I eventually caught up to Isabella, who refused to acknowledge anything to do with the warmth or softness of my soul. Instead, she insisted we focus on the elderly cultivator, to be ready for if and when he did anything different. And while we could talk, we certainly couldn’t talk about anything that would distract us from the matter at hand, such as my own soul. Faced with her own stubbornness, I relented, and let the topic pass out of mind as we waited for the Elder to do something interesting.

  Three days passed.

  “Ryan. .”

  “Huh?” I rubbed my arm where Isabella had jabbed me as I looked around blearily. “What’s happened?”

  The road was much the same as it had been for the past seventy-two hours, crushed gravel leading off through the forest, the quiet rush of the First Son off to our left. The trees themselves had changed a bit, losing some of their brilliant yellows and oranges as we continued to move south. Overall, it was a little bit different, but still much the same.

  To my left, Isabella stared at me with some slight frustration. “Were you ?”

  “Maybe.” I rubbed some of the sleep out of my eyes. “We haven’t exactly had the chance to , have we?”

  Not when the Elder kept walking, sun or not. By the time the end of the first day had rolled around, the both of us had made the decision to keep walking; there was no way I could justify letting him gain distance now that we’d caught up. I had thought at the time, .

  And Isabella, at the time, had clearly assumed I’d meant something a bit different than sleep-walking.

  I blinked a few more times, before focusing fully on the farm girl by my side. “I’m awake now. What’s the issue?”

  Isabella rolled her eyes, before pointing forward. “.”

  I followed her direction, turning my gaze a bit further up the road. The Elder stood there, a safe distance between us and the living, breathing volcano. For the first time in days, the Elder walking, instead standing before a traveller’s shelter set at a simple fork in the road.

  The shelter was fairly typical, with thick, sturdy trunks holding up a thatched roof with a few rough-hewn benches and a firepit underneath. It was in decent enough condition, a sign that some merchants or other travellers had been through in the past year, paying forward the grace of the original builders by repairing any holes in the roof themselves. The only other addition was what appeared to be a message board of sorts, which the Elder had begun to approach.

  Together, Isabella and I moved a bit closer, creeping up to one of the shelter’s supports as we tried to get a look at the message board. On it, I could see a litter of different notices, expensive parchment proudly bragging about a local trading outpost, or ragged slips of paper humbly suggesting a market a few days away. Curiously, these notices all clustered around the outside perimeter, making way for a thick layer of dried pulp stuck to the board’s centre.

  Now, standing before the board, the Elder began to undo his satchel.

  I approached as close as I dared, moving to a bench right next to the message board as I tried to get a good angle. The Elder didn’t notice me, as usual; he just moved at the same slow pace he always did, unwinding the leather strings that held the bag’s flap closed and folding it out, revealing the precious contents within.

  For a brief moment, I felt my excitement rise as I saw what looked like an enormous scroll.

  But that quickly faded as the Elder pulled at a loose end and unrolled a perfectly blank section of canvas.

  Then, the volcano coughed.

  I leapt backwards at the technique, my heart skipping a beat as I prepared to die in a flash, only to falter as the Elder stood straight up, holding a perfectly rectangular piece of paper in his hands.

  “Did he just use that technique to ?” Isabella muttered, horrified.

  Without any ceremony, the Elder turned and began to paste it onto the message board, taking care to line up the corners perfectly with the board itself, the new layer of paper adhering right on top of the last. With the paper now applied, the Elder turned back to his bag, retrieving a wrapped parcel and a lacquered stick with a bristled head. Setting the brush aside, the cultivator carefully unwrapped the parcel, revealing a solid black brick, crumbling slightly as the oilskin was pulled from the cracked surface.

  Molten rock flowed.

  I was a bit more prepared for the technique this time, only flinching a little bit as a droplet of physical qi fell from the Elder’s open hand. Before it could even splatter, the black brick greedily absorbed it all, instantly gaining a glossy shine. Then, taking the brush in hand and dabbing it gently against the brick, he turned towards the message board and began to write. For the briefest of moments, I saw the old man come to life, eyes looking ahead to the next blank portion of paper even as his hand precisely inked out swooping characters that almost seemed to jump off of the page.

  As the paper filled out, gorgeous calligraphy filling its every inch, the old man tsked slightly, brush darting out to cover over a miniscule ink splat with a tiny rendition of a chrysanthemum. The faintest smile crossed his face as he looked at it, and a plum blossom joined the first flower.

  The Elder turned away, sweeping the brush outwards and clearing it of ink in a single twitch, the ink splattering against the ground. He shuffled back to his satchel, wrapping up his ink block and packing away his items, tying the bag firmly shut. Then, he shouldered it once more, and left the shelter behind, the road crunching beneath his feet.

  Isabella and I watched him go, before turning back to the message board. At its center, like it had always been meant to be there, a grand notice sat, sweeping strokes of stark black roaring out their message for anyone to see.

  “The Archives await,” I echoed the words. “The Guardians of the Archives declare a Great Delve into the hallowed halls of ancient knowledge that lie in wait beneath our Sect. All Artists of dauntless will and vigorous cultivation are welcome to join our efforts in uncovering the mysteries of our Ancestors, and to reap rewards in return for their leal service.”

  Isabella and I paused for a moment as we considered the proclamation.

  I went first, notes of sheer exhaustion infusing my voice. “Have we spent the past few days following a madman who could kill us without a thought, only to find out that he is a glorified huckster?”

  “The papers are stacked nearly three inches thick,” Isabella followed with a tone of disgusted wonder. “How long has he been doing this? Does this Sect even exist anymore?”

  “It does,” I confirmed, lifting my head from my hands. “The Guardians of the Archives very much exist. They’re…well.”

  “As Sects go, they’re one of the big ones by technicality,” I explained. “They’re built on top of the ruins of an older Sect, who themselves were also built on top of an even older Sect, and so on. Apparently the entire mountain they’re on was turned into a gigantic library, filled with cultivation resources, treatises, techniques… the wealth of thousands of years of knowledge, all beneath their feet.”

  “Sounds like a hell of an advantage.” Isabella muttered, leaning forward to read the proclamation more closely. “You said ‘by technicality’, though.”

   the Seven Falls Sect is invited! Of they’re welcome to participate in a Delve!” Steam poured forth from flared nostrils as a parchment in the librarian’s hands began to smoke. “Of , the help of such a virtuous organisation as the Seven Falls would go a long way to reducing the Guardians’ own burden as the world’s finest protectors of knowledge. Perhaps the Seven Falls could send some small monetary gifts with the cultivators they hope will help?”

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

  for our right to participate, with right to lay claim to anything we discover. Do they think me a simpleton, that I would pay them for the privilege of doing their dirty work? Oh, but if only they dared offer a ‘rare chance to lay inexperienced eyes on real history’ to my face, then I would have seized them and ripped off their diseased, rotten-”

  “Dick-measuring between the sects was really more for the Core Disciples and Elders, so you’ll have to forgive my lack of knowledge,” I prevaricated. “But, from what I’d heard, they’re less of a Sect and more of a group of powerful cultivators who’ve staked out these ruins to keep anyone else from getting access. Any Sect has to pay through the nose for the right to enter the ruins. The Seven Falls never bothered, because even if there’s a hoard down there, half of it is in ruin and the other half is trapped to the Hells and back.”

  Isabella’s fingers pressed on the paper just below the still-wet ink of the Guardian’s emblem. “A bunch of cultivators sitting on top of the ruins of previous Sects, with dangerous archives filled with old knowledge from the ancients long ago.” She drummed her fingers a few times. “And out of curiosity, how often does that old knowledge kill them?”

   anything useful it would be stolen from your cold dead hands by those cowardly, ”

  “Can’t say for sure, but pretty frequently. Why?”

  Isabella tapped the icon. “Because I recognise this symbol. You remember me talking about cultivators dying underground?”

  “Yes-” I blinked, then nodded rapidly. “Yes, of course! Your idea! Gods, where would a bunch of cultivators be dying underground? It’s obvious!”

  I could already imagine it, those thousands of tunnels and hundreds of buried libraries. How much knowledge had been left down there by the ancients? How many cultivators had joined those Delves, in search of that same knowledge in the hopes it would enlighten them? And how many of those same cultivators had met their grim end, either at the hands of the Guardians or because of the very techniques they had been searching for?

  Isabella raised an eyebrow at my sudden revelation. “If it’s so obvious, why didn’t you mention it before?”

  “Ah, well…”

  “Soul Anchoring is the problem here.” I ran my fingers along the poster. “Cultivators have been doing to become immortal, something that puts them beyond your reach. Moreover, whatever they do is a secret; Yun had said that the Elders basically pick and choose who gets to attempt the Third Step, and even those scrolls we read at the Library didn’t explicitly say what the process was. They probably pass that information on directly, master to disciple.”

  “And the Guardians aren’t going to give that to you.”

  “Definitely not. They kill to keep that information.” My fingers stopped by the pair of flowers. “But that’s the ‘right’ way to do things. What about the wrong way? What about all the ways those cultivators tried that you saw go up into flames? I know we were joking about the Path to Self-Immolation, but isn’t it strange that turning into a bonfire is the common thread here? I mean, how many other ways have you seen those sorts of cultivators die?”

  “Well, plenty of ways, but I see what you’re saying.” Isabella sat back down on one of the benches, staring up at the poster. I watched her as she drummed her fingers against the wood, her lips twisted slightly as she examined the poster. Eventually, she snorted, shaking her head with a smile. “So we’re actually, going to the Grand Cave of Self Immolation.”

  “On the grand search for glorious scrolls on how to Self Immolate!” I posed. “To fulfill our ultimate destiny as cultivators, and burn ourselves alive. I promise you, I will make a beautiful bonfire.”

  Isabella clapped slowly. “Wonderful. And how do you propose we gain entrance to this Grand Cave?”

  “Well, why not take them up on their offer?” I gestured to the poster. “We’ll walk up, say we’re there to participate in their Great Delve, and then just stay the fuck away from anything important. And maybe we stumble across some poor bastard that got incinerated, and investigate.”

  Isabella scoffed. “It won’t be that easy.”

  “Not at all,” I agreed, reaching for the poster as I tugged at its edge. “But this matches our original plan, and the opportunity is perfect. They charge the other Sects for access, but another Second Step cultivator is just some extra muscle for them. As far as I can tell, I’m the perfect recruit.”

  Slowly, I peeled the poster away from the sodden remains of all its previous copies. Brushing off bits of paper mash, I inspected some of the smaller print underneath the grand proclamation. “It’s going to be a bit of a trek. A few weeks, perhaps? We’ll need to get a ferry to the Big Sea.” I reached up to my neck and counted out a few coins.

  “I refuse to believe people call it the Big Sea,” Isabella complained under her breath. “There’s no way. A big sea is called an , and oceans have a .”

  “I’m sure we can find out its name, alongside those other, less pressing matters on our mind, like that minor cultivation thing.” I dropped my hand from my necklace, and began to roll up the poster to put it in my bag while pulling out a few other sealed pots. “First though, I’m going to eat a hot meal and get some .”

  Isabella groaned, lying back on the bench. “You really are unbelievable, falling asleep while walking. What if you’d stumbled into that Elder? I can hardly keep you alive if you’re a pile of ash.”

  “Fortunately, such an occurrence didn’t happen, and I am mercifully alive to continue enjoying existence.” I set a cooking vessel into the firepit, and lined up some containers to the side before returning to my feet. “Now, if the Great Mistress of Death and Self-Immolating Cultivators would forgive me, it's time…” I grimaced seriously. “...for me to do some proper cultivation.”

  “What?” Isabella rolled forward, bracing herself up as she stared at me. “What are you talking about?”

  “As the masters of old once did…” I stretched out one hand in a curled fist. I stared at Isabella as sternly as I could, as I slowly lifted my other hand-

  -which held a hatchet. “I shall chop wood and carry water,” I announced.

  Isabella collapsed back down, holding one arm up to gesticulate rudely. “Fuck you.”

  “The youth never understand the value of hard work,” I tutted, ignoring Isabella’s continued gesturing as I hefted the axe over my shoulder and grabbed an old bucket sitting by one of the shelter’s pillars. “Be back in a moment.”

  I left the shelter behind and stepped into the woods, walking towards the dull roar of the First Son. As I went, I picked up fallen branches and braced them under one arm, stopping to check fallen trunks if they were rotten, and using my hatchet to split off some logs from the drier specimens. By the time I reached the river I had a decent bundle, which I tied off and set to the side along with the bucket, before sitting down myself on the riverbank and staring off across the First Son. This far downstream, the river stretched so far across that I could only just about make out the far shore, and the water still flowed deep and fast. Here and there the surface rippled, glistening with the fins and wings of the fish making their way upstream, some to lay their eggs, a rare few to try to ascend the Seven Falls themselves.

  I wished them all good luck in my mind as I watched them swim. I buried my own hands into the soft earth of the bank, crumbling the damp soil between my fingers and letting it fall back to the ground in a gentle trickle of clumps. I watched one clump drop to the ground, rolling down the bank and quickly being swept away by the current, and opened my hand to inspect where the dirt had become trapped in the grooves of my fingers.

  “Gods,” I announced to the world. “What am I doing?”

  The world did not reply. I rubbed my fingers against each other, scratching at the dirt beneath my nails. Eventually, I sighed, and kicked off my sandals before approaching the river more closely, washing my hands and cupping my hands to splash some cold water against my face. I stared at myself for a moment, my weary reflection looking back through half-lidded eyes.

  From somewhere behind, I heard some light rustling in the bushes behind.

  “Sorry,” I called out. “I just wanted a moment to think to myself. Thinking about what comes next. It’s not going to end even after we find out what the Third Step does, is it? We’re going to need to solve that, too.” I chuckled. “If that’s even something one person can solve.” I laid back, arms outstretched as I looked up at the blue sky above. “Feels like a lot to carry. Except you’ve been carrying it for ten thousand years. Makes me look ungrateful.”

  The rustling approached a bit closer, and I heard them settle down, just a few metres from my head, next to my outstretched hand. Some fingers brushed against mine.

  “But, on the other hand, you’ve given me another chance. Not just to try again, but to have an purpose. I guess that’s all a boy who grew up on the First Son ever wanted.” I huffed. “Just funny to have it go like this, eh?”

  I glanced up towards Isabella. A pincher looked back, its fingered beak beginning to wrap around my hand. Its tongue darted out and began scraping in rough, wet strokes against my palm.

  I gently removed my hand from the pincher’s mouth, tapping it between the eyes. “You will not speak a word of this to anyone.”

  The pincher clicked its beak together, before ascending back into the sky. I watched it fly off, and finally let myself be consumed by a whole-body shiver as I submerged my entire arm in the water, washing it clean of the memory. With one last hideous shudder, I grabbed the bucket and made my way a good dozen paces upstream to fill it with water, giving one last glance to the First Son as I did so.

  “Three weeks. Get to a town, get a ferry to the coast, join a caravan heading east. All easy enough,” I muttered under my breath as I hefted the wood bundle. “Join a Delve, avoid getting killed, find out the secrets to cultivation and immortality…slightly less easy.”

  The world did not reply.

  “Nothing for it, then.” I turned my back on the First Son. “How did the poster put it? The Archives await. Let’s not keep them waiting.”