When the last slivers of twilight faded from the sky, Blake returned to his apartment. He just needed a few minutes to gather everything he could, then he’d escape. He didn’t know where he’d go, but he was getting out of here.

  The merge-mists were looking more and more appealing by the hour. The cultivators always ventured into the merge-mists seeking power, treasures, and glory. He could do the same.

  I'm tired of thinking about every little thing, every little action I take, he thought. Maybe it's reckless—I'm done caring.

  He was going to live free, and he was going to advance his cultivation, or he was going to die in a fiery blaze. But no more of this slow process of micro-deaths that left him completely hollow inside.

  And if he did die, then at least he’d die doing something.

  He slipped into his apartment and pulled the door shut behind himself. Orange torchlight shone up from the streets below, leaking through the shattered windows of his apartment. From above, eerie aurora-like glimmers shone through the window. The patterns on the manaship’s hull glowed brighter than any star or moons. (Once upon a time, the earth only had one moon, but during the Integration, three more had appeared in orbit. He didn’t know which one was the original anymore.)

  He pulled curtains across the windows, blocking out the third-storey view of the streets. It was just an empty evening market, with metal lattices and grates above to shield it from falling debris. Nothing to see.

  For a few seconds, he sat in near darkness. His hands jittered, and he tapped his foot inside in his boot. His neck itched where the black scales of the fiend merged with his skin, and when he stopped moving, his head ached where the fiend’s horns protruded. Better to keep moving and not think about it.

  He dropped his empty bucket on the rug in the center of the room and dragged himself over to a cabinet. A half-used candle rested on the corner, and his matchbox lay right beside it. He lit it.

  Before the Integration, the apartment had been part of a residential building too. Now, though, the old incandescent bulbs on the ceiling were decorations, the rusty air conditioning unit was a shelf for his collection of pre-Integration books, and the kitchenette’s many drawers and appliances were perfect for storing valueless trinkets. He kept otherworldly glassy pebbles from across the merge border, CDs that reflected light in stimulating patterns, and springs that were excellent to fidget with.

  The power had gone out soon after the Integration. World merges severed most of the power lines, and the cultivators destroyed what was left. To use any energy except mana was heretical, they said—a gross violation of the Sagas’ virtues.

  Blake picked up the candle and strode across the apartment’s living room, dodging an old couch and a coffee table that he never had time to use, then walked down a short hall to the single bedroom.

  He set the candle down on the dresser and took one last look out the bedroom’s window before sliding the curtains shut here as well. There wasn’t much worth seeing outside. Maybe if he’d been higher up in the tower, he’d see more, but the foundations had shattered during the Integration. Every year or so, an old building collapsed. To climb any higher than the fifth story was putting your life in the Fates’ hands.

  He kicked off his boots, then jumped up onto the bed and reached up to the ceiling. There was a hole in the roof, and the gaps between the ceiling and the floor above made an excellent place to stash his hacksilver.

  He retrieved an old plastic container. It was only a half-foot wide, and it only held enough pebble-sized bits of hacksilver to cover the bottom. He dumped today's earnings in, then held it out and assessed the weight. He would’ve made rent for the month—due tomorrow—but just barely.

  Sighing, he tucked the box away, then pulled off his still-damp shirt and unwound his shoulder-length brown hair from its ponytail. His body was a mixture of black scales and normal skin, forming swirling patterns that itched like hell.

  He shut his eyes and drew on the ambient mana, imagining an invisible wind sweeping across the surface of the world, passing between all living creatures. Mana. All beings could cultivate it, whether they were naturally attuned to it or not. But humans had never noticed before the Integration because of how low their attunement was—or so he was told in the Dynasty reeducation schools.

  They told him many things, like how this branch of mana cultivators weren’t the only groups out there in the galaxy. Aside from the Nords’ Dynasty, there was the Cohong Dynasty, who Blake had never seen, but apparently, they used ‘qi,’ and the Nords had derived their system of cultivation from the Cohongs.

  Blake drew the mana into his body with each breath, then imagined the invisible wind swirling around in his gut and taking shape, filling up an invisible sea. He was supposed to envision the siphon—a spiritual organ of some kind—that it entered through, but he couldn’t do that yet.

  But, where most mana was supposed to appear in the mind’s eye as turquoise energy (at least, before he bent it to an aspect), his was black oil. As soon as it entered his body, something tainted it. It still filled his gut and pooled into a spherical shape, but it moved slowly, thick like molasses.

  After a few seconds, he had to stop drawing it in. He was out of breath, and his fingers were tingling. From his limited knowledge, the Mana Condensation stages were usually easier for most people. He was supposed to be filling a well, expanding it, but the mana refused him. It just wouldn’t move.

  He shook his head and flicked his fiend horns in irritation. It had to be the blend that caused the thick darkness.

  For now, all he could do was get out of here. If he wanted to improve, getting to the merge-mists was the first step.

  He bent over next to an old dresser where he kept his clothes and picked out the freshest tunic he could find. A sturdy blue shirt, so dark it was nearly black. He tugged it on, then pulled out the rest of his spare clothes and bound them up into neat rolls.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  A backpack rested beside the dresser. He picked it up and pulled it open, then stuffed his clothes and the container of hacksilver inside. After ramming his feet back into his boots, he marched back out to the living room.

  He plucked up a few springs and stuffed them in his backpack’s front pocket, then snatched up a few of his alien stones. A ruby-coloured rock that he’d held so many times that the oils of his hands had polished it smooth. A jade stone that probably wasn’t actually jade. He tucked those in the backpack’s side pocket.

  He had nothing else worth taking. He’d read his books hundreds of times, and he’d probably memorized them all.

  He was about to snuff the candle when a thud echoed through the apartment. Then two more thuds.

  Someone was pounding on the door.

  Blake jumped up and pulled his backpack over his shoulder. The hacksilver jingled and clinked around in the container. He ran to the door and hoisted up a quarterstaff-sized length of rebar he left beside the frame—for occasions like this.

  Opening the door a few inches, he asked, “Who is it?” He held the candle out with one hand, and hid the length of rebar behind his back.

  “Bjarke Ekkson Blandi,” came a voice from outside.

  “That’s…uh, my name, not yours.” Blake tilted his head, leaning just past the crack between the door and the frame. Sadly, he recognized the intruders. “Good evening, Land-Master Svarikson. And his company. How may this one help you?”

  A middle-aged man stood in the hallway outside. He wore no armour except for an angular shoulder pauldron, where his rank seal was imprinted—the fifth stage of Body Tempering. Otherwise, a thin linen cloak hung off his shoulders and a brown, rune-embroidered tunic shielded his bulging belly.

  It must’ve been a while since the landlord had advanced a stage, and he had probably plateaued for a long while. Blake knew the first five tiers: Mana Condensation, Body Tempering, Foundation Establishment, Core Formation, and Nascent Soul. Beyond that, he couldn’t say, but it went higher. It always did.

  But, while in the Blended District, Svarikson was still one of the most powerful people. Petty nobility appointed by some subset of the regional Dynasty government, and not from around here. He lived in one of his properties in a different district. Probably Centertown.

  Behind him stood two guards, a young man and woman—both no older than Blake—who proudly displayed first-stage Body Tempering seals on their cuirasses.

  Not a single one of them was a Blended, but they were all offworlders. They all had turquoise eyes, for their deep, ingrained connections to mana.

  “Rent money, thrall,” said Svarikson. “Where is it?”

  Blake gulped. “Pardon, but this one thought the rent money was due tomorrow.”

  “The terms have changed. I posted a notice earlier today. Hand it over, or be beaten and expelled. Punishment is forty strikes.”

  Even if Svarikson had posted a notice, it would’ve been in Dynasty standard script. Blake could barely read it. He’d only spent a few months in the reeducation schools, where the monks had tried to teach him their scripts, and where he’d learned enough to get himself to the second stage of Mana Condensation (for what good it did; he’d have to reach the fourth stage before he could even use a technique).

  But he hadn’t seen a note at all.

  “Land-Master needs funds for the Centertown Auction tomorrow,” the male guard said. “If he doesn’t get enough for that Honour Ring, he’ll be duly upset, and rent will go up for next month. You don’t want that, do you?”

  “It is known that Land-Master Svarikson is fair and generous,” said the other guard, echoing the same proclamation that Julian had made about himself. “With the help of the auction treasures, he may bestow better amenities upon his tenant thralls.”

  Blake backed away from the door. He muttered, “If it needs saying, is it really true?”

  Immediately, he regretted speaking, but it was on instinct. Besides, he was always going to get himself in trouble, whether right now or thirty seconds from now—when he refused to hand over the hacksilver. Better to speak freely for once.

  He was leaving, and he wasn’t giving up his money to these guys. Even though he couldn’t fight them, he could lure them in. He could outmaneuver them.

  Clutching his length of rebar, he stepped back through the room, holding a hand up cautiously. “Apologies, but this one does not have enough silver yet. This one was hoping for another day to—”

  “Then why is his backpack clinking, hm?” demanded the female cultivator.

  Blake swallowed.

  “You weren’t thinking about making a run for it, were you, fiend-blend?” asked Svarikson. The three of them had nearly made it to the center of the room.

  “I—this one was…”

  As soon as Svarikson stepped onto the crusty old rug in the center of the room, Blake darted to the side, sprinting toward the open door. Svarikson and the cultivators tried to scramble after him, but the rug slipped under their feet. They were agile and competent enough to not fall over, but it gave Blake a head start.

  He leapt through the doorway and slammed the door shut behind him, then sprinted down the hallway outside the apartment. It was dark, save for light spilling in from the window at the end of the hall.

  The window was his target.

  Doors whipped past his face. Some tenants were already snoring, and hurdy-gurdy music seeped out from one room, distorting with the speed he ran at. He was halfway down the hall when the door of his apartment burst apart.

  Not open. Apart.

  The male cultivator smashed through it, his head down and forearms raised. The door crumpled like a sheet of paper beneath the strength of his enhanced body. Mana poured out of his skin in streaks, developing a cup around his fist. A technique. The mana took on an orange hue—it had a flame aspect. The cultivator launched his fist forward like he was throwing a punch, and the mana lurched off. A bar of searing-hot energy blazed down the hallway, nipping at Blake’s back.

  Blake dropped to the floor and rolled, and just in time. The column of flame mana raced overhead and smashed into the window, shattering it and scorching the surrounding cinder blocks.

  Blake sprang back to his feet and kept sprinting. The cultivator had used a Smite Technique, a ranged attack, and those took time to recharge.

  Ten steps away from the window. Five steps. The second cultivator ran out into the hallway, with Svarikson close behind. Three steps. One. Blake dove out the window, tucking his head.

  He landed hard on a metal lattice a few feet below, the impact jarring his legs, but he couldn’t stop moving. He was still about three storeys above ground level.

  The lattice shielded the alleyway market below from falling debris, and it was sturdy enough to hold Blake. But, although it covered the entire alleyway, it ended when it reached the main road.

  Behind him was a dead end. Ahead, only a wide gap nearly fifteen feet across. There was no way he’d make it normally, let alone reach the lattice shelters on the other side, which were another half-storey higher than he was.

  But he had a length of rebar to help out.

  Blake sprinted to the edge of the lattice and adjusted his grip on his makeshift staff until he held it at the very end, like he was about to vault over a high bar.

  It’d been years since he tried this. His muscles would either remember his pole-vaulting days, or he’d end up with two broken legs and a beating from Svarikson.

  Without slowing down, he wedged the rebar into the lattice at the edge of the walkway and leapt.