I Hate Cultivators: Becoming a Mage in the Cultivation World

Constantine awoke to the softness of the furs lining his cot, the remnants of sleep clinging to him like a heavy fog. He lay still, his throat dry and his muscles aching as if he’d climbed a mountain in his sleep. Blinking a few times, he tried to clear the haze from his vision, but the disorientation lingered. He stared up at the dusty, cobweb-covered ceiling, a dull sense of unease gnawing at him.

‘Where... am I?’ The events of the previous night felt distant, fragmented. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to piece together the jumbled images in his mind: a burning shack, splatters of blood, and flashes of lightning. The memories trickled back slowly, like water seeping through a crack. His chest tightened, and he pushed himself upright, his heart thudding in his chest. ‘Bandits... I—’

A sudden, vivid image of lightning bursting from his fingers made him flinch, his breath catching in his throat. He had hunted them down, killed them, and burned them alive in their hideout. ‘What the hell did I do?’ It wasn’t like him to act with such ruthless precision, but deep down, he felt a grim satisfaction. ‘It was the logical decision.’

He rubbed his temples, trying to massage away the throbbing headache that was building. ‘Why is everything so blurry? Why does my headache like this?’ The confusion was thick, and he struggled to make sense of it. It felt like a hangover, but he hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol. Then, like a bolt of clarity, it hit him. His eyes widened in alarm. ‘The cores. How many did I consume?’

He ran a shaking hand through his hair, dread tightening in his chest as he mentally counted. ‘One during the rune experiment, one when I electrocuted the bandits at home, and a third when I burned down the shack.’ The realization made his stomach churn. He had always been careful, strict about limiting himself to one core a day. But yesterday... yesterday he had lost control.

‘The mana—it’s messing with my head.’ He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus. The emotions from last night were hazy, distorted, like they belonged to someone else. He remembered the intoxicating power, the euphoria of striking down his enemies. But there was something else, something darker—bloodlust, joy, and a terrifying absence of remorse. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. ‘What’s happening to me?’

He forced himself to take a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. ‘It’s not that bad. I was still clear-headed enough to clean up my tracks. No, it might even be good. Remorse is weakness.’ He tried to reassure himself, recalling how he had dragged the charred corpses into the forest and left some of their coins behind to make it look like a monster attack. But the memory didn’t bring relief, only a hollow sense of dread. ‘I have to be more careful. Three cores were enough to warp my emotions... to make me enjoy killing.’

He swallowed hard, his mouth dry. The thought of losing his mind to the mana was terrifying, a slippery slope he couldn’t afford to slide down. ‘More cores?’ He frowned, concentrating on the energy swirling inside him. It was hot, almost burning, pooling in his solar plexus. He pressed a hand to his abdomen, feeling the warmth radiate through his body. ‘Why can’t I form the core?’ He had tried to forcefully compress the mana, to shape it through sheer will, but it had resisted him.

Sighing, he stood up slowly, feeling the stiffness in his limbs. ‘I’ll wait another two weeks. If there’s no progress... I’ll have to consider something more drastic.’ He shuddered at the thought of consuming multiple cores at once, using the sheer volume of liquid mana to condense the seed of the core. But the idea made him queasy. He had struggled to control a single core’s mana—trying to manage several at once could be catastrophic.

He stretched his arms and legs, grimacing as his joints popped. His gaze briefly slides off the wolf sleeping in the corner. A small smile tugged the corners of his mouth, ‘At least you are loyal. You have fought by my side.’

As he brushed a stray strand of hair from his face, something clicked in his mind. He froze, eyes widening as a new thought struck him. ‘Can’t form a core without enough control, and can’t practice enough to gain that control without the core.’ It was a frustrating paradox, but as he stood there, an idea began to take shape. ‘Control is mental... I don’t have to practice with real mana. I just need to replicate the sensations, mimic its behavior, even if it’s just in my head.’

A surge of hope, tinged with excitement, coursed through him. He clenched his fists, trying to contain the nervous energy that buzzed under his skin. “Even military pilots start in simulators,” he muttered under his breath, barely audible. Mana was complex, with too many unknowns to create a simulation, but for practicing control, even an imperfect fake illusion might suffice.

Calming himself, he sank back onto his cot, exhaling slowly. He knew it wouldn’t be easy; programming something like this would take at least a week even with the assistance of the copilot and data he recorded, if not longer. But it felt worthwhile trying ‘In the end, it’ll be worth it. With this, I might finally create a shortcut to forming the core.’

Just as Constantine steeled himself to begin, the wolf resting on the floor raised its head. Its ears twitched, its ruby-like eyes turning toward the door.

“What? Is someone there?” Constantine muttered, more to himself than to the creature. A pang of anxiety clenched his heart, his hand drifting toward one of the cores on his belt. He leaned forward, straining to catch any sound.

‘Did they come for me? Did something lead them to me?’ he worried, listening intently.

Aside from the drum of his own heart, it was silent. It wasn’t enough to dispel his fears. Standing up, he approached the door, his hand still clenched around the core. Every muscle in his body was tense, ready to react. The old floor creaked under his foot, each creak almost making him twitch.

Pressing his ear against the rough surface of the door, he held his breath and listened. Silence. ‘Am I paranoid again?’ Finally, he nodded and pushed the door open. The door creaked, and sunlight sliced into his eyes, forcing him to squint. He leaped backward.

Constantine’s breath caught as he saw the silhouettes gathered at the forest’s edge, far in the distance. Villagers. Their simple linen clothes were unmistakable. His heart pounded in his chest, a cold sweat forming on his brow.

‘Have they found the bodies already?’ His stomach churned. He hadn’t dared drag the bodies too deep into the forest, knowing it was dangerous at night. But he had expected the forest to buy him more time.

The distance was too great, muffling their voices. They gestured, their movements sharp and agitated. Anxiety clawed at him, tightening his throat. ‘They seem to be agitated. Probably found the bodies.’ He couldn’t let them suspect.

With a slow, deliberate exhale, Constantine straightened his back and wiped the sweat from his palms. His mind raced, crafting a plan. He couldn’t just hide—hiding would be suspicious. No, he needed to approach them, blend in, and feign ignorance. ‘Better to confront them than to let them confront me. I live close to the forest. They are bound to at least ask me if I saw anything.’

He pushed the door open wider, stepping out into the harsh daylight. The sun blinded him for a moment, but he blinked against it, forcing his expression into one of curious concern. As he walked toward the group, he steadied his breathing, forcing his posture to relax.

‘Just an ordinary day,’ he told himself. ‘Just another folk from a city checking on a disturbance.’

The closer he got, the more he could make out—their anxious faces, the way their eyes darted between the forest and each other. He slowed, carefully molding his features into a mask of casual interest.

One of the villagers noticed him first, the pox-scarred man with an axe slumped over his shoulder. His eyes widened in recognition, and he waved Constantine over. Constantine gulped and approached, his face stone-cold even though he had disliked the man since the day he arrived.

“Heya, city brat,” the man called out, his voice rough and gravelly. “You live close by. Seen anything?”

Constantine forced himself to maintain eye contact, pushing down the instinctive distaste that threatened to surface. He couldn’t afford to show any sign of weakness or hesitation. He furrowed his brow, feigning confusion at the question he had already expected.

“Strange? Not sure. Slept the entire night—tired from traveling,” Constantine replied, keeping his tone neutral. He took the opportunity to remind the villagers that he had been away, subtly distancing himself from any recent events. Simultaneously, he lowered his shoulders, trying to appear meek and weak. ‘No one would suspect a spoiled scrawny scholar of somehow overpowering an entire group of men,’ he reminded himself, trying to keep his confidence steady.

“What? Did something happen for you to gather here so early?” he asked, directing his question toward the herbalist, the one villager he frequented.

The man with the axe shifted it on his shoulder, answering before she could. “Bodies, all charred and burned. Bite marks over them.”

Constantine’s face warped with fake shock. The herbalist woman, her weathered face lined with concern, chimed in. “Looks like they ran too close to a thunder-rabbit without noticing.”

“Hehe,” the scarred man chuckled, a harsh sound that grated on Constantine’s nerves. “Probably got drunk. Drunk at night, burned the shack with their friends, then wandered into the forest.” He stared straight at Constantine, something in his gaze deeply unsettling.

Constantine let out a small, hollow laugh as if humoring the man. Inside, his thoughts raced. The mention of the thunder-rabbit was a stroke of luck—a convenient scapegoat for the atypical injuries.

“D-did you know them?” Constantine asked, his voice trembling as he tried to feign the horror fitting of a scholarly brat from the city. He needed to avoid suspicion by not suddenly falling silent, and he also wanted to gather more information on the situation. He omitted the fact he knew that by burning the men with lightning, their faces were scorched, almost unidentifiable.

“No one’s missing from the village,” the herbalist whispered, and several villagers nodded in agreement.

“Nah, the monsters brutalized them to coal. Quite unfortunate,” the man grinned, slightly flexing his hand holding the axe. Constantine barely kept his expression from shifting. ‘Why is he speaking as if he knows something?’ The thought made his stomach twist, and then a sudden realization made him think. ‘Of course, the herbalist mentioned that no one’s missing from the village. Yet, the first bandit knew I wasn’t home. They must have an informant in the village. It must be him!’

Constantine cursed inwardly. He had no time for this drama. He’d thought that in this rural area, he would finally have peace to study the paranormal. ‘Now? Why now when I am so close to a breakthrough?’

He straightened his back confidently, returning the glare to the scarred man. ‘No need to panic. The fact that he hasn’t brought it up might mean he isn’t sure, or maybe doesn’t want to speak.’ He knew that the man couldn’t simply admit to working with bandits, nor would the villagers believe a scrawny boy like him could overpower a group of armed men. ‘Or maybe he wants something? Or maybe I’m just paranoid and reading too much into this. Maybe he's just an annoying jerk.’