I Hate Cultivators: Becoming a Mage in the Cultivation World

Three days later:

The line of people shuffled forward under the steady rain. Constantine kept his head down, his soaked cloak clinging to his body as the mud splashed beneath his shoes. The town walls loomed ahead, gray and worn, barely visible through the curtain of rain.

The gatehouse came into view, as rundown as he remembered. The wooden roof sagged, and the walls were green with moss. As the line slowly moved forward, he reached the gatehouse’s shadow. Enjoying the brief moment out of the rain, Constantine reached for his pouch, taking out the coin for the toll.

‘Paying taxes, yet it still looks like a dump that is falling apart.’

The guard barred his path, making him momentarily tense and interrupting his thoughts. He recognized the same scruffy mustache, the dirty, patched-up gambeson, and the disinterested expression. It was the guard from before.

Without waiting for the man to speak, Constantine handed the coin over. The guard barely glanced at him, taking the coin with a grunt.

"Go in," he muttered, waving Constantine through with the same apathy as before.

Constantine nodded, stepping past him and out of the gate's shadow. The market square stretched ahead, empty now except for a few figures trudging through the rain. He exhaled slowly, but his eyes darted around, scanning the area. A faint sense of unease gnawed at him.

‘What if they come back? What if the scarred man...’ He shook his head, forcing the thought away. Water splashed under his boots, mixing with the dirt and grime of the street, but he didn’t care. His mind was elsewhere. His wolf—left alone, back at the shack. What if they returned and tried something?

‘No, no one should know I left,’ he reassured himself. ‘I took the forest route this time.’

As he reached the smithy, Constantine pushed open the door. The clang of metal and the hot air welcomed him. The weapons were still packed tightly on the shelves, just as before, but the smith was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a girl sat behind the counter. Dark hair, plain face—she barely glanced up at him.

‘Did he hire a help?’ He thought, stepping toward her.

"Hello, I placed a custom order. I’m here to check the progress," Constantine said.

The girl stood without a word, bowing slightly before motioning for him to follow. They moved down a narrow hallway, the clang of hammer against metal growing louder. The air thickened with heat. Constantine’s hand hovered near the hilt of his dagger. He couldn’t disregard the possibility that it was a trap.

The girl stopped at a sturdy wooden door at the end of the hall. She knocked once, then stepped aside, pushing it open.

Constantine entered. Blazing hot air washed over him, the furnace in the corner casting a red glow across the plain brick walls. The smith stood at the anvil, sweat running down his face as he looked up at him.

“Leave us,” he barked at the girl, who quickly left, closing the door behind her.

“It’s good you came,” the smith said, wiping his forehead.

Constantine didn’t bother with pleasantries. “How’s the progress? Do you need anything?”

The smith walked over to a stone table in the corner, his eyes glinting in the firelight. He held up a metallic bracelet. The brass surface gleamed, but the gem socket was still empty.

“The bracelet is ready,” the smith said, handing it over.

Constantine took it, his fingers running over the smooth, cold metal. He twisted it in his hands, inspecting every angle. A small smile tugged at his lips as he examined the mechanism.

“It’s good. It should work perfectly,” he muttered. The temptation to test it now was strong, but he resisted. He couldn’t hint the smith on its true purpose.

The smith interrupted his thoughts. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask. The powder, the patterns, and the design on the shaft...” He held a spearhead, twisting it between his fingers.

Constantine’s grip on the bracelet tightened. His body went rigid, his face carefully controlled. Simultaneously, his second hand wandered toward one of the cores on his belt.

“As I said, it’s just a matter of taste. Those patterns are—” Constantine replied, his voice even.

“Don’t give me that,” the smith cut him off, eyes narrowing. “Cut that crap. I’ve seen ornaments before. Those look nothing like that. They lack the symmetry to be purely aesthetic. I’ve seen markings like those before, but I couldn’t place them... until today. I saw a man in the market selling furs. Some of them had patterns—very similar to what’s on your spearhead.”

Constantine’s heart skipped. His body tensed, mana thrumming just under his skin. His eyes flicked to the exit, and his fingers curled tightly around the core.

The smith grinned, twisting the spearhead in his fingers. “This isn’t a weapon for a mortal, is it?”

Constantine stayed silent, fighting to keep his expression blank. His pulse quickened, his hand twitching toward the core of his pocket.

“I knew it,” the smith went on, excitement growing in his voice. “I’ve only seen weapons like this from a distance, but it all makes sense now.”

While the smith rambled on, Constantine’s mind went into overdrive. ‘He knows. Should I cl—?’ No, he couldn’t dispose of a smith in the middle of town. ‘No, hiding it anymore would only make it worse.’ When he thought of it, he just needed to keep his act together.

“Yes,” Constantine said, his voice louder than before. “My master lost his weapon in battle. He requires a replacement.” By invoking an unknown cultivator, he created a potential deterrent.

“Hohoho!” The smith burst into laughter, startling Constantine, who took a step back. He kept laughing before looking back at him and continuing with a trembling voice, “I don’t know why I was honored with this opportunity, but I will not waste it!” The smith fell to his knees in a deep bow. “I will not let your master be disappointed. I may just be a mortal smith, not understanding the profound secrets of immortal alchemy, but I can forge the finest weapons.”

“Skip it. Do you need any further instruction?”

“No!” The smith’s voice was filled with fervor. “I’ll put my all into it.”

Constantine turned on his heel and reached for the door's knob. Then he stopped. Turning around, he spoke, his tone carrying a hidden threat, “My master wishes to remain hidden. His presence must not be known. I warn you, if even a word gets out, you’ll regret it.”

He nearly flinched at the sharpness of his own tone. The arrogance in his voice grated on him. He hated speaking that way; it reminded him too much of the pompous, backward cultivators he despised. He couldn’t bear the thought of becoming like them—looking down on others, dismissing anyone weaker as insignificant, their opinions and even their lives meaningless.

The smith froze for a moment, then nodded quickly. “Of course. I will keep the discretion.”

Constantine left the room, the door clicking shut behind him. As he walked down the hallway, the tension in his chest slowly began to ease. 'This is the best option,' he reassured himself. He couldn’t—and didn’t want to—kill the smith.

'Why should I?' he thought, frowning. 'I just placed an order. There's no need to act like a criminal.' But despite his reasoning, a lingering doubt remained. His hesitation came from his lack of knowledge about cultivators. Not long ago, he was nothing more than a poor orphan, and even his teacher’s vast library held little information on the subject.

'Do all cultivators belong to some organization? Can they enter towns they aren't affiliated with?' His steps slowed as the questions gnawed at him. 'They're like living weapons. There must be some kind of restriction.'

In the storefront, the girl said something, but Constantine ignored her, pushing past her toward the exit. As he stepped outside, the cold autumn air hit his face, calming the pounding in his chest.

‘The smith won’t talk,’ he thought. ‘He must be terrified of cultivators to risk angering them, just as I am.’

The streets were still empty as he walked, rain continuing to fall, but Constantine’s mind paid no attention.

More and more questions popped into his mind, ‘How are rogue cultivators treated? Do they need some kind of identity proof?’

Later the same day:

Constantine pushed the door of his shack open. His mind wandered as he stepped inside, paying no attention to the floor creaking beneath his feet. He glanced around, his eyes quickly scanning the room.

Then his gaze froze—two glowing, red eyes watching him from the corner.

Before he could react, the wolf darted out of the shadows, landing softly beside him. Constantine chuckled, his shoulders relaxing as the wolf rubbed against his leg. He knelt down, running his hand through its thick coat, the familiar softness calming his nerves.

“Good to see you too,” he murmured softly, pulling a small marble from his belt. The wolf’s tail thumped once, its eyes locked on the marble.

“You’ve done well,” Constantine said, tossing the marble to the wolf. It caught it in mid-air, its sharp teeth snapping around it. Its eyes lit up in crimson light, its fur seemingly turning into living shadows.

While he watched, it padded back into the shadows, vanishing except for the faint red glow of its eyes.

Constantine straightened up and looked around again. Everything was exactly where he’d left it—there were no signs of any break-in. Fatigue hung on his features—both physical and mental. He trudged toward his cot and collapsed onto the soft furs. The furs sank beneath him as he relaxed.

His mind wandered. ‘What have I done?’ For a moment, he pictured guards waiting for him to return to the town, ready to arrest him. But he shook his head. That wouldn’t happen. The smith wouldn’t take that risk nor would be willing. He was almost sure of it. ‘I made the right choice. The smith won’t risk crossing an unknown cultivator, and besides that, he has no reason to suspect anything wrong.’

Constantine thought back to the smith’s eager face, the way his eyes lit up when he’d seen the blueprint. He was a man who loved his craft and desired to explore it and learn more.

A small smile tugged at Constantine’s mouth. ‘This could work out well,’ he mused. The next time he needed something unusual made, he wouldn’t have to make up stories or hide the details. The process would be smoother, more accurate and probably quicker too.

His gaze dropped to the bracelet on his wrist. ‘Let’s see if you work.’

Constantine unstrapped the bracelet and pulled a glass-like marble from his belt, pressing it into the socket. It clicked into place, and he tightened the leather straps around his wrist.

He flexed his hand. The core was snug, and his movements were free. Focusing, he pulled a thin thread of mana from deep inside him. The core warmed, glowing softly. Heat spread through his hand, the energy sinking smoothly into his skin.

‘It works.’ His lips curled into a grin. At last, he had a core ready to power his spells whenever needed.

Despite his fatigue, he raised his hand. ‘I still haven’t used my daily core.’ It wouldn’t hurt to run a quick experiment—another chance to collect data.

‘Implant, start recording.’ He focused. ‘The goal: test if all runes break at the same threshold.’ Through his experiments in the past three days, he had already determined that the durability of runes increased with thicker lines.

He licked his lips impatiently. Today, he would collect another important piece of the puzzle. Grasping the mana swirling in his solar plexus, he paused. Something had changed. The mana felt denser, no longer just a gas—it was thicker, like vapor.

‘Implant, show me my mana values.’

<<------User------>>

Current amount: 0.15

Max capacity: 0.31

Energy concentration: 1.1

<<------------>>

Constantine’s smile grew. His eyes lit up, resisting the urge to pump his fists. ‘It’s working. Concentrating mana in one area really does increase its density.’ His mana was denser than that of the cultivator overseeing the council. He chuckled. ‘Though probably doesn't mean much. That guy must be weak to be stuck managing mortals. Probably forced into it. Maybe some talentless throwaway who is only good for commanding some mortals.’

But his excitement dimmed as his frown returned. "This unit system is ridiculous," he muttered, shaking his head at how arbitrary it seemed. "Using the mana of some random, probably weak and unimportant cultivator as its base. It's as bad as the imperial system—no, freedom units." He snorted, recalling old arguments from his past life. "I need something better. A real unit system, one that ties magic to physics and the metric system."

He put the thought aside. It could wait.

Steadying himself, he skimmed the surface of his mana, thinning it out as it moved through his body. Once it reached the density he had used in previous tests, he guided it to his palm, drawing the move rune.

‘Implant, display the same mana reading,’ he instructed, then pushed mana into the core. The holder flared with light as liquid mana surged through him, lighting the rune on his palm like a small star. The counter ticked up—0.14.

He braced, feeling the pressure build. The counter rose to 0.15. The rune glowed brighter, cracks forming along its edges. His muscles tensed as the heat spiked. Then, with a sharp snap, the rune shattered. Pain shot through his arm as the mana scattered. The counter stopped at 0.163.

Gritting his teeth, Constantine waited for the pain to fade. After a moment, he exhaled and nodded to himself. ‘So, not all runes break at the same point.’