Ch.3

Four years later, Tiger Gorge castle, Basara stronghold.

Erik sat cross leg on his wooden bed padded with animal fur.

His small room was composed of recycled furniture, stone walls and, thankfully, a fireplace to warm up the frigid atmosphere.

Outside the window, snow fell nonstop. Servants in the courtyard were digging paths with frustrated expressions on their faces.

Winter sucked for those doing the chores.

'It reminds me I should clear the snow off the entrance.'

Since a year ago, servants were instructed not to help him with chores, supposedly, it would teach him about the lower class circumstances.

'That can wait, first I've gotta check my progress then meditate.'

With a thought, he summoned his Fate Status that would summarize his current cultivation level.

——

[Erik Basara]

???

Core Shape: None.

Ascension rank: Early-stage Foundation Realm (Rank 1)

Saga: [Last Shaman]

Wyrd Accumulation: 100/100

Strength: (+) early-Mortal Tier. // Agility: (+) early-Mortal Tier.

Stamina: (+) mid-Mortal Tier. // Physique: (+) mid-Wood Tier

Body Type: Wild Blessed / ???

Elemental Affinity: Earth

Cultivation Arts: Shamanic Art (2) / Martial Art (2) / Basara secret Art (2)

——

'Great, with 100 wyrd, I've officially reached rank 1. Now I can start condensing my wyrd. That new saga was truly useful. I wonder if its fame increased with my wyrd.'

Sagas were rare and difficult to earn.

One should accomplish a great deed that would be recorded in the Fate System to earn one. The greater its fame and the more benefits it'd bring.

Although he didn't know why the Fate Weavers gave him this Saga—apparently, one of the gifts he'd received—Erik was happy about it.

——

Saga: [The Last Shaman]

Grade: Common

Fame: None

Benefits:

1) Basic shamanic knowledge.

2) +10 wyrd.

——

'No changes, huh? Figured as much. Guess I should make it known. But the consequences could cost me my life.'

Shamans were all dead, killed, and hunted to the last man by the Magic Kingdom ruled by none other than one of the Big Three, the third strongest clan in the physical realm, the Uzel Clan.

'Can't leave it at common grade. I'll figure something out later.'

Erik, who inherited only basic shamanic knowledge, was already in awe. Shamans praised balance, and harmony but not only.

Shamans were pragmatic formidable individuals that wielded the raw power of nature with the help of spirits who'd do anything to restore balance in the ecosystem. Apparently, that also includes wedging war against stronger forces.

Shamanic knowledge has already helped him reach the Early-stage Foundation Realm—the first realm amongst the five leading to the known peak—with the Cultivation Art [Spiritual Requiem].

It was a meditation during which he collected wyrd from the spiritual realm.

More Shamanic Art rested in his mind. The Fate System wouldn't record them until their first usage; bonding a low-rank spirit, earth elemental spells, fire elemental spells, and more.

He couldn't wait to try his hand at them.

That was just basic knowledge. If he could access intermediate and advanced knowledge, it'd be a tremendous boon.

Axemanship was not his path, but he could feel an inexplicable connection to shamanism, probably why the Weavers granted it in the first place.

There were two more gifts he was still unaware of, awaiting to be discovered, these question marks in his Fate Status.

Perhaps that was part of the wise women's plan. Only time would tell.

Without further ado, he channeled [Spiritual Requiem].

Eyes closed, Erik connected to the spiritual realm and absorbed the ambient wyrd in his bosom. He's been doing so for three years and a half after his body became strong enough to handle it.

Thankfully, the deceased Beast God had blessed pure blooded Basara with a body type known as Wild Blessed.

Although dead, the Wildfather's blessing lived on within their blood.

It granted innate talent for axes—this one Erik lacked—a body more resilient to higher and lower temperatures, increased physical resistance, increased strength, agility, and stamina, slight poison resistance and immunity to any common diseases, faster body growth, and a dreaded bloodline ability; the blessing was marked on his status by (+) next to his physical capabilities.

While he was four years old, Erik's build looked like that of a six-year-old child.

That's partly the reason why Erik had been sold as a fighting slave in his previous life at just 15 years old.

'So warm.' He could feel his wyrd coming into contact with the spiritual realm, seeking more neutral wyrd to strengthen his own. 'It's like a drug I can't get enough of.'

There were four known ways one could cultivate wyrd.

Warriors mainly focused on Martial Arts, increasing their wyrd through physical training.

Mages, like shamans, meditated, though they drew from the physical realm's wyrd instead of the spiritual realm's.

Clearing Fate Quests given by the System usually rewarded more wyrd and other benefits.

Then there was the way norse cultivators praised the most: accomplishing deeds.

It could be as simple as sticking to one's path, defying another's rule, become a renowned persona. Deeds were endless. Norsemen summarized it this way: live boldly and seek glory.

'It's starting to feel like a drug overdose.'

Sweat covered Erik's frowning face as he poured all his focus on the Cultivation Art, trying to condense his wyrd, strengthen it past the limit of the early-stage, in doing so reinforcing his foundations beyond what was commonly required.

When reaching the Early-stage Foundation Realm, also known as rank 1, cultivators would often choose to form their wyrd core, but that's not what he was aiming for.

'If I can reach 200 wyrd accumulation by condensing my wyrd without forming my core…,' he smiled, thinking of the benefits.

Easier time cultivating, denser energy, increased output when using cultivation arts.

A few geniuses he had heard of in his previous life had accomplished such feat, in doing so entering a category of their own.

'No, I'll aim higher, 300 wyrd. I can't simply imitate those geniuses. I need to surpass them.'

He felt tiny threads of fate symbolizing his wyrd move wildly inside as the spiritual world's fate was sucked in, then left prematurely, adding no wyrd to his own.

'I guess there is a reason why people usually take the simple path.' Erik reveled in the challenge and tried once more.

Two hours passed unnoticed, during which he felt a tiny increase to his wyrd, but not to the point the Fate System showed it, much less than usual. Some wyrd was lost in the process.

Tired, and spent, the boy finished his usual morning cultivation session by channeling wyrd in his eyes, ears, and mouth, activating [Shaman Senses], his second shamanic art.

The goal was to get used to the spiritual realm, to the strange things inhabiting it, and, truth be told, he enjoyed it.

'This never gets old,' he thought with satisfaction.

The world suddenly turned grey ash, the invisible realm revealed itself. Within the colorless space, tiny entities materialized.

Around the now grey fire, a red orb danced about the licking flames. On a wall, a brown orb slowly moved, as if crawling.

Each had a golden thread attached to its bosom. Even Erik could see his own. It was stretching upward, through the ceiling, out of sight.

Then, for the first time, he saw something unnatural, much more so than those low-ranked spirits.

A human-size figure blurred by white light crossed the wall and entered his room. It stopped on its way to the other room, as if aware it was being observed.

'What the Void…,' he shivered, searching this thing's origin in his basic shamanic knowledge.

Most spirits were the spiritual world's inhabitants, some could be living beings who had come back from the Void or remained behind, stuck in between the physical and spiritual plain by what was called an anchor.

'A lost soul?'

It stared at him. Erik couldn't see its blurry face, but he could tell he had piqued its curiosity.

After a few moments, the staring contest ended. The soul lost interest and continued its endless wandering, passing through a wall into the next room.

'Damnation. I wasn't ready for that.' Erik thought, deactivating his shamanic art. 'Wonder what keeps it rooted to this realm.'

Loud grumbles originating from his stomach echoed in the room. 'No matter, if I have the chance, I'll help it pass on.'

If the Fate Weavers hadn't intervened, burdened by his shame, his soul would have probably entered the spiritual world like this one to suffer for all eternity instead of forgetting everything.

In that case, Erik would have wanted to be helped by a shaman. Or not, hard to tell when he was alive.

Anyway, it was a shaman's duty to help lost souls, but that could wait. As far as he knew, lost souls wandered around following the same pattern.

More importantly, he was famished!

Under normal circumstances, his butler should have delivered his meal by now, but Caliber was an ass and clearly took no pleasure in servicing the ninth child.

Well, not that Erik counted on him. He had learned long ago there was no one other than himself he could count on in this clan.

Erik stood up, neatly made his bed, traded his tattered pajamas for a poor-quality wool shirt and pants, then removed the bloody bandages wrapped around his hands, revealing healed knuckles with traces of bloodstains.

The bandages had been previously soaked in a cocktail brewed from low-rank healing herbs to accelerate his recovery.

Once a Basara child reached three years old, his duty was to train every day under the watchful eyes of his butler. However, Caliber never bothered giving him real combat training because he didn't want to, or so Erik assumed.

Fortunately, the old fart still tended to his other duties like supplying food and healing bandages, teaching him basic History, math, languages, for two hours every day—the bare minimum. Plus, Caliber had "taught" him the two Basara secret arts [Soothing Pain] and [Soaring Wrath]. He couldn't escape that duty.

Erik had already learned those before, but that gave him a good excuse to use them.

Apart from that, the butler was a ghost. No matter how many times Erik would call him, the old fart never responded.

Thankfully, Erik didn't need Caliber to train him.

Famished, he headed towards the kitchen.

There was a limit to how much Caliber could ignore his duties. The kitchen brimmed with food, cooking tools and it was clean—because Erik had cleaned it, he did all the cleaning chores around the house.

He liked cleanliness. A neat place was so much more comfortable to live in than a dirty one, though he would not complain if he lived in a decrepit old hut.

He quickly went around the place, using a small chair to lift himself up, and fetched bread, cheese, and an apple.

Damnation, Erik could swear Caliber kept them on higher shelves so he couldn't access them without using a lift.

It was no fancy food, but it filled his stomach.

———

Lore Extract:

"The barbarians of the north call the energy flowing through all 'wyrd,' such an unrefined word, I could even say a 'weird' word, haha, I'll patent this joke. Anyway, I much prefer eastern cultivators' naming sense, aura. My favorite remain of course our own, mana."

—Patrick Uzel's autobiography.

———

System Extract:

Shamanic Art: [Shaman Senses]

Grade: Rare

Host's Wyrd Cost: Low

Description: Allow the cultivator to peer, hear, and talk into the unseen spiritual realm and see the wyrd of other beings.