Cultivation is Creation
Chapter 264: The Brightest Prison

The Cerulean Apex, as it was known throughout the Blue Sun Academy, towered above all other structures except the legendary Celestial Spire itself. Crafted from the same mysterious blue crystal that formed the Spire, the temple seemed to float atop the highest peak of the mountain range.

Unlike the rest of the academy, with its gardens and open courtyards bustling with disciples, the Apex existed in perfect isolation. This isolation was by design, for the Saint required solitude for communion with the First Light.

At least, that was the explanation given to initiates.

Within the central chamber of the Apex, a figure paced back and forth, his bare feet making no sound on the polished floor. Saint Icarus, three hundred years old and withered as though he had lived a thousand, muttered to himself as he moved, his once-elegant blue robes hanging loose on his emaciated frame.

"All these years," he whispered. "Finally, peace approaches. Finally, an end."

He paused before the southern window, gazing out at the sprawling academy below. From this vantage point, he could see almost everything: the training grounds where initiates practiced their first techniques, the dormitories where young Lightweavers dreamed of advancement, the gardens where elder masters meditated beneath crystalline pergolas.

All of it beautiful.

All of it a lie.

Icarus laughed, a harsh sound that quickly dissolved into a racking cough. Blood-flecked spittle dotted his palm when he finally caught his breath. He wiped it away on his robes, leaving a smear that immediately began to glow with faint blue luminescence as the fabric's enchantments attempted to purify the stain.

"Even my blood is no longer my own," he whispered.

The saint position was the most coveted role in the entire Order of the First Light.

For hundreds of thousands of years, ambitious young Lightweavers had competed for the honor, dreaming of the power, the prestige, the direct communion with the blue sun itself.

Parents pushed their children toward this ultimate goal, the academy trained their most promising students specifically for the Selection, noble houses schemed and occasionally killed to position their scions for consideration.

All for what they believed was the greatest blessing in the Two Suns world.

None of them knew the truth.

None except the saints themselves.

It was not a blessing.

It was a trap.

"I was promised transcendence," Icarus said to the empty room, continuing his agitated pacing. "I was promised wisdom beyond mortal comprehension, power to heal the world's wounds, a direct channel to the divine." His bitter laugh echoed off the walls. "And what did I receive instead? Madness. Corruption. Slavery."

The blue sun wasn't their savior, it was their jailor, their puppeteer, their executioner.

Icarus paused before the eastern wall where a mural depicted the lineage of saints stretching back to the founding of the Order. His own portrait, painted when he first assumed the position, showed a handsome young man with bright eyes and a confident smile. The artist had captured his hopeful expression perfectly, the look of someone who believed he stood at the beginning of a glorious journey.

The contrast with his current appearance couldn't have been more stark. His skin now had a translucent quality. His eyes, once vibrant amber, had faded to a washed-out blue that sometimes glowed with an inner light not his own. When he smiled, which was rarely these days, his face seemed to crack along invisible fault lines.

Despite his relatively young age, three hundred years was nothing for a Rank 7 Lightweaver, who should expect to live for thousands of years, Icarus stood at the precipice of death.

No saint in recorded history had lived past five hundred years.

The academy explained this as the natural consequence of channeling such immense power, a noble sacrifice made willingly by those chosen for the highest honor.

The truth was far more sinister.

While blue sun energy possessed unimaginably powerful life properties when properly controlled, the sheer volume required of a saint overwhelmed the physical vessel. The body wasn't destroyed by some outside force, it was burned from within by the very power it channeled.

Saints reached their peak quickly, blazing like meteors across the heavens, before burning out just as rapidly.

Icarus moved to his private altar, where a small bowl of water captured the blue sun's light, turning it into a scrying pool. With a gesture, he summoned images from his past, memories of the bright-eyed young man he had once been.

He had been happy once, genuinely happy. The third son of a minor noble house with a talent for calligraphy, Icarus had shown remarkable aptitude for the blue sun’s light from an early age. His family had immediately redirected all their resources toward his development, sensing opportunity in his precocious abilities.

"Imagine, our son, a saint!" his father had exclaimed. "The Vanarene name will rise to prominence once more!"

His mother had been more practical but no less ambitious. "We must secure the finest tutors, the best materials. Nothing can be spared if he is to reach his potential."

And so his childhood had become an endless progression of lessons, practices, and evaluations. He'd barely had time to play, to explore, to simply be a child. Yet he hadn't resented it, not then. He had shared his parents' excitement, their vision of his glorious future. He had wanted to make them proud, to fulfill the destiny they saw written in his talents.

When he was chosen as a candidate for the saint position at the age of twenty-five, his family had celebrated for a week straight. Their house, previously overlooked in noble circles, suddenly found itself hosting dignitaries and receiving invitations to gatherings that had previously been closed to them.

And when the Selection finally came, when Icarus emerged as the chosen one, the triumph had been intoxicating. His parents' faces, shining with pride and vindication. The respect, no, the reverence, in the eyes of those who had once dismissed their family. The feeling of the blue sun's energy flowing through him during the ceremony, filling him with light and purpose.

"I thought it was the beginning of greatness," Icarus murmured to his reflection in the scrying pool. "Instead, it was the beginning of my end."

The first few decades had indeed been glorious.

The benefits of sainthood were substantial and immediate. His cultivation had advanced by leaps and bounds, his healings were miraculous, his insights profound, his judgments respected throughout the Order.

He had dedicated staff who anticipated his every need. His words carried as much weight as those of the Headmaster himself. Students sought his guidance, elders his blessing, nobles his favor. He had access to restricted sections of the library containing knowledge unavailable even to Rank 7 Lightweavers.

More importantly, he had felt connected to something greater than himself. The blue sun had spoken to him in dreams and visions, guiding his actions, revealing hidden truths about the nature of light and energy. These communications had been infrequent at first, brief flashes of insight that left him exhilarated and eager for more.

When his cultivation reached Rank 6, however, everything changed.

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The visions intensified dramatically, becoming impossible to ignore. No longer gentle whispers or subtle nudges, they now descended upon him with overwhelming force, detailed, explicit instructions that consumed his waking thoughts and haunted his dreams.

The Worldroot in the northern forest needs your attention, the visions would insist. It suffers from imbalance. You must adjust its energy flow.

The Guardian Oak in the eastern valley has developed irregularities in its barrier resonance. You must recalibrate it.

The Twin Pines on Celestial Mountain have begun to diverge in their function. You must synchronize them.

For months, he had obeyed without question, traveling to these locations and using his enhanced abilities to make the "adjustments" the visions demanded. After all, he had been taught that these ancient trees were natural formations that stabilized the world's energy and reinforced its protective barriers. Tending to them was a sacred duty.

But something had begun to feel wrong.

The adjustments he was being instructed to make didn't align with what he knew about energy stabilization. In fact, if he analyzed them objectively, they seemed to be doing the opposite.

It was this growing unease that had driven him to the Forbidden Archives, a section of the academy's library restricted to all but the highest-ranking elders and, of course, the Saint.

What he discovered had shattered his world completely.

Hidden among the oldest texts was an account of the Great Sundering, the cataclysmic event that had split the original golden sun into its red and blue aspects. The official history taught that this division had been divine providence, separating purity from corruption, wisdom from chaos.

The reality, whilst seen as a madman’s tale, was far more disturbing.

The Sundering had been a desperate act of defense against an entity from beyond their world, something that had infected the minds of the most powerful cultivators of the golden age. The infection had spread like a disease of the soul, granting tremendous power while gradually eroding sanity and identity.

In their madness, these ancient cultivators had believed that splitting the golden sun would somehow purge this corruption, that by dividing its essence, they could isolate and contain the infectious influence.

Their ritual, born of desperation and delusion, had failed catastrophically.

Instead of removing the curse, it had merely transformed it, creating two different expressions of the same fundamental corruption.

The red sun created monsters of flesh, driving its followers toward physical transformation and blood-soaked power. The blue sun created monsters of mind, subjugating its chosen vessels to its incomprehensible will while maintaining the illusion of wisdom and purity.

And both, in their own ways, seemed to be working toward the same goal, weakening the barriers between worlds, preparing for... something.

An invasion. A return. A completion of what had begun all those years ago.

This was what Saint Icarus had discovered. This was the truth he had been unable to escape.

Armed with this knowledge, he had attempted to resist the blue sun's influence. He had stopped performing the rituals, had tried to strengthen rather than weaken the trees, had even attempted to warn the other elders of the danger.

That was when he discovered the full extent of his imprisonment.

Whenever he tried to speak of what he had learned, his throat would close as if gripped by an invisible hand. When he attempted to write it down, his fingers would spasm, rendering his elegant calligraphy into meaningless scrawls. When he tried to communicate through light constructs, the symbols would distort and dissolve before they could convey his message.

It was a restriction technique of unparalleled sophistication, one that used his own body as both medium and prison. The blue sun's energy, which saturated every cell of his being, acted as a constant constraint against any attempt to reveal the truth.

The irony wasn't lost on Icarus.

As a master of calligraphy, he had specialized in restriction techniques, using the blue sun's energy to create seals and bindings of exceptional power. Now, that same energy had turned his body into the ultimate prison, his mind into a captive audience for the blue sun's commands.

When the resistance proved futile, the nightmares began.

Every night, Icarus found himself trapped in visions of horror, witnessing the destruction of everything he loved, experiencing torments that transcended physical pain to reach the very core of his being. The only respite came when he finally submitted, when he agreed once more to serve as the blue sun's instrument.

Broken and defeated, Icarus had resumed his assigned tasks.

With each ritual completed, with each ancient tree poisoned, with each protective barrier weakened, he felt a piece of his soul wither and die.

He had spent decades researching the actions of previous saints, hoping to find some pattern, some weakness in the blue sun's control that he might exploit. While nothing explicit was recorded, the same restrictions that bound him had clearly affected his predecessors, he found subtle indications that they too had been directed to perform strange actions at specific locations.

Places that, when marked on a map, formed elaborate patterns around major nexus points in the world's protective barriers.

How long had this been happening? How many saints before him had unknowingly (or perhaps knowingly, but helplessly) contributed to whatever cataclysm was being prepared? Hundreds? Thousands?

All Icarus knew with certainty was that the work was nearly complete. The world's barriers had been systematically weakened over countless generations, prepared for whatever was to come. All that remained were a few final steps, steps that would fall to his successor.

In truth, Icarus probably had several decades of life remaining, despite his deteriorating condition. But the blue sun had shown him visions that a new saint was required to complete the final steps - one whose cultivation level was still relatively low, who wouldn't attract the attention of whatever forces might be watching.

Icarus wasn't entirely sure what the blue sun was attempting to hide its actions from.

Was it the collective consciousness of the world itself, instinctively resisting tampering with its fundamental structures? Was it some other entity or power that might intervene if the plan became too obvious? Or was it simply that deception and gradual corruption were its natural modes of operation?

As he paced, his thoughts drifted to the most perplexing figure in the academy - Kal, the unassuming initiate who had ascended through the ranks with unprecedented speed. Could he somehow be connected to this cosmic game? Could his meteoric rise be a counterforce to the blue sun's machinations?

Icarus paused mid-step, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. No, that was wishful thinking. Someone breaking through cultivation barriers so rapidly could only be another pawn of the blue sun, a fellow slave following a different set of instructions. The blue sun wouldn't allow genuine opposition to flourish so openly within its own stronghold.

Whatever the case, Icarus fervently hoped the blue sun's works would be exposed.

"I won't be the one to condemn our realm," he whispered, his gaze returning to the portraits of previous saints who were now in their graves.

The one comfort, if it could be called such, was that Icarus would soon join them.

The transfer of sainthood was invariably fatal to the current holder of the position. The process drained every particle of the blue sun's energy from the old saint's body, along with their life force, their spiritual essence, and finally, their soul.

It was only through such a sacrifice can a direct connection between a mortal and a celestial be formed.

While most feared death, Icarus was beyond caring, in fact, he welcomed it.

It was the only escape from his torment, the only freedom he could still hope for.

Yet that didn’t mean that Icarus hadn’t tried, he had done what little he could.

He gave subtle hints, oblique warnings that most dismissed as the eccentricities of a powerful cultivator. A few seemed to catch on, Lady Vareyn had been one, asking increasingly pointed questions during her visits to the temple. He had tried to guide her understanding through careful word choice and meaningful silences.

Then she had died suddenly, her death ruled as natural. Icarus knew better.

But that didn't stop him, when the news of the Selection was shown to him, he manipulated the process subtly, ensuring the girl Laelyn Vareyn would be among the final candidates.

Though he couldn't explain why, he sensed that her grandmother's influence might have prepared her in ways others weren't. If anyone had a chance of understanding the truth before it was too late, it was her.

But the blue sun had its own plans. The sudden emergence of the village boy had thrown everything into disarray.

Not that it mattered now. The selection had been made, the transfer was imminent, and Icarus's time was measured in hours rather than years.

"Saintess Haley," he whispered, remembering the kind-looking woman who had passed the burden to him. "Did you know what awaited me? Did you try to warn me in ways the restriction would allow?"

He tried to recall her exact words during the transfer ceremony, searching for hidden meanings he might have missed in his youthful excitement.

May the light reveal to you all that remains hidden, she had said. May you find wisdom in the shadows between stars.

Had that been a subtle hint? A warning encoded in ceremonial language, designed to slip past the blue sun's mental restrictions? If so, he had been blinded by ambition and pride to understand it at the time.

A subtle vibration ran through the temple floor, alerting Icarus that visitors were approaching. They would be here within minutes: the new Saint-elect and his ceremonial escort of elders.

"So young," Icarus murmured. "So completely unprepared."

Perhaps that was a mercy. The boy would have a few years of glory before the visions began in earnest. A few decades of believing he had achieved something magnificent before reality crashed down upon him. Just as Icarus had.

A bitter laugh escaped his lips. "Welcome to your prison, child. May you find more courage to resist than I did."

The vibration intensified, indicating that the procession had reached the temple's outer threshold. Soon they would knock at the great crystal doors, and the ritual would begin that would simultaneously free Icarus from his torment and condemn another soul to take his place.

Icarus closed his eyes, composing himself. There was a protocol to be observed, appearances to be maintained. The Order believed this to be a sacred transition, a joyful passing of divine responsibility from one worthy vessel to another.

None of them, not even the elders who would witness the ceremony, knew the truth.

None of them could know.

"May you forgive me someday," he whispered to the boy he had yet to meet but whose life he was about to destroy. "as I have never forgiven myself."

With that final thought, he opened his eyes, ready to meet the final Saint of the Blue Sun—the unwitting harbinger of their world's end.