Waylon sat there, the weight of Gorrin's last words sinking into him like a stone dropped into a still pond. The flickering lantern light danced across the stone walls, casting shadows that seemed to shift and twist as his mind raced. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and fixed Gorrin with a searching look. "Okay, so what's my fate got to do with bringing me here, then? Waking up alone with those… monsters?"
Gorrin let out a rough, barking laugh, the sound echoing sharply in the small room. "Maybe you were meant to die," he said, his grizzled face creasing with amusement as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.
Waylon's head jerked up, his golden eyes narrowing as he stared at Gorrin like he'd grown a second head. "What?"
Gorrin shrugged, still chuckling, though his eyes glinted with something harder beneath the humor. "If you think those are monsters, then that's the only answer that comes to mind. Fate dropped you in a pit of 'em to finish you off."
Waylon's jaw tightened, a spark of irritation flaring in his chest. He sat up straighter, hands curling into fists on his thighs. "If those things weren't monsters, then what the hell were they? 'Cause they sure didn't seem friendly when they were trying to rip me apart!"
Gorrin's laughter deepened, rumbling from his chest as he shook his head. "Food," he said simply, grinning now. "They're food for my Cillia."
Waylon blinked, his anger faltering into confusion. "Food?"
Gorrin nodded, wiping a hand across his mouth as if to smother the last of his amusement. "Cillia's my contracted beast. She lives up at the top of the mountain. Loves how crunchy those little bastards are—keeps 'em around as snacks, feeds 'em weak insects to fatten 'em up."
Waylon's mouth opened, then closed again, his brain struggling to catch up. "Wait… those things were just a food source?" His voice came out quieter now, tinged with disbelief as he pieced it together.
"Yep," Gorrin said, still smirking. "She's got a taste for 'em. Can't get enough of that snap when she bites down."
Waylon slumped back against the wall, the cot creaking under him as the realization hit like a punch to the gut. "So… I was almost eaten by a pet's food?" He stared at the ceiling, his voice flat, almost hollow, as the absurdity of it sank in.
Gorrin's smirk vanished, replaced by a scowl as he leaned forward, his massive frame looming over the table. "Don't you dare call her a pet," he snapped, his tone cutting through the air like a blade. "Cillia's a contracted beast. We're equals—partners in this life. You'd do well to remember that."
Waylon flinched at the sudden shift, raising his hands in a half-hearted surrender. "Okay, okay, geez. Partners, got it." He sighed, running a hand through his damp hair, the borrowed tunic shifting against his shoulders. "So what you're saying is I just found out I'm weaker than an ant. Literally."
Gorrin's scowl softened, and he barked out another laugh, this one shorter but no less rough. "What'd you expect, kid? You don't even have an essence gathering technique yet. You're barely a speck in this world."
Waylon's eyes lit up at that, a spark of excitement cutting through his deflation. He straightened, leaning forward eagerly, his voice brightening. "Essence gathering? Like… cultivation stuff? You mean that's real here?"
Gorrin's expression soured instantly, his gruff voice turning stern. "Don't get any ideas. I'm not just gonna hand you one. Those are sect trade secrets—wars get fought over 'em, blood gets spilled. You think I'd toss something like that to a kid I just fished out of a tunnel?"
Waylon's excitement dimmed, but he wasn't ready to let it go. He tilted his head, a sly edge creeping into his tone. "But… what about all that fate stuff you were going on about before? If the Myriad Paths sent me here, doesn't that mean you're supposed to help me or something?"
Gorrin snorted, leaning back again, his chair groaning under his weight. "Didn't you hear me earlier? People can change fate if they know about it. Now that I've got a whiff of what those Paths bastards might be up to, I'm not keen on playing along with their game—including helping you more than I already have."
Waylon's shoulders sagged, a long sigh escaping him as he slumped forward, resting his chin in his hands. "So what then? I'm just screwed?"
Gorrin didn't answer right away. He rubbed his chin, his thick fingers rasping against the gray-streaked beard as he studied Waylon with a thoughtful frown. After a moment, he grunted, like he'd come to some reluctant decision. "Most humans jump straight into essence gathering—want to train combat arts, fling energy around, all that flashy nonsense. They neglect their bodies, think it's all about the soul or the dantian or whatever. Weak foundations crumble fast."
Waylon perked up slightly, sensing a shift. "Yeah?"
"I'm not giving you an essence gathering technique," Gorrin said firmly, cutting off any hope before it could fully bloom. "But I'll give you something else—a body strengthening technique. Build you up from the ground."
Waylon's face lit up again, his mind racing with memories of novels he'd devoured back home—tales of cultivators forging unbreakable bodies, shattering mountains with a single punch. "Whoa, like in those stories? Tempering the body and soul, getting all superhuman and stuff?"
Gorrin's eyes narrowed, and he waved a hand dismissively. "Don't get ahead of yourself, kid. This won't give you anything fancy—no glowing fists, no flying through the sky. It's just a stronger base. Without an essence gathering technique, even a toddler with a dantian could still gut you in a few moves. This'll toughen you up, that's all—give you something solid to build on later."
Waylon's grin faltered, but only for a second. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his excitement tempered but still flickering. "Okay, but that's still something, right? I mean, it's a start. Gotta crawl before you walk and all that."
Gorrin grunted, a reluctant nod tipping his head. "Yeah, it's a start. But don't think it's gonna turn you into some kinda hero overnight. You're still a long way from standing up to anything real in this world—ants or otherwise."
Waylon smirked, a flicker of his old defiance surfacing. "Hey, I took down a few of those crunchy snacks, didn't I? That's gotta count for something."
Gorrin's lips twitched, almost a smile, but he smothered it quickly. "Barely. You got lucky, and you know it. Those things would've torn you to shreds if I hadn't stepped in."
"Yeah, yeah," Waylon muttered, rolling his eyes. "Fire wall, big hero moment. I get it." He paused, then looked at Gorrin more seriously, his voice dropping. "So… what's this body strengthening thing look like? How's it work?"
Gorrin leaned back, folding his arms across his broad chest, his gaze drifting to the letter still sitting on the table. "It's simple, but it ain't easy. You'll push your body—muscles, bones, tendons—past what you think you can handle. There's no magic glow, no shortcuts. Just effort. Pain. Repetition. Over time, it'll harden you up, make you denser, tougher. You'll take hits better, move faster, last longer. But it's slow, and it'll hurt like hell."
Waylon nodded slowly, absorbing the words. It didn't sound glamorous—not like the wild cultivation tales he'd read—but it sounded real. Tangible. Something he could grip onto in this insane world. "Okay. I can do that. Pain's not new to me."
Gorrin raised an eyebrow, studying him with a mix of skepticism and curiosity. "We'll see about that. You've got grit, I'll give you that—stumbling out of that nest alive proves it. But grit's not enough out here. You'll need more than luck and a sharp stick if you wanna survive what's coming."
Waylon's stomach twisted at that, Gorrin's earlier words about the Myriad Paths echoing in his mind. "What's coming?" he asked, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.
Gorrin didn't answer right away. He rubbed his chin again, his fingers lingering there as he stared at Waylon, then at the letter, then back again. "Dunno yet," he said finally, his tone gruff but edged with something heavier. "But if those fate-obsessed bastards are stirring the pot, it's not gonna be pretty. And you—you're caught up in it, whether you like it or not."
Waylon swallowed, the weight of that settling over him like a cold fog. He glanced down at his hands, flexing his fingers, feeling the faint warmth still pulsing in his chest. "Great," he muttered, half to himself. "From school to snacks to… whatever this is."
Gorrin snorted, a dry, humorless sound. "Welcome to the fourth dimension, kid. Better get used to it."
Waylon looked up, meeting Gorrin's steady gaze. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence stretching taut between them. Then Waylon nodded, a small, determined spark flaring in his golden eyes. "Guess I'd better start strengthening something, then."
Gorrin's lips quirked—just a fraction—before he turned his head away, staring at the wall as if it held answers he wasn't ready to share. "Guess you better," he echoed, his voice low and rough, like gravel underfoot.