CH1: The Immortal's Cave

Cool water dripped from cave stalagmites, visible in the soft red light of arcane symbols deeply carved with iron hand tools and filled with hog's blood. Mushrooms grew thick on the ground under the falling droplets, occasionally messing up important boundary lines and forcing Silas to redraw them. A fat and crumbling wooden shelf sat in the corner, heavy with sacks containing tools tied with leather straps. An overwhelming stench of gun oil mixed with the blood was heavy in the cave, forcing him to wear a strip of cloth over his nose. He took a few steps out of the cave to look at his work.

Lines of glowing symbols lined the cave-like circuit boards working their magic on the world.

Silas put away his tools and pushed down on his lower back to stretch out his growing cramp. In the movies and books, the evil sorcerers never seemed to suffer from back pain while carving their diabolical magics. Some of his carvings could have been better, but he could only do so much with his memory. Being born with the memories of a cultivator initiated from a distant land and a man from the future were both gifts and curses.

His work, for the most part, was done. Finally, the mushrooms were ready to be harvested and eaten to begin the long road of cultivation. Silas chose mushrooms for several reasons, like their immaculate birth, which was untrue but useful for their symbolism of rebirth. By shroom Jesus, he would use his memories even if he was closer to town than was safe.

The people weren't bad, but he was getting tired of the puritans, and men kept trying to set him up with their daughters. If he agreed, there were responsibilities and rituals he was expected to go along with. Besides that, Silas was a free spirit and wouldn't be tied down by a woman. There were also the whole satanic-looking cave walls to deal with.

It was 1683, and he was 16 and starting his path to cultivation.

There was too much to do, and he could come down with an incurable disease at any time. Moreover, the colonies weren't the cleanest places in the world, and people had a habit of throwing shit onto the streets.

Silas hadn't seen or heard of anything mystical in a world where people believed in witches and the devil without proof. While he couldn't be sure there were no cultivators, he hadn't found any information and chose not to ask. If there were a secret enclave of cultivators asking was an excellent way to get their attention.

The sunrise was upon him. Silas cursed himself for pulling another all nightery, and he had to go to town for more nails. Among other things, he had to buy nails to finish building the frame for his house. Unfortunately, no cousins jumped at the opportunity to help him free of charge, and those who came by were more likely to snoop than help. The last thing he needed was a puritan to see his pseudo-immortal's cave and accuse him of witchcraft or some other devilry.

The symbols in his cave had a simple but important use. All they did was gather spiritual energy to drip down from the cave ceiling. Even with his memories as an initiate cultivator, he wasn't the most adept at breathing exercises, and the spiritual energy in the air was too thin normally.

On the other hand, his other was competent at alchemy and sealing techniques. So, if he couldn't draw in spiritual energy and cycle it the old fashion way, why not use something to collect it instead. What enjoys warm wet places more than fungus? He could have collected the pure spiritual drops for himself if he was dumb as an ox with its head half caved in. Silas was confident they would be as healthy for his mortal body as drops of mercury. He needed the symbolism of mushrooms to turn the dangerous pure spiritual energy in the drops into something he could use. Assimilating mushroom flesh was much easier than pure spiritual energy.

Silas rolled his boundary rock in place and stepped out of the cave. From a distance, it looked like a rocky hill with nothing special about it.

He heard a bark and felt his dog barrel into him. Buster was a mutt covered in shaggy white and brown hair and weighing nearly 120 lbs. The big brute rooted in Silas's pockets, looking for a treat before pulling back disappointed.

"Methinks thou should not embarrass me in private lest thou do so in public. My paint stick will redden thy furry behind furiously if thy curiosity is master." So Silas said and felt foolish for it, but that's the lingo of the land. He found it entertaining until he realized it was all there would be. American English from 2020 would be considered brutish and uncouth in the colonies, especially those who hail from England.

Buster gave him a look like the dog didn't hear a no, so it was Silas's fault.

He picked himself off the ground and did his morning chores before leaving on an old nag, much to Buster's disappointment. Silas hoped his farm would be there when he got back.

Not far down the road, he spotted an arm half buried in the dirt and a massive five-toed print deep in the mud. Silas steered Dotty, his old grey mare, away from the severed arm and blood to a downed tree.

There, he saw seven bodies, two ripped to shreds and the other five without a mark on them. One man had his back to the base of a tree with a crow pecking away at his eyes. The man's mouth was wide open, his jaw broken in some places. Silas thought about scaring away the crow but thought better of it. He didn't want to confuse the crime scene more than nature already had.

Silas heard the clicking of a musket and saw a fellow traveler. "Art thou the cause of this. Methinks my musket shall fill thou with holes, but thy tattered clothes will remain tattered. Thy poor nag slow and low beggar thou art. Reveal thou cousins with haste and let God judge the blood on thou hands." Cousins meant friends or accomplices, and the man said Silas was so poor that he must be a part of a gang of robbers.

"Thy brain tis filled with pustules. Methinks robbers take riches and leave tracks of men and horses; instead, limbs are ripped from sockets too ugly for any blade. Art, thy eyes for spectacle?" Silas said, striking back with his own insults; how dare some rando call him poor even if he was.

"Sirrah doesn't move my name tis Chester Mcdonalds deputized by Sheriff Foster McNair under the king's justice. Step freely but keep thou hands-on rein flee this province and hang." Chester said.

The man's eyes had fixed themselves on the tracks left behind by whatever ripped an armed carriage full of men apart. Even stranger, five of the men seemed to have died without a visible wound. Silas half suspected a vampire or something supernatural. But, on the other hand, Silas didn't want to know what the town would do if a scientific explanation wasn't found.