Already exhausted by the advancement, Sen had to force himself to stand. He briefly considered putting on fresh robes before the uselessness of that struck him. Why put them on simply to have them destroyed by lightning or whatever else the tribulation might hurl at him? He had stories of tribulations other than lightning, but they had the air of third-hand accounts that were long on speculation and short on facts. The conundrum in front of Sen at that moment was what he should do. Some accounts said that cultivators facing this tribulation simply needed to endure it, that it would provide some benefit if they survived, while others said that it was always the right course of action to weaken the lightning as much as possible. He certainly had more than enough qi to put up a defense. If anything, his core and dantian were overstuffed with it having gotten comparatively little use recently. On the other hand, he was loathe to forego the possibility of a benefit.
He stared up into those storm clouds, hoping for a moment of inspiration or simply a hint of the right course of action. The heavens, as always, remained indifferent to his unspoken question. You face the heavens alone, Sen told himself. In the end, it’s all about choices. What will you risk and for what gains? He stood there, locked in a one-sided staring match with the gathering power above. More safety on one side, more benefit on the other. He supposed that was ultimately a false choice. Cultivation was risk. A lifelong bet that you would succeed where so many others failed. There was no place in that calculation for intentional weakness. Sen knew that the tribulations would not grow easier as time went by. If he couldn’t face this now, how could he ever hope to survive what was to come?
Clenching his fists and lifting his chin, he said, “Get on with it.”
The final bolt flew. As the unadulterated wrath of the heavens connected with him, sought to unmake him, tried to drown him in an ocean of torment so all-consuming that no mortal mind could contain the experience, something changed. He felt it inside of what was left of him, which he knew was little more than bones surrounded by burned and desiccated flesh. There was a surge as some last bit of alchemy was ignited. It seized the remnants of the celestial power that still coursed through him and around him. It converted that divine qi into something he didn’t even begin to understand. Even as consciousness abandoned him in an act of mercy, he could swear that he hurt just a little bit less.
Concepts like time meant little to him. Notions of what it meant to be awake or be asleep were equally nonsensical. He simply was. He floated, a mote in the cosmos, self-aware but not truly aware of anything around him. The universe turned and planes of existence seemed to flicker in and out of existence before him. For Sen, though, they held little more meaning that paintings glimpsed in passing. Briefly noted, perhaps, but swiftly forgotten. He was aware that he was at the very outermost cusp of life. One wrong breath and he would plunge into the oblivion of death. One wrong thought and the afterlife would seize him. There was an appeal to it. The idea of stopping and starting over. Perhaps the next life would be easier. Perhaps he would find himself in a world that was plagued with less violence, both necessary and unnecessary.
He craved such a world, but it felt false. Conflict was the natural state of affairs. It always had been. He’d known that since childhood. There were strength and weakness. Victory and defeat. Survival and death. Everything else was a mirage. A comforting lie that people told themselves in times of supposed peace. However, conflict was not the same thing as cruelty. That felt more right to him. Conflict and violence might be inescapable, but the wanton cruelty he’d seen, the cruelty he himself had done, was something entirely different. The world didn’t have to be that way. There had to be a path forward that was less cruel. He wanted to believe that, but he couldn’t see it. Perhaps a different man, a kinder man, a good man, would know how to make that world real.
But, as he had told Lifen so long ago, he’d never claimed to be a good man. He could only be the man he was, and that was a man who could be more than one thing. He could be kind, but he could also be cruel when it was necessary. When lines that shouldn’t be crossed had been ignored. When those who had no other recourse required the cold face of judgment to speak for them. He wasn’t a hero, and he’d never wanted to be one. That was a role for others. But he could be that cleansing wind, or a wrathful storm, if that was what was required. Even as that thought came and went, slipping from his grasp like water through a sieve, a heaviness overtook him. It dragged him down, down, down to a place that was both familiar and alien. A world where there were things he had left to do, and people he loved.
Sen opened his eyes and winced a little as sunlight poured into them. He felt like he’d understood something, grasped an important truth, only to have lost it. He rolled over. His body felt wrong. It wasn’t pain. That had seemingly been washed away in whatever that last burst of lightning had triggered in him. All the same, he didn’t feel like himself anymore. He managed to get himself up to his feet, but all of that hard-won balance he’d earned through years of relentless training had seemingly abandoned him. He staggered to one side and reflexively reached out to the nearby rock wall. He started to wonder where he was, but that concern was driven out of his mind as his hand closed around a piece of protruding stone. The stone was instantly pulverized into a fine powder at his merest touch. He stumbled back in surprise, only to fall. He brought his fist close to his eye and opened it. He watched the stone dust fall away from his palm in a silent cloud. That’s going to complicate things, he thought.