I Hate Cultivators: Becoming a Mage in the Cultivation World

One week later:

Constantine sat behind the classroom desk, surrounded by the high-pitched chatter of children. It had been a few days since he started learning to read and write, but he still couldn't get over how unfocused little kids were.

He was the oldest among them, and he felt their mocking gazes and heard their whispers.

"Look at him; he's so old and still doesn't know how to write and read."

"Look at his black eye; he must be violent to get into fights."

He wanted to scold the children, knowing his life as an orphan was much harder than theirs. However, he kept it in, aware that they were just children. It wouldn't do for him, a former university student and prodigy, to pick a fight with small kids; that would be too pathetic.

The sound of steps approached, and instantly, all the children fell silent. The steps, along with the clacking of a cane against the floor, grew closer. An elderly man in a greyish robe entered, using his cane for support. His long white beard and hair gave him the look of a kind old man.

"Good morning, Teacher." the children uttered in sync, Constantine joining them. He could still vividly remember the beatings some of the brats got from the kind-looking man.

The elderly scholar nodded "Good morning, children. Let's proceed with the new set of characters."

As the elderly scholar drew characters on the polished slate of stone, explaining their meanings and sounds, Constantine's hand moved his quill across the parchment, drawing thin and precise lines as he replicated the characters. Constantine's mind absorbed everything effortlessly. His former life as a university prodigy surfaced, making the learning process much faster in combination with his young, absorbent brain than it should be for a kid learning to read and write.

While the other children still struggled to draw straight lines, his lines were precise, and his comprehension was swift. To his frustration and dismay, the only thing holding back his progress was the speed of his classmates.

'A couple more days, and I should have enough knowledge to start learning on my own.' Constantine thought. For the first time in a long while, things were finally going well. He had enough to eat, and even the beatings by the orphanage director had ceased since he started bringing in more coins.

That evening:

As the boy lay in his cot of dirty rags, a sharp, explosive pain in his stomach jolted him awake. He tried to scream, but a rough hand clamped over his mouth, silencing him. Shadows loomed over him, their faces barely visible in the dim moonlight entering through the small window.

'Fuck!' Recognizing the trio as the biggest and strongest children in the orphanage—the self-proclaimed kings—Constantine's heart pounded in terror. He had become too careless, eating well every evening, wearing better clothes, and appeasing the director.

The tallest boy, who was holding his mouth shut, leaned closer, his blue eyes glinting with malevolence. "Heard ya been eatin' well, payin' the old man." He whispered, his breath hot against the boy's face. Constantine's eyes widened in panic as the tall boy's mouth stretched into a wide, intimidating grin. Without warning, a fist slammed into his throat. Pain erupted, sharp and blinding, and he gasped for air, his scream trapped inside him by the hand.

"Got some coin, huh? Why didn't ya share with us? Ain't we your friends? Right, boys?!" The tall boy's voice rose, filled with mockery and false friendliness.

The boy, his face riddled with freckles, pressing his knee into his stomach increased the pressure, making him swallow his own bile as the pain grew stronger. "Maybe we oughta teach ya a lesson for bein' such a bad friend." He said, his voice filled with obvious enjoyment.

The third boy, standing back, reached into his pocket and pulled out a small knife. He twirled it casually, the blade catching the faint moonlight entering through the window. "Think he needs a reminder." He suggested, his tone chillingly casual.

Two days later:

Children rushed out of the open door of the classroom, leaving the boy and the elderly scholar behind. The pain still lingered in his thigh, and the cuts from the knife still stung. The boy stood up, wincing as he put weight on his injured leg. With a limp, he took a step toward the exit.

"Hold on, child," The elderly voice made him pause "Constantine, right?"

The boy nodded slightly, nervousness making his stomach churn. Did the teacher notice his injuries and want to kick him out, thinking of him as a troublemaker? He didn't know, but knowing the teacher's strictness, he had to be careful. Clearing his throat, he replied "Yes, sir."

"Well, I couldn't help but notice your rapid progress. You started to learn late, but you've mastered all the characters so quickly. You paid no attention to my number lessons, yet you've shown great understanding of addition, subtraction, and even multiplication. I have never seen anyone grasp new knowledge so fast."

The scholar's eyes were keen and observant "Do not lie to me. Have you learned before?"

Constantine shook his head "No, sir."

The scholar watched him, piercing him with his sharp gaze, until, at last, he spoke, this time in much kinder tone "Boy, I can recognize talent when I see it. Would you perhaps be interested in the path of knowledge? You might become one of my students, and I mean, one of my students of higher knowledge. Call me your parents, I wish to speak with them."

Hearing the scholar's words, overwhelmed by emotion, the boy couldn't help but respond in a trembling voice "I accept, but—" Then he hesitated, his words stuck in his throat, knowing that he had no parents; he was nobody.

Should he admit that he was an orphan, or lie, claiming his parents were unavailable, busy, or perhaps out of the city? He pondered, the silence deepening uncomfortably. 'Will I be accused of stealing or taken advantage of if I admit I am just an orphan?'

He couldn't delay any longer. His voice brimming with false sorrow, he said, "I have no parents. They died, leaving me only enough coins to learn to read, count, and write."

Lying wouldn't work in the long term. Apprenticeships or studies weren't short-term affairs. Sooner or later, his lie would be discovered, potentially causing more damage.

'He is a scholar; what would he gain from tricking a child?' Perhaps it was his desire for even a tiny semblance of his old life, for study, for learning, that influenced him. He wanted to believe that not everyone was a vile person, at least one of his fellow intellectuals, a man of knowledge like him.

"Ohh, I see, child," the scholar raised his hands, "I see the zeal in your eyes for knowledge," he paused, taking a breath "and I need a servant. In exchange for your tutelage and accommodation, you will work for me."

Constantine couldn't hold back his grin; this was something he secretly hoped for but never dared to fully believe in. Now that it had become a reality, he could finally escape the orphanage.

The scholar continued "The road ahead will be hard. You will be required to study and help around," Seeing the boy's evident joy, the usually stern scholar allowed himself a brief smile before reverting to his usual severe calmness "If you relent in your studies or show unsatisfactory results with your tasks, you will be thrown out."

"Of course, teacher." Constantine nodded, determination in his eyes. What was a bit of hard work and study compared to his suffering in the orphanage?

"Now, go, bring your things, and come back."

Constantine bowed deeply and, with dignified but fast steps, walked out onto the street, his heart pounding the entire way.

'Everything will be better now.' He finally let loose, running down the street as fast as he could without straining himself. His hands still trembled with excitement, feeling like luck had finally smiled upon him. This was his chance to get away, especially after noticing the director's narrowed eyes following him.

As he reached the orphanage, he slowed down, glancing at the dilapidated building with a smile. 'Hopefully, this is the last time I will come here.' He thought. Not even bothering to go inside, as he wasn't foolish enough to leave anything valuable where it could mysteriously vanish, he walked straight to his hiding spot around the back.

Still excited, Constantine fiddled with the brick, gradually loosening it. As the brick gave way, revealing his hidden stash, a familiar voice petrified him "Aye, aye, what we got here? Boys, looks like the director was right. This rat's been hidin' somethin'!"

Constantine turned around, his fingers still clenched around the brick, cold sweat forming on his forehead. Three boys, all taller than him, stood there, grinning with gaps between their teeth. The tallest, blue-eyed one, their leader, stepped forward "Why don't ya show us what ya got there, rat?" Sunlight reflected off the rusty blade in his hand, aimed straight at Constantine. Instinctively, Constantine stepped back, only to find himself against the firm brick wall.

'No, no...' He muttered, panic rising within him. He had been too careless, forgetting to ensure no one was watching, his excitement blinding his judgment.

His life had finally taken a turn for the better, and now these brutes wanted to ruin it. With a trembling hand, he reached for the pouch of coins, slowly extending it toward the leader.

'I'm already an apprentice scholar...' He reassured himself, thinking the loss of the coins would be painful but not fatal. As long as he could keep the manual, everything would be alright. 'I bet those idiots wouldn't want an old book anyway.' He thought, as he placed the pouch in the boy's outstretched palm.

"Good, ya can be a good friend, sharin' with everyone—" The leader's smile widened as his eyes wandered toward the still-loose brick "What's that?"

Constantine felt his throat close, his heart almost stopping in terror. That good-for-nothing trash was pointing straight at his only hope for a better life.

"Eh, just an old book I found. Can't read, so I—"

"Boss, I heard there's a shop that buys old books. We could get some extra coin." One of the other boys, the shortest of them, with his face covered with freckles, said, his voice greedy.

'Fuck, fuck, fuck!' Constantine paled as he saw the grinning leader put away his knife and reach for the manual.

His mind blanked out, and his hand, still grasping the brick, moved with desperation and anger. With a sickening crack, the brick smashed into the side of the boy's head, making the leader collapse, his legs giving out.

Adrenaline pumping through his veins, Constantine didn't have time to think. The blood-dripping brick fell from his hand as he snatched the book and tore the pouch from the collapsed boy's open hand.

The two other boys stared, frozen, their legs trembling and faces pale.

"Qin!" At last, one of them moved toward his friend bleeding on the ground.

Constantine, still flooded with adrenaline, sprinted away. He could hear their screams behind him, but they quickly grew distant. His heart pounded as the reality of what he had done settled in.

He had murdered a young teen with his own hands, the blood still covering his fingers.

'No, he must have survived—' He tried to convince himself, his arms were bone thin, and his muscles undeveloped.

He continued running, not daring to look back, even though he wanted to vomit, feeling nauseous at what he had done.

'No, he's dead.' He knew such a hit to the side of the head was deadly, even in his former life with access to medical care. Here, for an orphan without access to expensive mystical medicine, he was dead.

'I killed him because I was greedy.' Gasping for breath, the adrenaline in his bloodstream thinning out, he finally stopped, standing in the middle of a bustling street.

People and carriages moved in both directions, no one paying attention to the boy standing and panting, frozen by his actions.

He took a deep breath, studying his trembling hands to calm himself down, as he couldn't afford to panic or get emotional.

'Guards! They will—,' he imagined his life ending as a criminal slave, executed, or in jail, but then that thought vanished, replaced by a sense of slight relief and melancholy 'We're just orphans. Guards won't even care to come. Murders happen all the time in the poor district.'

He knew from experience that the guards in the city were there only to protect the middle and upper classes, not caring about the poor. At most, if they even bothered to come to the poor district, they would just record it and not bother to search for him.

"Move away, boy, you're blocking the road!" A sudden push grounded him back to reality. A man in a tunic pushed past him, grumbling angrily.

With still-wobbly legs, Constantine took an unsteady step forward, carefully tucking the book and pouch into his clothes. Now wasn't the time to contemplate his actions; he had to return to the teacher, to safety. It wasn't wise to stand with so much coin on hand in the middle of a street.