Twinned Destinies: A Cultivation Progression Fantasy

Ruyi couldn’t move. She couldn’t think to move. She was stuck at the bottom of a vast sea of feeling, drowning, slowly crushed. She couldn’t breathe. She tried and tried but there was no space in her chest.

“Incredible,” said the demon, eyeing Sen. “Such will… I’d come to see one of humanity’s genii. What a rare pleasure that I should witness another.”

“Run!” cried Sen. This time her voice trembled. Her whole body trembled, and Ruyi knew she was feeling it too. How was she still standing?

“I understand this is difficult to believe,” said the demon, raising his hands. “But truly I mean you no harm.”

It was like a light snuffed out. The pressure vanished. Ruyi fell gasping to all fours, snapping back to herself, clawing at the stony ground, trying to make the world stop wobbling.

The creature that stood before them wore Zhilei Zhen’s body, but not his smile. This smile was bitter and lined and weary. “I’d hoped it would not come to this—”

Sen struck. It went so fast she seemed a blade of light.

“Woah!” said the demon, leaping back, but Sen switched directions like light off a mirror and slashed.

She aimed to slice off his head. But the creature she’d slashed at was not the creature who stood there.

Her sword met an obsidian forearm as big as an imperial shield.

Sen leapt back, breathing heavy, and took stock of him.

A giant laden with muscle like coiling pythons. A dragon’s tail coiled out behind him and two fangs, cruel crescent moons, leered out of his maw of a mouth. His eyes burned red and his skin was the color of soot and great spikes poked down his spine, splitting a back bulging with so many dark cords of muscle it seemed a tortoise shell.

Demonform.

A larval demon in its natural state—no Tartarus Elixirs—was always in demonform. The more a demon grew—the more essence it took in—the more monstrous its form was. Once demons hit Feral they could control it, enter and exit it at will, though most Feral demons still bore clear demonic markings, even in base form.

The most powerful demons—Demon Kings and Queens—looked nearly like any human. Yet they hid untold monstrosities within.

There was no doubt this was a Demon King.

“Please,” said Sen voice tight with desperation. At first Ruyi thought she was pleading with the demon. Then—“Please, run.”

Ruyi scrambled to her feet, suddenly angry at herself. “I’m not leaving you here!” What could she do? What did she know? She’d drilled so many moves, ice spikes, throws, slashes, tricks against tree trunks—when she reached she grasped nothing. Something—she had to do something!—

A sigh ran through Sen’s body. Her shoulders sagged. Her blade glowed blue-white with qi.

She leapt like a rabid hound.

There followed the most astonishing burst of violence Ruyi had ever witnessed.

Each lunge, each slash of the blade, went for the throat, the heart, the tendons, and she launched each strike to kill. Each miss carved a shelf of steel off the wall; it clanged to the dusty ground, showering dust and stone. Sen burst through. Her blade never stopped. Strike after strike, one hammering after another. It was as though she was not satisfied with slicing him in half. She wanted to slice him in half, and the mountain behind him with it—and she would not let up for a breath.

Yet her enemy met her force as though he knew precisely when and where they were coming. As she moved to strike, he moved to dodge; there was no lag. When she pinned him with a slash, he caught it with a forearm, same motion. He was such a huge target, and Sen’s aim was true, yet she just couldn’t seem to find him. It made no sense.

“Come now,” said the Demon King. Ruyi was shocked at how calm he seemed. “There’s no need for such—”

Sen answered him with a thrust to the head. But he was not there to be hit. Ruyi couldn’t understand how. He wasn’t moving very fast. He was just at the right place at the right time, every time.

He had used no essence the whole time. Not one Technique.

“Good,” he said, chuckling. Zhilei Zhen’s chuckle, but dropped a low grating roar, emanating from that gaping ugly maw.

He slipped a slash. It gouged a bright smoking scar three feet into the steel behind him.

The Demon King touched his face. There, stark red under his eye, was a welling cut. Ruyi hadn’t even seen the slash that made it.

He wiped away a drop of blood.

“Excellent—simply excellent! The Butcher has taught you well. You fight just like her.”

“Who are you?” growled Sen, panting hard. Sweat poured down her face. Her face was bone pale.

“My name is Zhilei Zhen. Truly. But I go by many names.” The demon cocked his head. “You may know me as Marcus. Or, more formally, the Lord of Demons.”

He saw Ruyi’s expression.

“Were you expecting someone else?” Marcus wore a wan smile. “They do tell wild tales about me, don’t they?”

“Ruyi, I swear,” said Sen, voice shaking. “If you don’t run now I will never forgive you. Not even in death.”

“I said I’m not running!” Ruyi’s hands clenched to fists. Frost started creeping up her sleeves. “And you’re not going to die—don’t you talk like that! We’ll fight him together.”

“…no one is dying. Though it seems neither of you believes me,” sighed Marcus. “Which is reasonable. Sen is right. You should run.”

He nodded at Ruyi. “You must hold two things in the mind at once. First, that you can accomplish anything you set your mind to; that you can bend the world to your will. And second—a painfully honest assessment of yourself, your strengths, and your flaws, and your weaknesses. You must believe you can do anything, yet also know what you cannot do. Strange, isn’t it?”

His lips quirked.

“All the greats hold both these things. You have much of the first… you must learn the second. Stubbornness is your greatest strength and weakness. But you are young. I have faith in you. The mind is big and full of contradictions, most of them unexamined—it is certainly big enough for delusion and honesty.”

“What the Hell are you talking about?” yelped Ruyi. “If—if you’re trying to scare me, it’s not working!”

“I’m trying to give you pointers, child,” sighed the Lord. “It is not so often you have the opportunity to influence two of the brightest stars of the next generation. I hope both of you take something from our meeting.”

He took a step but Sen matched him in kind, sword leveled straight at him, keeping tight to Ruyi. “Back!” she snarled.

“And you, Sen Li. What a surprise,” chuckled Marcus. “Your style… it’s a mirror of your Master’s. If you were to idolize someone, the Butcher is an excellent choice. Yet follow this path to its end and you will become a pale imitation. You could be special. I can count on two hands the fighters in this realm who are truly special; the Butcher is one. But you must step out from her shadow. Find your own voice. Copying will only take you so far. You will never be as good a Butcher as the Butcher.”

Was he biding his time, waiting to strike? It was working—Sen was wound so tight the veins stuck out purple on her neck.

“But that is all a bit abstract, isn’t it?” continued Marcus. “Here. I’ll show you what I mean. I am about to attack you. I will limit myself to early Demon Core—that is, about equivalent to your Core Formation—and I will use no Martial Techniques, nor my tail, nor my fang. I will fight like a human, as you are used to.”

He held up a finger like a monk at lecture. “Your style, mimicking the Butcher’s, is direct. Simple. You see the enemy as a puzzle, and you find the line that solves them. The Butcher’s Dao is to reduce chaos to simplicity, infinity to one, being to nothing.”

“How do you know that?” croaked Sen.

“I am in the business of knowing, child. That, and I have fought her. Thrice. She’s very good—likely stronger than I in a fair duel. I never fight fair duels. Take, for instance, what I am about to do to you. I know you, but you do not know me. Isn’t that unfair?”

He dropped into a crouch; Sen tensed.

When he moved it was like a ghost had possessed his body. Gone was that simple efficiency, the just-barely-enough dodges, the little steps; he went stepped all herky-jerky. Hesitating, little bounces, in and out; his fist darted for a punch—Sen ducked; Ruyi flinched—but it darted back just as fast, unfinished. A feint.

He twisted his great hips, raising a leg as though to blast Sen off the mountain with a trunk-sized shin. Then twisted back. Another feint.

“You’re mocking me!” snapped Sen.

“Not at all,” said Marcus. He stepped in; she lunged for his head, but he’d stepped back too fast. Up came the leg. Sen pulled back, but no strike came. Yet another feint.

Every move was thrown exactly like a real strike. There was no tell.

“The wonderful thing about feints is you can throw them quickly and in great numbers; they require no commitment. I am showing you shadows, you see,” said Marcus. “I am hesitating, I am moving off-rhythm. If you seek to simplify, then I will drown you in a sea of invisible chaos. I will throw so many puzzle pieces at you, some fake, some real, that solving them with brute force becomes impossible. That was a demonstration. Ready yourself. Here I come.”

Then it was like he’d grown four extra limbs. A thrust of the hand and Ruyi’s brain filled in the punch—a ghost. There was nothing there. A twitch of the hips, a dip of the shoulders, the barest start of a hook—little suggestions that made great threats, the way a creak of the floorboard at midnight conjures up a murderer creeping down the hall. He implied everything; he committed to nothing.

He was filling her head with optical illusions. Her mind was so thick with them, a swarm of after-images; she could hardly see him standing right there. The maddest part was he kept to his word. This was no Technique. This was sheer technique.

Sen’s eyes leapt side to side, struggling to keep up; sword arm began to tremble. With a cry she leapt—at a ghost.

“Tsk,” said Marcus. A moment frozen in time: Sen, arms outstretched, chin high up, bent over in a lunge. And Marcus, standing side-on, looking down on her, already in the swing of his counter.

He stopped the uppercut an inch from her chin. “Don’t reach,” he warned. “No sloppiness, now, or I’ll have to punish you.”

When Sen scrambled back, breathing heavy, she held still. Watching, waiting as his storm of feints rolled over her once more.

“Good!” he said, smiling. “You’re learning. A good strategy, to wait for me to commit so that you may counter. Only… can you?”

His fist tapped Sen’s nose. Just tapped—Sen reeled, gasping, but only the tip smarted red.

“This won’t do,” he sighed. “By the time you discern real from fake I’m already halfway through my motion. Too slow, simply too slow—”

Once more Sen lunged, but when Marcus slid to sidestep, loading his counter, she wasn’t there. She’d skidded behind him, thrusting for the back of his skull. Laughing, he rolled away; she sliced for his head, twisted into a crescent slash. Marcus had to put his spine through a snakelike contortion to avoid it.

“Excellent!” he laughed. “Yes, precisely—don’t put everything into a strike! You needn’t finish me in a blow! Trick for trick, fire for fire! This is what you must do.”

He danced away from her mad slashes. “When her style fails, add on. Experiment. Change. Find what is uniquely yours. Only then shall you find your Dao of the Sword—ah-ah!”

“Shut up!” screamed Sen.

“You’re reaching again,” he commented. “Too eager. Don’t. Or I shall have to—”

She swung as though to carve his tongue out his mouth.

His uppercut caught her square under the chin. The sound was like a cannonball making impact; it cracked down the gorge. Sen crumpled.

“No!” Ruyi didn’t think, she just charged. “Get away from her!”

Her fists bounced off him. Again and again she struck, but he just stared down at her sadly, like he was watching a toddler throw a tantrum.

“Don’t worry, she isn’t hurt. I did not throw to kill. Heavens, no. Knockouts such as these may look bad, but I assure you they’re painless and quite temporary. At worst she’ll have a nasty concussion.”

Ruyi dropped to her knees, panting. She’d tired herself out trying to hurt him. It felt like some sick joke. It would take so little for him to bend down and snap her neck.

“I suspect she'll will never forget this little lesson. Good—it’ll do her well. When she wakes, tell her to hone her craft for... say, thirty years? I look forward to our rematch,” said Marcus. He paused. “Ah—and tell her not to be too hard on herself. She performed excellently.”

He held out a hand. He was offering to help Ruyi up. It wasn’t the demonform which stood before her but the man.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I want a strong humanity, of course,” said Marcus. “Why else?”

“What?”

The setting sun shaded every wrinkle on his worn face.

“Humans are not my enemy, child,” sighed the Lord of Demons. “Demons are my enemy.”

She blinked, and he was gone.