For the rest of the night, Cyril sat in the lotus position, observing the mysterious home from a side alley. He had decided to bury his spear beneath the ground, hollowing out a narrow ditch and refilling it with earth qi. The weapon was far too conspicuous for his needs. He had no desire to bring calamity to this peaceful settlement, though he wasn’t sure if he would end up with a choice in the matter.
A few times throughout the night, he was forced to retreat deeper into the shadows to avoid the torchlight from one of the guards. While the others made cursory sweeps through the area every thirty minutes, one in particular would scour the area for intruders with singular focus. Before departing, he would bow his head and mumble a low prayer in the direction of the house.
When the first rays of dawn broke through the hazy sky, other people began to take to the streets. Merchants stifled yawns and set up their booths within the central square, maintaining a healthy distance from the house bearing the sigil of the Cult of Leviathan. Commoners shuffled about, heading to work or starting up conversations with the merchants.
Cyril began wandering through the streets at a sedate pace, keeping his head down. A few people glanced his way but soon hurried along, guided away by their instinctual fear of cultivators, even if they didn’t consciously realize it.
During one of his circuits through the streets, Cyril noticed a visitor walk up the path of the mysterious home. It was a middle-aged woman in robes almost as shabby as his own, her shoulders slumped and her face stricken with worry. With a trembling hand, she knocked on the door--two sharp thumps, a moment’s pause, followed by a third.
Cyril leaned against the closest building and pretended to cough into his elbow. His eyes remained on the house until, finally, the door opened.
Out stepped the least likely cultist he’d ever seen: a hunchbacked old woman in robes so faded the fabric had turned eggshell blue. Her white hair was drawn back in a severe bun, proudly displaying the deep-set wrinkles that granted her face the appearance of old leather. She hunched over a short walking stick almost as twisted as her spine, resting both of her gnarled hands upon its head. She couldn’t have come up much higher than his waist, and that was including the bun.
The truth lay in her soul. While her core was in the Early Condensation Stage, her qi was the purest he had ever seen. It radiated tranquility like a cup of sacred water, trickling throughout her body to nourish her withered channels.
The grandmother moved as if she was unaffected by the cramped confines of her body; with determination she shuffled her around around her visitor, back and forth twice to examine her from all angles. Then the grandmother nodded once, with finality, and shooed the visitor into her home.
Cyril moved along after noticing one of the guardsmen entering the area. He looped back into the central square and feigned interest in a vendor’s products as an excuse to keep an eye on the house. The merchant was more than happy to ramble about his collection of cheap spices and perfumes. Cyril smiled pleasantly at the promise that they would stimulate the growth of stubborn olfactory meridians.
Five minutes later, the grandmother shooed the visitor out of her home, her leathery face furrowed in annoyance. She glanced at the next supplicant waiting outside--a man in his last thirties, with a nest of wild hair--and shook her walking stick at him. Without another word, the grandmother turned around and headed back inside. But, Cyril noted, she left the door open behind her. The male supplicant followed her inside, head bowed in respect.
The first visitor strolled away from the house, all the tension in her body gone. A faint smile played around her lips, making her look a decade younger. Cyril muttered a vague farewell to the merchant and made to leave, before noticing the first visitor was heading directly toward him. She came to a stop in front of him.
Unsure what to do, Cyril dipped his chin slightly and smiled. “Lovely morning.”
The woman’s uncertain gaze flicked across his face and shabby clothing, then she shook her head and offered him a warm smile. “I’m sorry, this is terribly awkward. Grandmother wanted me to tell you--her words, not mine--’stop lurking about like a fool and take your place in line.’ Passing this message along is apparently my payment for her blessing. Sorry again.”
Cyril stared blankly after the woman as she hurried away, a surprising amount of exuberance in her step. He shared a look with the merchant, who shrugged and gestured in the direction of the grandmother’s home.
Cyril’s first instinct was to flee, but the memory of the woman’s warm smile made him pause. No one else was waiting along the path to the grandmother’s home, so he settled into position in front of the door. The nape of his neck tingled as if a thousand eyes were on him. He forced himself to remain still.
If he had been reported to the Cult of Leviathan, he needed every moment he could muster to make his escape. But after his flight through the desert, he was tired of running. They had already sent Lady Firouza after him and failed. His core was full, his mind focused. Let them test their Destinies against him, and find themselves once more wanting.
Another five minutes passed. Cyril resisted the urge to scratch his nose, trying his best to appear undaunted by the situation. Finally, the grandmother shooed the male supplicant out of her home; he wandered off with a dazed smile on his face, avoiding Cyril on the path as much as possible without trampling upon her garden.
After the man departed, Cyril stood there, staring down at the prune-faced grandmother. She matched his attention with narrowed eyes. Neither budged for several moments. Then she shot forward, her gnarled walking stick battering ineffectually at his shins. While she moved with vigor, there was no force behind her blows.
“How did you notice me?” Cyril asked, ignoring her assaulting his legs like a feral cat.
“Oh, as if that isn’t obvious,” she snapped back, finally ceasing her onslaught. “This is a small settlement. Been here most of my life, seen every local since they were a babe. Some big stranger like you slinking about? Everyone here noticed, they’re just too damned polite to speak up.”
Cyril suppressed a grimace. Perhaps he wasn’t built for stealth, after all. “I just arrived last night and wasn’t sure what kind of place this is. You can never be too careful.”
The grandmother smirked. “Not all of your generation are hopeless, huh? Come on in, come on in. Whatever ails you, Granny Jasmine can help.”
Cyril glanced through her open door. Inside lay an absolute chaotic hoard of trinkets and books, shoved in piles against the walls to leave a clearing in the center of the room. A young woman with a blindfold around her eyes sat in the lotus position, apparently deep in meditation. She wore plain white robes, displaying no obvious affiliation for the Cult of Leviathan. Early Condensation Stage core.
“I’m not so sure,” said Cyril. “Do you offer Leviathan’s blessing?”
“Aii,” said Granny Jasmine, turning her back on him and shuffling into her home. “I’ve watched over this shrine for the past three hundred years, long before it was dedicated to Leviathan. Believe it or not, this whole place was built around me!”
Cyril took a deep breath, then made his decision. He stepped through the threshold of the home.
No strange sensations or bizarre visions swept over him. There was just the warm, rich scent of ambergris, mingling with the heavy earth aroma of myrrh from the incense burner. A few items of value from the hoard of trinkets emitted a weak spiritual aura, but given the amount of clutter, it was probably a matter of probability that some of them contained trace amounts of qi.
He shrugged and closed the door behind him. Granny Jasmine hobbled over to an empty cauldron near the far wall. It must have weighed as much as she did. She shoved against it, attempting to push it toward the middle of the room. It didn’t budge in the slightest.
Cyril walked over and picked the cauldron up with his real hand, lifting it off the floor easily. Granny Jasmine tapped his feet with her walking stick, then pointed it toward the center of the room. He obliged and set it down where she indicated, next to the meditating young woman and the incense burner.
Though he attempted to lower it as quietly as possible, the blindfolded woman’s head shot up and faced him. No accusation marred her only features, only a bland curiosity.
“Right,” said Cyril. “I have a few questions, then I’d like to be on my way.”
Granny Jasmine lowered herself to the floor beside the cauldron with the assistance of her walking stick. Sitting on the ground, she looked absurdly tiny. Cyril settled on the opposite side, facing the two women.
“So,” said Granny, her voice echoing through the one-room house with authority, “you hope for an exchange of knowledge.”
“Something like that,” Cyril admitted. “No great mysteries or anything. I just want to clear up a few things. I’ve been wandering the desert for a while, and sometimes I lose track of the rest of the world.”
Granny grunted neutrally. Without responding further, she dangled both of her hands over the lip of the cauldron. With practiced grace, she managed to twist her gnarled fingers into a complex mudra. Qi flowed up to her palms, and a small trickle of pristine water began to flow, dribbling into the cauldron.
“What is this, grandmother?” Cyril tried to keep the alarm from his voice.
The blindfolded woman tensed slightly.
“Hush now,” said Granny Jasmine, “I’m making tea. Like I said, this whole settlement grew around me. When I was young--younger than you two, if you can believe it--I bonded with a water djinn. Especially in those days, such a spirit was as valuable as a marid. She was a local deity, but by some strange twist of fate, she chose to bond with me. You know what happened?”
Cyril shook his head, indulging her. The slow trickle of water continued from her hands, gradually filling the bottom of the cauldron.
“I spent the next three hundred odd years dispensing water to the poor people of this region,” she continued. “And while this may not look like much, compared to how it used to be, we’ve come so far. Three centuries I’ve sat in this place, refining the same technique, in order to make tea for my visitors. So, please, allow me the honor.”
Cyril folded his hands on his lap and stared at the floor. He definitely didn’t want to drink anything made from Leviathan’s water. Even a blessing could be a curse, as he had discovered when Hosjin’s symbol attempted to subvert his Destiny. To partake in a ritual from the Cult of Leviathan was akin to swallowing poison.
“You’re the cause of that trouble down south, aren’t you?” said Granny Jasmine.
Cyril clenched his fist. The blindfolded woman leaned toward him, her weak qi beginning to circulate through her body. He took a deep breath and relaxed. If they had reported him to the Cult of Leviathan, Granny Jasmine's brazen attitude was bizarre, unless she knew that feeding into his suspicions would keep him curious.
He despised such mind games. Worst of all, there was a chance she was doing nothing more than merely preparing tea, while he twisted himself into knots.
Cyril bowed over his hand. “I’m merely a traveler trying to return home. Any trouble I may have caused in my journey, I hope to put behind me.”
Granny Jasmine cackled and pulled her hands back. Only the bottom of the cauldron was full, but her core was nearly exhausted, reduced to a speck of pure qi. “If only it was so easy to avoid consequences! Tell me, where is your home?”
“My home is not a place,” said Cyril, “It’s a people.”
He expected her to investigate further, but Granny Jasmine merely nodded. “Heat this water up to boiling, if you will. Such tasks are beyond this old soul.”
Cyril snorted. Despite Granny’s false humility, she was basically a living deity, especially within her own home. While her level of cultivation may have appeared pathetic, her foundations were no doubt divine in their perfection. Three hundred years spent producing tea was a more terrifying feat than anything he had accomplished so far.
He conjured a tiny Flicker and sent it into the puddle of divine water at the bottom of the cauldron. Within seconds it began to roil, and soon the clash of their incongruent qis roused the water into a miniature storm. He didn’t mind revealing the technique--the Dominion of Sun existed independently of Behemoth’s influence, and passing himself off as a fire cultivator would help his cover. Still, he didn’t like that she seemed certain he was the culprit behind the oasis disaster.
“That’s almost perfect,” Granny Jasmine smiled at him. “Now, fetch me some leaves from the garden. That’s the last piece. You’ll know them--light green, golden glow, shot through with white veins. Grab a handful.”
Cyril glanced between the two women, unsure how to proceed with this ritual. Both remained silent. He stood up and departed, a small frown on his face. As he stepped out the door, he noticed another man heading down the path.
Cyril immediately realized this newcomer was no supplicant--he wore the blue robes of the Cult of Leviathan, and projected his Late Foundation Stage core with pride. Worst of all, he had the dark features of a desert native, complete with an oiled beard and long ponytail.
“Who’s this now?” said the traitor.
