Cultivation Fever 8 Distress

How did this happen? When father sent his qi into me, the container was still there. I gathered my strength and tried to force the pieces back together.

The vine grew in a flash and coc.o.o.ned my soul. Thorns spiked out, and pain coursed through my body. I withdrew the pressure and the vine began to shrink.

The vine had stopped me from reaching my soul. I tried to touch it once more, but the vines repelled me again with a sharp pain. I was ripped from my meditation.

I just had to leave it for now. Despair washed over me. I didn't know if my soul would repair. I didn't even know if I could cultivate again.

The tension in the air started to make sense. Father seemed distraught. He slumped in his seat, and his eyes seemed empty.

The ride back home was long and winding. Every silent minute filled me with solemn dread. The carriage finally stopped, and we stepped out.

I finally got a good look at my house. It was perched on a mountain top, lying low to the steep terrain. It was surrounded by a layered stone wall, punctured by many small windows and one circular doorway.

We pa.s.sed through the doorway and followed a gravel path to the open courtyard. Auburn wood decking lined the inner path of a U-shaped structure.

The decking was raised about a foot above the serene garden on wooden posts. A solitary bench sat facing out into the courtyard. It overlooked gravel circles and lush greenery, dotted by vibrant purple flowers.

A winding path of flat stones led to two sets of steps. Mother carried me up one set into the nursery. She lay me down in my cot, kissed my forehead, and left the room.

My parents argued outside my door. After a minute or so, the arguing stopped, replaced by mother's soft tones of consolation.

I lay back in my cot and tried to think of a solution to my problem. For now, I couldn't touch my soul. The Soul Becoming World Technique was a dead end.

I tried to do some light meditation instead. The tiny droplets of qi leaking from my soul were enough. I could explore my body, but qi barely trickled behind me.

I felt a bit guilty for cultivating again after all that had just happened. But what else could I do? Cultivation was my purpose in this world.

Over the next few days my routine changed. I wasn't taken to the study anymore. Instead, mother would sit on the bench with me in her lap.

She would point out everything in sight, gently sounding out their names for me. I had little hope of cultivating right now, so I relished the information.

Each day mother seemed more at ease and more joyful. Our time together was relaxing. Her pleasant voice became the soundtrack to my life.

At times she would bring a tray of food into father's study. Whenever she did this, her kindly face seemed to fall. It would take some time on the bench for her to brighten up again.

I couldn't help but notice that I hadn't seen father for days. He was probably locked up in his study, but I didn't know what he was doing.

I missed spending time in his study. I missed watching him write. I missed him.

That night my door creaked open and I heard shuffling. Out of instinct, I shut my eyes and pretended to sleep. There was a thud beside my cot, followed by rumbling breath.

I cracked open one eye and peeked out the corner. In the pale moonlight, I saw father. He was slumped on his knees beside his cot.

His robe was wrinkled, and his belt hung low in a loose knot. His face was dishevelled, and he had a course layer of stubble. He placed his head in his hands and began to whimper.

He started muttering something to himself. Somehow, I knew what he was saying.

"I'm sorry Oscar. I'm so sorry."

He stood up and leaned over the cot, planting a kiss on my forehead. I felt something wet drop onto my head. Father gently wiped it away. He took one last look at me, then left the room.

Emotions welled up in me. I realised how callous I had been. To me, this was a fantasy world, and I was its protagonist. But to my parents, I was family. I was their only son.

Every painful trial I put myself through was a terrifying ordeal for them. I couldn't even tell them what I was doing. All they could do was pray for me to be okay.

I needed to talk to them, but I was long way from being able to speak. Until then, I had to communicate in another way. I had to tell father it would all be okay.

I needed to go to him. My body was feeble, but I needed to move. Most babies wouldn't be able to crawl for months. But I wasn't like most babies.

I pushed myself against the back of my cot and tried to sit up, but my body flopped forward. I had to use all my strength to achieve anything.

I pushed myself back up again and grabbed onto the wooden slats with one hand. With the other, I reached up. I wanted to push open the latch that locked the side.

It took some attempts, but I flipped it open. The side fell with a crash. I kicked myself over, rolling off the cot. I fell to the floor with a thud.

I saw a crack in the door and tried to head for it. But my limbs just sc.r.a.ped uselessly on the floor when I tried to crawl. I needed to use my head for this.

I lay spread-eagled on the floor and pulled my body forward with all four limbs. Even though I used all my strength, I only managed to shuffle a few centimetres. It was progress, nonetheless.

If I could push my mind and soul to cultivate, I could at least do this. I moved slowly, taking my time with each shuffle. It took minutes for me to reach the door and squeeze through.

The door to father's study was ajar and light crept around it. It only took seconds for mother to walk there, but it took an hour for me. An hour of gruelling exhaustion.

I finally reached father's study. I was lightheaded, thirsty and tired, but I couldn't stop there. I sc.r.a.ped through the doorway and looked for father.

The normally tidy study was a mess. Books were strewn across the floor, their pages ripped out in frustration. There was a stack of dishes in the corner, and the food on it was barely touched.

Father lay slumped backwards on a pile of books. I could see his face better now. He looked like he had aged years and had heavy bags under his eyes. Tears had marked furrows down his dry skin.

Questions flooded my mind. What had brought him to this state? Was my condition that serious? Was there another reason? But I paid them no heed.

I shuffled over to him. I couldn't climb up the stack of books, so I tugged on his drooping hand instead. At first, I used one arm, but he didn't wake.

I gripped his fingers with both hands and pulled with all my might. His arm shifted, and he woke up. With bleary eyes, he looked down at his hand. He was startled at the sight of me.

I looked at him and smiled. I wanted to tell him with my actions that whatever was going on, it wasn't his fault. I wanted to tell him that I cared for him.

He cracked a plaintive smile, lifted me up, and placed me on his chest. He spoke two words to me, and I knew what they meant.

"Thank you."

Soon after, I fell asleep in his arms, exhausted beyond belief.