flow but respecting Kael's will. The ribbon of light lingered, shimmering, then dissipated slowly, like mist in the sun.
Kael dropped to one knee, panting. His body shook, but the core inside him pulsed steadily, as if congratulating him. The old man nodded, faint approval in his gaze.
"You have learned the first lesson of shaping," the old man said. "Control. Respect. Creation. You've made energy obey your will. You've faced the hunger of the cursed blade without yielding. That is progress."
Kael exhaled, rubbing his hands together. "It… it's incredible," he said. "It feels like… like I'm part of something bigger."
"You are," the old man replied. "Essence flows through all things. Life, death, growth, decay. It is the foundation of everything. And now, it flows through you."
Kael looked at the sword. He could feel the hunger, the potential, the power coiled within it. But for the first time, he did not feel fear. He felt connection, understanding, and a strange, exhilarating freedom.
He smiled faintly, a small, careful smile. Not for anyone, not for praise, not for pride—but because he could. He had formed his core, circulated his Essence, and shaped it into force.
And he had survived.