Blake only had an hour, but the three meridians felt surprisingly easy to open.

  At least, in retrospect.

  In the heat of the moment, the spiritual pain coursing through his stomach and intestine wasn’t exactly pleasant, but there was only so many times he could experience the same type of pain and the same intensity before it ceased to be novel.

  It was the excretions that were the worst to deal with. Much like the Lung Meridian, his stomach and intestine filled with black mucus, and when they travelled down his intestinal tract and did eventually leave his body, it felt like the worst food poisoning he’d ever had—and smelled like it too.

  Then there was the Blood Meridian.

  Starting at the heart, it circled his body, tracing his blood vessels and veins. He emptied the channels as quickly as he could, purging them of filth. It was the worst of them all, and it didn’t help that a bell rang outside, signalling that he only had a quarter of his time left. It made his heart beat faster.

  He used the stress to push his Honour faster, too. Streams of brownish-black sludge flowed out his pores, coating him in a thick layer and creating a puddle of it on the ground. He wasn’t sure what it was, other than filth and impurities that had ended up in his body, but this time, it smelled like iron on top of all the other stenches. He nearly retched.

  When he finished the Blood Meridian, he wanted to pass out. His mind was teetering on the edge. The attendants splashed him with a barrel of water, and a crew of them stood behind, carrying mops and buckets. Blake grimaced, but he didn’t have the presence of mind to comprehend the mess he’d made or what they’d have to clean up.

  An hour later, he’d showered and rested. At dinner, he was still exhausted, and barely paid attention when Iver said, “Three meridians at once? In a single hour? Preposterous.”

  “Are you mad?” Froskur demanded. “Any time I’ve seen a grown man opening meridians, he’s only gone one at a time.”

  “Junior Brother Bjarke will either kill himself in a few weeks,” Konuth said, “or he’ll surpass the sect in a few months. Either way, he won’t be here long.”

  “And I’m going to do it again,” Blake said with a grin. “I still have enough contribution points for another hour in the seclusion room and a shower afterward, and I’m going to use it.”

  “You don’t want more showers?” Iver asked.

  Froskur’s green nostrils flared. “He could certainly use one.” When he thought no one was looking, he shot out a long, sticky tongue and snatched a clump of rice out of his bowl, then dragged it back to his mouth.

  The next day, during combat training, he practiced adding his blood channels to the Augmentation technique.

  He didn’t necessarily feel stronger, but he didn’t get as tired so quickly. Considering what he’d done yesterday, and what he was going to do today, he’d need to be as awake as possible.

  What he didn’t consider is that Wind-Eyes would notice.

  “An Augmentation technique?” The man scoffed. “Not a great one, and not a full-body one, I’ll give you that…but to use a technique like that at Condensation six is rare. I’ve only seen a few others pull it off, and never with such a basic technique. Is that the technique the Fate Monks taught you? I can’t see any external evidence of it, but you’ve clearly improved your strength with a technique.”

  “Yes, sir—uh, Senior Brother.”

  “Are you purposely awful with titles, or has it been baked into your very soul?” Wind-Eyes demanded.

  At least it distracted from the origin of Blake’s Augmentation technique. Blake couldn’t help flashing Wind-Eyes a smile as he said, “I’m uh, trying my hardest, sir. Senior Brother.”

  He really wasn’t. He didn’t plan on changing his entire way of speaking for a few months while he was in a sect. They’d imbue him with bad habits, and he wasn’t going back to all the ‘this one wishes humbly’ business.

  “Just learn to fight, Junior Brother. That is why you’re here.” He turned away from Blake and faced the rest of the trainees. “I am here to give you the best possible tools to survive. Not all of you will survive, but I will make sure that it isn’t my fault if you die. I’ve seen enough death in my time.” He wore a sleeveless shirt, and there was a tattoo on his shoulder. Blake couldn’t make out exactly what it said, but he was pretty sure it looked like it belonged to a military unit. It was a shield with a line of runes stretching across it.

  “Yes, boy,” Wind-Eyes said. “I was a Path Paladin.”

  Blake tilted his head. “Oh, I—”

  “I grew tired of their teachings, so I left them. Now no more questions. Get back to work.”

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  After another training session full of bruises and painful knowledge, Blake rushed to the seclusion rooms. He had to wait a few minutes for another sect member to finish up his allotted hour, but Blake was next in line. He handed them the contribution point chits, then set aside his clothes and stepped inside, much to the disappointment of the mortal attendants.

  “Sorry for the mess, guys,” Blake whispered. “But after this, I’m done.”

  He probably wouldn’t need the seclusion rooms again, though he didn’t know what else he’d have to pretend to use mana to accomplish.

  This time, he divided his hour better, and, using the tips Ethbin had given him, he set to work opening the last three Vir meridians. After this, he was done with all this meridian clearing business.

  He began with the Endocrine Meridian—a set of glands throughout his body. Apparently, clearing them helped you regulate…well, pretty much everything better. Their secretions were necessary messengers for the different bodily functions.

  Clearing them would help your body adjust to temperature changes faster, for example, and allow you to stay in harsher climates for longer. It let you wear heavy armour in the heat or light robes in the cold. Including them in your Augmentation technique wouldn’t do much, but he needed them open anyway.

  Instead of excreting impurities through his entire body, though, they excreted from a fingernail-sized point at the center of his forehead and a similarly-sized point at the center of his neck.

  He finished in the first quarter of his time in the seclusion room. Next was the brain—technically the most dangerous meridian to open. But also one of the most practical and important meridians.

  There was a chance that his brain shut off in the middle of the process, that he went completely unconscious, and that he died without even knowing. To avoid it, he had to push the channels open quickly and pierce them all without worrying about clearing the entire blockage. He just needed the channels open and receptive to Honour. Then, slowly, the channels would clear themselves.

  The Brain Meridian was a clumped mesh of channels, but he launched his Honour through it like a thread, piercing the blockages instantly. There was pain, and his body lurched with uncontrollable spasms. It was a good thing he was laying down, but even then, he still hit his head and back a few times.

  His mind teetered on the edge of consciousness, until finally, with a pop, the meridian cleared. His nose filled with a rotten floral scent, like he had a horrible sinus infection, and he figured he’d be blowing black slime out his nose for the next few weeks.

  But there was still time for the Root Meridian, and he couldn’t waste any more contribution points on a seclusion chamber.

  Clenching his teeth, he remembered what Ethbin had said about the Root Meridian:

  It’s all over your body. It’s the hardest to find, and most people can’t immediately envision it. You must…feel it. It connects you to the ground below you, to the universe, to the great void, and the universal laws of all existence. It is the first thing that determines the elemental aspect of your techniques, even if you do not have a core bent to the element of your desire. It is the fabric of your existence, the laws that determine how your body is built and how your cells reform themselves.

  Blake wasn’t exactly sure how to take that in, but at the same time, there was a meridian that he hadn’t opened—he could just feel it. There was a lingering twelfth thing that remained invisible to him.

  Everyone’s Root meridian looks different, Ethbin had said. In time, it can be modified, but its shape generally determines aspects of your elemental affinity. I cannot tell you where yours is, because I do not know.

  Blake kept his eyes pressed tightly shut and hunted for it. He couldn’t find a specific point at first, but he started at his Siphon, the easiest point to identify. All Roots had to connect with the siphon, so that was where he’d look.

  He sifted around with his available Honour. Killing the fogterror had given him plenty of spare honour to work with, but it was slowly running out, and he was down to his last dregs.

  If he ran out of Honour before he found and opened the Root meridian, he might lose his ability to use complex techniques that required an element.

  No way was he letting that happen. He needed it…he couldn’t just let his journey end here.

  He didn’t know where or when it was going to end, but not here, not in a tiny outer pavilion of a sect, completely cut off from the outside world…

  After a few minutes of searching, a new channel sprang up in his mind. He locked onto it, then traced it. It was the most clogged of them all, and he almost resorted to his Aes channel opening methods, but he resisted.

  He pushed and pushed, following the channel. It worked better when he anticipated the channel’s shape. At first, he imagined a single oval running through his body. That was what the channel was looking like…

  Was that it? Just an oval?

  But it was even simpler than that. Just a circle. It wasn’t even an oval.

  His stomach plummeted. It had to be more complicated than that, right? There had to be something more to it?

  When his Honour completed the loop, though, returning to the siphon, it didn’t illuminate any other channels. The Root felt clear, clean, and complete.

  The impurities came from all over, this time. It was like every single microscopic part of him had one last set of impurities to purge before he could finally continue. Once it was done oozing out of his flesh, it felt…finished. He didn’t know how to explain it, but there were no more impurities to excrete.

  He heaved himself up, and just in time. A bell chimed, signalling that his turn in the seclusion room was up. Once again apologizing to the attendants, he left the room, cleaned himself up, then rushed back to his room. His badge changed to display a set of seven waves.

  “Ethbin,” he said, putting the ring on. “I did it. They’re open. We have time to look at the technique slate?”

  Ethbin was silent for a few seconds, before he finally said, A circular Root. Interesting.

  “Is it bad?”

  That is yet to be seen. But remember this, Blake: if you cannot change something, it isn’t bad, it is only unique. There are infinite Paths, and there is a use for everything.

  Blake wasn’t sure how to take that, nor if he agreed, so he pulled the technique slate out of the drawer, set it down on the bed, and leaned over it. “Alright, then. Let’s figure this out.”