Hauling heavy water buckets across the village garden, I kept sorting through everything I'd read, all I'd heard, and all I'd dragged out of Mom the night before until exhaustion finally put her to sleep. I tried to shelve it all properly, but order wouldn't come. Too many contradictions in how people describe drawing energy from the world. But if you remember they're all just stuck at the Meridian Tempering stage, inconsistencies are bound to happen. Like blind men trying to explain the sun—lucky if the day is warm enough for them to feel the rays on their skin.
Seems like everyone stumbles through this path on their own. And what's worse—the book didn't bother to describe a proper method. Their favorite line—"Imagine energy being absorbed into your body!"—made my teeth grind with frustration. How? How am I supposed to imagine that? More importantly—how does it really look? Would it have been so hard for those with Sight to describe what they actually saw to guide future students?
I emptied my buckets once again and took a break—something I do every time I finish the third row. There's plenty planted here, though most of that bounty rarely reaches our rations. According to Cardo, we contribute too little to the village. Pumpkins, several types of onions, peas, radish, bread-root and meat-root, some greens I've never tasted, sourgrass, carrots, bitterweed or cucumberleaf, cabbage. The whole garden is divided into tidy beds filled with soil hauled from the Wasteland. Interrupted only by walkways paved with ever-present sand.
I always choose the furthest beds, the ones nobody wants. I water from edge to edge. There'll be shouting, arguments—Skirto will stir them up—but in the end, it'll be assigned to me anyway. At least the village isn't raised too high over the river, not as much as it seems. Just ten meters up. A short staircase of adobe and stone, one landing halfway. There's only one good spot to collect water, so the planks sit directly beneath the cliffside descent. One strange thing—why does that short staircase feel impossible to climb by the end of the watering?
So, Father once imagined absorbing the surrounding air with every inch of his skin. Mom pictures herself inhaling air that's infused with power, filling her body. Orikol—Mom told me this—imagines beams of light piercing him, leaving fragments of energy behind. I can't trust anyone else—I haven't seen them myself. Two Warriors and an honest eight-star. Which image should I choose? Or... should I create my own? Combine their successes into one? Picture the air around me glowing with energy and pouring straight into me?
After ten fruitless minutes, I still couldn't picture "glowing air." Big guy Porto was already eyeing me—I'd been idle too long. Lucky he was on garden duty today. If it were Skirto, I'd have already tripped twice with my buckets and spent breaks down by the river, taking extra-long walks just to hear less of his screeching about slackers.
Maybe I'm dumb—can't even imagine glowing air properly. I needed to simplify. Let the air be filled with tiny glowing dust, even finer than the haze that hangs over the ruins of the Ancients when they burst. Let this glowing blue dust swirl around me as soon as I start drawing energy. Let it settle on my skin, soak into me. Let me breathe it in—filling my lungs, seeping into my blood. I stopped at the riverbank and tried to visualize it. And, I have to admit—it worked way better! Happy with my tiny breakthrough, I scooped water with the heavy bucket and hurried back toward the stairs.
The second problem is harder—developing the meridians themselves. I don't want to hit the second obstacle. I've seen Virgl's gang at it, spending every evening on the training ground. First they sit—probably absorbing energy—then leap up like lunatics and start lifting weights. Once they're spent, they flop onto the sand again. Virgl's seventh star, two have sixth, the rest fifth, and one fourth. That last one's Skirto, the rat. The only weakling among them, though Virgl likes strength. But Skirto gets by on other things—the filthy little parasite.
I winced, remembering the rat. Of all that gang, he's second only to Virgl on my hate list. They seem strong—seventh and sixth stars at fourteen years old is nearly solid talent, according to the guide. But they're all muscle-bound. Porto's so huge now he'll be squeezing sideways through doorways. That's the first thing that makes me question their training—I suspect they're growing muscle, not meridians. And the second? Orikol's bellowing rants about idiots, every time he remembers he's supposed to be a meridian instructor and drags himself to the training grounds.
Dragging heavy buckets of water for the village garden, I turned over everything I'd read, everything I'd heard before, and everything I'd pried out of Mom the night before, trying to lay it out in order. But organizing it just didn't work. Too many contradictions in how people describe absorbing energy from the world. But if you remember they were all at the Meridian Tempering stage, then of course there are inconsistencies. Like blind men trying to describe how sunlight feels. If it's hot enough, maybe they'll sense its warmth on their skin. Seems like everyone stumbles through this process on their own.
It's frustrating. The guide didn't even provide a proper method. That familiar line—"Imagine energy flowing into your body!"—makes me grind my teeth in anger. How exactly should I imagine it? More importantly, what does it actually look like? Couldn't the Seers just describe to future students what they saw around them?
After another round of emptying the buckets, I gave myself a break. I always do after finishing the third row. There's so much planted out here… shame most of it rarely ends up in our ration. Cardo says our household contributes too little to community labor. Pumpkins, several kinds of onions, peas, radish, breadroot, meatroot, strange greens I've never even tasted, sourgrass, carrots, bitterweed or cucumberleaf, cabbage. Each garden bed is neatly divided, filled with soil hauled from the Wasteland, broken only by paths of ever-present sand.
I usually pick the farthest rows—the ones nobody wants—and water from edge to edge. There'll be yelling, arguments, and Skirto will stir it all up again, but I'll end up with the job anyway. At least the village isn't built too high above the river—just ten meters. A short adobe-and-stone stairway with one turn halfway up. There's only one good spot to draw water, so the planks sit right beneath the drop. One strange thing… why do my legs stop working near the end of watering, even on a short staircase?
So: Father once imagined he was absorbing energy through every piece of skin. Mom visualizes inhaling force-filled air that fills her body. Orikol—Mom told me—imagines beams of light penetrating his body, leaving particles of power inside. I can't trust anyone else—I haven't seen the others. Two Warriors, one honest eight-star. Which visualization should I use for myself? Or… should I make my own? Combine all their successes? Imagine the air glowing from energy and flowing straight into me?
Ten minutes of failure, and I still couldn't imagine "glowing air." Porto, the big guy, had already started watching me—been idle too long. Lucky he was on garden duty today. If it had been Skirto, I'd already have tripped twice with the buckets and spent every break by the river, taking long walks so he'd yell less about slackers.
Maybe I'm stupid, if I can't picture glowing air. I should simplify. Let the air be filled with tiny weightless particles—smaller than the dust that hangs over shattered ruins. Let a cloud of glowing blue dust swirl around me the moment I start absorbing energy. Let it settle on my skin, soak in. Let me breathe it in—filling my lungs, merging into my blood.
I stood by the river and imagined it. And I have to say—this image worked far better! Happy about my tiny victory, I dipped the heavy bucket with practiced movement and hurried back to the stairs.
The second problem is harder—growing the actual meridians. I don't want to crash into that second barrier. I've seen Virgl's gang training on the grounds nearly every evening. First they sit—probably absorbing energy—then suddenly leap up and start lifting weights like madmen. When their strength runs out, they drop back onto the sand.
Virgl's at star seven, two others at six, the rest at five, and one at four. That last one's the little rat Skirto—the only weakling in the gang, though Virgl likes strength. But the runt has other advantages. I winced remembering him. Among that crew, he's second only to Virgl on my personal hate list. They seem strong—at fourteen, star six or seven is decent talent, according to the guide. But they're all built like oxen. Porto's about ready to start squeezing sideways through doorways.
That's what makes me suspicious of their methods—clearly muscle-heavy, not meridian-focused. And the second red flag? Orikol's loud fits about "idiots," whenever he remembers he's their teacher and bothers to show up.
Let's revisit the worthy examples: Father, Orikol, and Mom. Father was strong, not a mountain like Cardo, but still. He was a blacksmith and probably handled heavy loads since childhood, but when he began Ascension, he chose the wrong path. Orikol's broad-shouldered, wrapped in muscle—I don't know his story. Mom doesn't look anything like the village's strongest woman, Mirglo, who also has eight stars. I shuddered at the memory. Gods forbid a wife like that. Poor Kotil!
I don't know how Mom trained—hard to imagine her hauling weights all day in the slums, especially if she talks about hunger. So maybe I shouldn't touch heavy lifting at all, and—wait—I actually stopped, sloshing water as I did. No food? I'm not ready for that kind of sacrifice. There wasn't a word about fasting in the guide. Four years of hunger? No. I told myself firmly—that's only for the very worst case. We already eat poorly. I'm always hungry. Cardo cut our ration compared to the others, because of our low labor contribution. If not for Uncle Di…
"Hey, Legrad!" Porto called, snapping me out of my thoughts. "Come here."
"What do you want?" I asked darkly, not expecting kindness, massaging my hands after hauling the heavy, fresh-handled buckets—really just reed baskets coated with a thin layer of clay.
"Virgl says once you finish the beds, you owe forty kilos of stone," Porto confirmed my fears.
"Last month it was twenty—what the hell?" I snapped. Weirdly enough, this mountain of a guy—whose shoulder I barely reach—I could actually express feelings around.
"If you're asking," Porto shrugged, his boulder-sized shoulders wrapped in a thin leather shirt. He's probably twice my weight. "There was a collapse upstream."
"If everyone knows that, they've already cleared the place out," I pointed out.
"That spot's been picked clean, but breaks rarely happen in just one place," he replied calmly.
"Yeah, right. Virgl just found an excuse to raise the quota." I spat out the sand grinding between my teeth. Porto just shrugged silently—he never commented on his boss's decisions. "Fine, I get it. Double quota for the good of the village, compliments of dear Virgl."
"That stinking darss Virgl!" I kept raging as I walked downstream, squeezing a stone in my fist till my knuckles hurt. Heading to the spot Porto named was useless—it's already been stripped bare. I'd been off stone duty for a week and was glad for it. My mistake! He took me off the task as soon as he heard about the fresh fall. Now that it's been cleared—he's put me back on with an increased quota!
"Bastard! Dumb brute! May the sun fry your skull! May Orikol kick you while drunk!" I muttered curses at Virgl.
"Stop, stop, stop," I tried to calm myself. I have a goal. I've got four years ahead. If I react to every petty cruelty like this, I won't make it. If I keep stoking these fires, one day I'll go at Virgl or his lackey. Skirto for sure. And that'll be the end of me.
If I give Cardo a golden excuse, they'll punish me—and it won't be a scolding. Most likely, I'd be thrown out of the village. Which means death. A boy alone in the Wasteland?
And even if Mom held herself together, even if she didn't break… that would be a gift from the gods to our "not-quite-chief." We'd all be in his full control. He could even justify killing us. Maybe he wouldn't touch Leila, but she'd be alone. Or he'd demand Mom warm his bed if she didn't want the kids banished.
The very thought made me shiver. Never. I need to calm down immediately and learn to smile through moments like this. I looked at the stone in my hand and tucked it back into the pouch. First—I need strength.
Forty kilos? Fine. I've got a decent stash of stones saved, but I'll keep it for an emergency. Better to grow the reserve. I'm getting older, and Virgl will surely raise the quota—he won't even wait for an excuse. Maybe today marks the start of a new squeeze.
So I need to prepare for the worst. If I don't meet today's quota, they'll cut my food ration? Fine. I'll go hungry, deny my muscles fuel, give my portion to Mom and Leila. And most of all—smile. Look at the blue sky and smile. Look at the black ruins of the Ancients and smile, even if not one piece has crumbled from their indestructible walls.
And enough wasting time. It's time to train in Ascension.
I chose a spot among the ruins—hidden from view, hard to reach unnoticed. No one should know I've gotten hold of the temper
As soon as I made that difficult decision and breathed a sigh of relief, life threw another choice in my path. Behind another wall, I found a stone—heavy enough to fulfill my entire quota for the day. That made it even more valuable. Why? Because everything the Ancients built around here has either crumbled into the sand that gives our Wasteland its name, or is so strong that our tools can't break it down efficiently. If only we had enough heavenly metals from the First Belt—even just red alloy—things would be different. But they're too expensive. My father once had small chisels made of glacial steel. That's all he could afford, even after Grandpa's considerable earnings. I've never heard of Gazil having anything like that. Otherwise, Rauh's bones wouldn't be worth so much.
So luck is all we've got. Sometimes—actually not that rarely—the surviving ruins seem to pop open, surrendering to time. But most of the time, they fall apart into chunks the size of my fist—or, less often, a grown man's. Large pieces are rare. The most valuable item in our house isn't the whitewashed adobe walls—it's our table. Large, flat, intact. And right in front of me lies a stone almost like it—half the size, but still a rare prize. Now I had to choose: stick to my resolution to avoid heavy lifting, or not? It was too heavy, especially with the long haul ahead—not like the garden water run at all. No. I shook my head firmly. I had to stay resolved. Especially if my recent attempts at Ascension had stirred a bit more energy in my meridians than usual—most of it would go straight into muscle. Better not waste it.
Three hours later, I was back in the village. I had to cross all the way through—it's on the far side where we store stones. Two low, narrow sheds, poorly roofed with just one layer of dragon grass. So thin that sunlight leaks in through the gaps, and in rain, the floor puddles. But inside, it's just piles of stone—no harm done there. The sheds have multiple doors, convenient for hauling stones to the nearest heap. Between them, under a sturdy awning, stand the massive scales—made of rare local wood and iron bowls. That wood, a flawless trunk from a tree I don't recognize, was precious. Nearby lay a pile of stones brought in over the past few days. I dumped mine loudly onto the bowl and craned my neck, scanning for the man I needed.
"Twenty-two," yawned Larg, making a mark on the board hanging outside the storehouse.
"Agreed." I examined the counterweights Larg placed on the second bowl—he was known to be honest, but caution doesn't hurt—and nodded. I pointed to a few lines above my name and asked, "Has he left for the quarry yet?"
Larg shook his uneven bowl-cut head, dumped my haul into the common pile, brushed dust from the scale, tied the hanging rope to the balance beam, and sank back into the shade, eyes shut in an instant. Heading toward Uncle Di's house, I found myself wondering—maybe Larg's not asleep. Maybe he's just always deep in Ascension? Ha! I chuckled. Perfect excuse for that lazy ox.
"Hey, anyone home?" I called, stepping past the low fence of clay and pebble.
"What do you want, freeloader?" came the reply—exactly what I'd feared, but expected.
"Hey, Rat. I saw your name on the stone board," I smiled, brushing off the sting.
"Looking for someone to carry yours for you?" teased the boy who peeked out from behind the worn mat. A bit older than me. Definitely taller.
"Almost nailed it," I gave him a thumbs-up. "I want to help you."
"Must've gotten sand in my ears—I don't trust them!" Rat stepped out, poking a finger demonstratively into his ear. "Maybe that last quyrgal gave you trouble chewing?"
"Listen, Rat." I raised my hands placatingly, not even mad. His clowning was too ridiculous. "Let's not fight. I'm here to help, and I can't haul that stone myself anyway."
"Stone?" He'd been ready to throw another jab, but I knocked the thought out of him.
"Yeah. A slab—fifty kilos, give or take." I didn't even hide my grin now. Watching him wrestle with temptation was a treat. I wouldn't get much out of it, but Rat's quota would likely double just from submitting it.
"Alright then, freeloader," Rat jabbed again. "Come pay up with meat that's not in our pot."
"No, no, no!" I protested. "Let's go—I'll toss you the slab neighbor-style."
"Let's go," he muttered through clenched teeth after nearly a minute of silent self-persuasion.
"Great," I said, satisfied. "Grab a carrier from Larg. Meet you up there."
"Nice stone," Uncle Di's son finally admitted, breaking a near-hour of silence as he adjusted the cord tying his hair. "Maybe we submit it together?"
"Nah," I waved him off. "You carry it—it's too fat for me anyway. Besides, Virgl will give you the stink-eye if Larg mentions it."
"He's too lazy to wag his tongue that long," Rat grumbled.
"Then don't be lazy. Grab and go—I've still got twenty kilos to haul before sundown." I ended the pointless debate and climbed higher to get a view and chart my route.
"More quota?" Rat called up, puzzled.
"Favorites get special treatment," I shot back from the third floor with a grin.
From up here, the Wasteland revealed an astonishing view. Over the broad strip of white sand stretching nearly to the horizon, the usual dull gray-green smear of spring grasses had suddenly come alive with bright yellow bursts—like they might lift off the earth at any moment and soar into the dark blue sky hanging overhead.
"Hey, wait!" I shouted at Rat's back as he walked away.
"What?" he spun instantly. "Changed your mind?"
"No," I shook my head as well. "I have another idea."
"Just as profitable? Gladly!" Rat gently set the stone down and rubbed his hands together, pleased.
"Not quite. Not profitable. And if we get caught," I hesitated, "we'll be punished."
"Uh-huh." He coughed, fell silent, and started retightening the leather tie that held his long hair—past the shoulders—in a tail at the back of his head. "Alright, go ahead."
"I've got the high ground," I began with mystery. "And from up here, I saw the acacia starting to bloom."
"Yeah, the season's come—summer's almost here. Dad said yesterday it bloomed. So?" Rat raised his brows.
"I don't know about you, but I want to surprise my sister. Bring her flowers," I said, pointing toward the open Wasteland.
From above, I could also see Rat falter—not ready to accept the idea outright. Yeah, this smelled like trouble. If they found out we kids went out into the Wasteland alone... well, it wouldn't just be punishment. It could be genuinely dangerous. We'd be leaving the sands, where only scorpions and snakes are a risk, and stepping into true wilderness. Where a leopard could easily find us. Even a jackal's a threat.
Still, every kid in the village aged eight or ten has snuck off to the Wasteland at least once—usually for a dare or just to show off. What I was proposing had purpose, even if some would find it ridiculous.
"You convinced me," Rat clapped his hands. "I was just thinking about making peace with Dira."
We buried the stone under a layer of sand and took off in an easy sprint—an old hunter's lope that can carry you across the Wasteland for hours. In about forty minutes, we crossed the near-barren stretch of white sand and stepped onto thin soil dotted with bright spring-green grass tufts. Normally the sand belt around the village is much wider—but not here. Otherwise, I wouldn't have spotted the trees, even from above.
Out here, aside from a few pale rocks left over from the crumbled ruins of the Ancients, there's nowhere for predators to hide. Still, we stopped and scanned the area. Rat nudged me and pointed. Quartik scouts. One of the small carnivores was peeking out from behind a mound, assessing our threat level. Clear signal. Every child knows: if you spot that cautious little hunter, there are no bigger threats nearby.
We ran on.
"You won't have time to gather stones at this rate," Rat broke the silence.
"It's fine." I used it as an excuse to stop and catch my breath. I'm not as tough as Rat, and the sweat was already drawing flies to my eyes. I picked the cleanest bit of my sleeve and wiped my face. "It won't be the first time I skip a double quota."
"You're doing pretty well, though!" Uncle Di's son smiled and gave me a thumbs-up. "I saw you had twenty-two on the board already… I usually crawl around ruins all afternoon."
"You're just not built for this hunt," I teased the boy who dreamed of going into the Wasteland with his dad.
"Not even gonna argue. I'm learning to hunt meat that leaves tracks. No use for stone tricks. Not long now and I'll forget all this busywork. Way better to sit scraping fat off hides or polishing antlers."
I just shrugged and ran ahead without replying.
"There!" I pointed to a dry branch lying at the foot of our chosen tree. How had the gatherers—who are allowed to collect dry wood after the rainy season—missed that? "You stand guard with it, I'll climb."
Gripping a low limb, I hauled myself up the rough trunk—rich brown, pleasant to touch. The real trouble started when I tried inching along the branch. The whole tree was covered in thorns—each half the length of my palm. Good thing I didn't need to protect my clothes. They were already old and full of holes.
"Almost there," I encouraged myself. I reached a comfortable spot and finally stretched far enough to grasp the hanging young branches with their blooms.
The girls will love this.