Chapter 931: A memory
The stars above faded into the brightness of morning. But Lucavion’s gaze lingered on where they had been, his thoughts already sinking backward—into then.
Into the time before his master departed from this world.
The memory slid in like mist, soft and slow.
The air was thick with the dry scent of old grass and metal—a soldier’s camp on the edge of nowhere, where tents flapped like tired flags and the scent of iron never left your fingers. The sun had begun to set then, smearing the sky in rusted gold as soldiers finished their drills and scattered to routine.
But Lucavion was still.
Seated cross-legged, his back straight, a thin layer of sweat beading down his spine, he focused with every fiber of himself.
Circulate. Flow. Anchor. Expand.
His breath came slow. Measured. Chest rising with the rhythm of internal chants that sounded so natural in textbooks and so damn chaotic in practice.
And yet...
Nothing.
The starlight refused to respond.
No warmth. No glow. No harmony between breath and body. Just resistance—a static tension humming beneath his skin, as if his veins were rivers blocked by boulders he couldn’t see.
Why the hell does it always feel like I’m moving backward?
A low sip echoed in the air.
From nearby, under the gnarled shadow of an old ironwood tree, Gerald lounged like a man at a picnic. Legs crossed, one boot lazily swinging, a chipped porcelain cup in hand.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched. The steam from his tea caught in the dying light, twisting upward in faint trails.
Lucavion felt it, that familiar weight—not of disapproval, but something worse.
Amusement.
"Something funny about watching your disciple suffer?" Lucavion muttered without opening his eyes.
Gerald didn’t move. The sound of another sip—deliberate, thoughtful.
Then his voice came, dry and unhurried. "Suffering’s only funny when the idiot thinks it’s enlightenment."
Lucavion’s eye twitched.
He exhaled hard through his nose, biting back the retort. Let the silence stretch again. The pressure in his chest grew tighter. His hands rested on his knees, fingers trembling from the strain of holding the wrong kind of stillness.
Gerald finally shifted, setting the cup down on a flat stone with a clink that felt like judgment.
"You’re trying too hard again."
"I have to," Lucavion snapped before he could stop himself. His eyes opened, sharp, edged with frustration. "If I don’t push it, it doesn’t move. If I don’t force it—"
"That’s the problem."
Gerald stood, his movements casual, almost infuriatingly graceful for a man who claimed to be "retired." He walked closer, arms folded behind his back, voice light as the evening breeze.
"You don’t cultivate to move the mana. You let the mana move you."
Lucavion frowned. "That sounds like bullshit."
Gerald smirked. "Most truth does."
He knelt beside Lucavion, brushing dust off a stone with his sleeve, his fingers glowing faintly as he tapped the ground. Mana rippled through the soil in soft pulses, responding like a lake to a whispered thought.
"Your body’s like a battlefield. Tense. Ready to strike. But this isn’t war, Lucavion. This is breathing. You’re trying to stab a river. You need to float."
Lucavion clenched his jaw. "Floating doesn’t win wars."
"No," Gerald agreed, quietly. "But it stops you from drowning in your own blood before the war even starts."
That silenced him.
For a moment, Lucavion just stared at his own hands—veins taut, skin marred with old scars. The signs of someone who’d always fought. Even when it wasn’t the right time to.
Gerald stood again, walking back to his tree like he hadn’t just dropped an anvil of wisdom and wandered off. He poured another cup of tea, steam curling upward again.
Lucavion lowered his gaze.
And this time, when he exhaled, he didn’t push the breath.
He let it fall.
Just once.
And this time, when he exhaled, he didn’t push the breath.
He let it fall.
Just once.
And still... nothing.
Not the shift in his core. Not the whisper of mana awakening. Not even that faint tickle beneath the skin that usually came before a breakthrough.
Just silence.
Stillness.
And an unbearable nothing.
Lucavion’s brow furrowed, and he tried again. Slower. Deeper. He visualized the inner meridians, traced the patterns, willed the starlight to move as it always had. His mind shaped the flow. His breath synced with it. His body obeyed.
And yet—
Nothing changed.
The air around him remained still, too still. Mana flickered at the edges of his perception like a flame seen through fog, but refused to come closer. It was there. Present. Waiting.
And unmoved.
His jaw tightened.
’What the hell is this? It’s been fine until now.’
He’d felt it clearly only two weeks ago—when his blade struck clean in the spar, when his mana aligned mid-motion, when his body moved without thought. Back then, it was natural. Intuitive. His.
But now?
It was like his own core had gone quiet.
Bottleneck.
That was the word for it. The term old cultivators used like a curse and a prayer. A wall you couldn’t see, only feel—hovering like condensation in your lungs, just thick enough to drown.
And the worst part?
He couldn’t even point to what had changed.
There was no injury. No spiritual disruption. No broken flow.
Everything was just... almost.
Almost in sync.
Almost aligned.
Almost enough.
But not.
It itched in his bones. Not like failure. Failure was loud and obvious.
This was worse.
This was a whisper that said: You’re missing something small. So small, you’ll never find it.
Lucavion’s hands clenched on his knees. Breath ragged. The irritation crawling up the back of his throat like a splinter he couldn’t spit out.
"...Tch."
He didn’t speak.
But his silence said enough.
From under the ironwood, Gerald sipped again.
Then, casually, without even glancing over:
"Reminds me of another one," he said.
Lucavion blinked, momentarily pulled out of his spiraling frustration. "Another what?"
Gerald shifted slightly, still not bothering to look at him. "Another kid."
Lucavion squinted toward him, brow tightening. "What do you mean by that?"
There was a pause, just long enough to be deliberate.
"That kid from..." Gerald waved his hand vaguely, as if reaching into some dusty drawer of memory. "Hollowveil Ridge, wasn’t it?"
Lucavion raised an eyebrow. "Hollowveil what?"
Gerald finally glanced his way, expression unreadable. "Hollowveil Ridge. It’s on the edge of the old mining ravines. Pretty little place if you don’t mind constant fog and bloodthirsty fauna."
Lucavion gave a slow blink. "Where is that?"
Gerald sipped his tea again, then said plainly, "Enemy territory."
Lucavion’s posture stiffened. "Enemy territory? You mean the Arcanis Empire?"
"Hm," Gerald hummed, as if remembering whether or not that name still applied. "Still calling it that, are they? Yes. Arcanis."
A pause hung in the air, one Lucavion had no intention of letting slip past.
"...What were you doing there?"
Gerald tilted his head slightly, as if the question were far too innocent to take seriously. "What was I doing?" He smiled, ever so faintly. "What else? Adventuring, of course."
Lucavion stared. "...Adventuring. Again."
"Well, that’s how it was."
Lucavion leaned back slightly, one eye narrowing. "I feel like you’re letting out some of the information there."
"Do I?" Gerald asked, with absolutely no guilt in his tone.
"You definitely do."
Gerald shrugged, entirely too pleased with himself. "So what? What can you do about it?"
Lucavion stared in silence for a long beat. Then—
"...."
"See?" Gerald said, gesturing lazily with his teacup. "You don’t know if I’m hiding anything, and more importantly, you can’t force me to reveal it. You’re weaker than me, hence—" He tapped his temple with two fingers. "—I can keep any information I want."
Lucavion closed his eyes and inhaled sharply through his nose.
This insufferable old bastard...
"You’re really proud of being cryptic, aren’t you?"
Gerald smirked. "I’m proud of many things. Cryptic is just convenient."