Death Cultivator by eden Hudson (knowledgeable books to read .txt) 📗

learn to cultivate. Eventually it’ll become second nature to keep some Spirit cycling while you’re cultivating.”

“Good to know,” I said, flexing my fingers into fists and uncurling them. Blood was rushing back into my extremities with that pin-prickling feeling.

The night sun was three quarters into the sky now, and the blue sun had disappeared over the western horizon.

“Should you guys get back to your house?” I asked. “It’s getting late, right?”

Rali sized me up. “How about we practice maintaining internal alchemy for thirty minutes, then we’ll call it a night?”

Honestly, I was pretty well bushed, but I got the feeling he was asking more because I needed to work on that part of Ki to stay alive than because he wanted to keep hanging out. I agreed and kept cycling Spirit through my freezer-burnt muscles. It didn’t take that much focus to keep it going once I started, so I checked my Spirit level.

“Guys, we did it,” I said, turning my arm over so they could see my stats on the Winchester. A big fat smile shoved its way onto my face. “Nineteen hundred twenty-seven.

Kest grinned. “You did it. You made the quota—over the quota.”

“Hooray, Hake’s going to eat tonight!” Rali spun his walking stick into the air and caught it behind his back with a little flourish. “Justice and dinner are served.”

I laughed a lot harder than that deserved, but I hadn’t gone hungry since I was little, and I’d been dreading it. Know the eating streak was going to continue was a huge load off.

While I was looking, the number ticked down to 1926 Spirit.

I blinked. “Why did I just lose some?”

“You’re expending a small amount on maintaining your internal alchemy,” Kest said.

I let the cycling stop.

“But you should keep it up,” Rali hurried to add. “It doesn’t take much, and you only needed eighteen hundred, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Okay, I’ll use five more points, then stop for the night.”

That took almost twenty minutes, and by then, I was feeling much better. Maybe even better than I had before I’d died, when I was just normal and not beat up or on an alien planet.

“Thanks,” I told the twins as we left the cemetery. I tried doing a bow over prayer hands like Rali did. It felt kind of awkward, but I really wanted them to know how thankful I was for their help. “For everything, today and yesterday.”

“Meh.” Rali waved it off and swung his walking stick onto his shoulder.

Kest stared at me for a second, then said, “I’ll find a new screen soon,” like that was related to what we’d been talking about.

It took me a minute to realize she meant to replace the cracked one on the Winchester.

“It’s not a big deal,” I said. “It still works great.” And I already have to pay you for the HUD in the first place.

We split off, and they headed toward the southern outskirts of Ghost Town while I went down the main street to the distillery. The last day sun had gone down, and the black sun was taking up most of the sky.

Muta’i was in the back room, writing labels on brown bottles.

“Ready for your transfer already?” he asked.

“I thought that was automated.”

He shrugged. “Some indentures like to do it when they reach their quota so they can keep whatever they cultivate afterward and the leftovers don’t count toward their sponsor’s commission.”

I froze. It felt like the cold from the Miasma was settling into my brain.

“The what?”

“The commission.” He set a finished bottle down and picked up another. “The Bailiff found you, so he gets a commission of the Spirit you cultivate while you’re here. Ten percent. He didn’t tell you?”

“Ten percent?” I scrambled to figure out the numbers. Nineteen hundred and twenty-one Spirit minus ten percent... that was around a hundred ninety-two... borrow from the nine... That only left me with seventeen-something.

But that would change if they took out the quota first, then skimmed the ten percent off the top of what was left. It depended on their order of operations.

I looked at the minotaur. “Does the commission come out first or after the quota’s taken?”

“Which do you think?” he said in a deadpan rumble.

“Crap!” I dragged my hands through my hair. “This is bull—” I stopped short, remembering who I was talking to. “It’s unfair.”

Muta’i went on writing labels. Dude did not care at all.

I headed for the door. “If I go back now and cultivate for another couple hours, maybe—”

The Transferogate beeped, two long and one short, next to my right ear.

“Guess you’ll have to try again tomorrow,” Muta’i said.

Then I lost track of him and everything in the shop.

From the middle of my forehead all the way down to the pit of my stomach, I felt this swirling vortex like water circling a drain. Except it was less physical movement than it was an emotion. A whirlpool of the guilt from every time I’d fought with Gramps just because I was being a jerk, plus the humiliation of the times I’d done something stupid or embarrassing or just plain bad when I knew beforehand that I shouldn’t, all caught up in the sucking regret that I could never, ever go back and do it right or say I was sorry.

When the swirling stopped and the Transferogate beeped again, the back of my throat hurt like I was trying not to cry, and a noose made out of an extension cord seemed like a pretty decent solution.

“Geez.” My voice was hoarse. I looked at Muta’i and genuinely meant it when I asked him, “Am I in hell?”

He rolled his eyes. “Drama queen.” He set aside his label-writing project and checked something on his HUD. “Hundred ninety-two Spirit to your commission, one thousand seven hundred twenty-nine toward your quota. Better figure out the difference before tomorrow if you want to eat. Come on.”

The minotaur jerked his head at the door. I followed him outside into the black-orange-pink evening light, down the street to a