“Xīn Yuè… I believe that means New Moon. That’s a very rare name for a ma—cough” Master Mùchén cleared his throat, nearly insulting the enigma before him. He caught himself, deciding it would be better to build a bridge of rapport rather than burn one with judgment. “Anyway, it is a pleasure to meet you. Can you explain how you come to be here?”

  The two stood at the edge of the massive crater, its jagged walls rising around them like the teeth of a colossal beast. The ground was scorched, littered with the remnants of a violent impact. The air was thick with the scent of burnt earth, blood and a sharp, metallic ozone that Rayleigh recognized all too well—the scent of a botched discharge.

  “A rather unique situation to meet you as well. As for your question… the memory I have from before is of a bright light plunging me down to say ‘Hello’ to the earth in a very abrupt manner,” Soloman replied, though his eyes weren't on the Master. The crater floor was strewn with twisted metal and shattered stone, and the occasional glint of something valuable caught his eye.

  He kicked a piece of the Mist Tiger’s charred ribcage away to reach a shard of the Trinity Cage. “Where can I find the nearest A.R.C. facility? And how far am I from the eastern front?”

  “A bright light… Hmm.” Mùchén closed his eyes, his chalk-white beard fluttering in the heat-shimmered air. “Regrettably, there are too many artifacts that can produce such an effect, yet very few that can move a living person without their knowledge. I know not of what this ‘A.R.C.’ is, but if you head east, you will eventually find yourself in the east. How far you go depends on how fast you can fly or ride, Xīn Yuè.”

  “Soloman… Soloman will work.” Rayleigh’s hands moved with practiced speed, ignoring the Elder’s pontificating. He pulled a screwdriver from his lab coat—a tool that looked like a silver needle to Mùchén—and began prying at the suit’s power-cell housing.

  “I was inside the research lab in Siberia tes—Wait. What do you mean you haven’t heard of A.R.C.?” Soloman froze, his eyes widening in disbelief. “Where have you been to not know the collective effort of every nation established for over forty years? Have you been experiencing memory loss in your advanced years?”

  “Don’t insult me, youngster! I wield impeccable memory,” Mùchén barked, his calm dignity momentarily cracking. “Someone at my level can easily remember the pattern of tea leaves from a cup shared 120 years ago! It is you who speaks nonsense. This world has not experienced a human genocide in over two millennia. Even spirit beast waves are few and far between. Pull your hea—”

  He stopped mid-sentence, his jaw dropping as he watched Rayleigh rip a high-tensile wire cable from the armor and coil it around his waist like a common rope. “What are you doing to that heaven-grade armor?!”

  “You mean heavy-ass armor,” Soloman scoffed, tossing a discarded plating aside like a melon husk. He didn’t care about the ‘treasure’; he needed the circuitry. He began MacGyvering a set of gauntlets and a belt from the wreckage, snapping gizmos into place with clicks that sounded like clockwork. “I need its parts so I can make tools to help me on the way back to Siberia in case I meet those stupid angels. And what’s with those exaggerated numbers you’re throwing around? 120 years? Two thousand? Are you a history book or a comedian?”

  “…”

  “…”

  The silence that followed was heavy, filled with a mutual stupefaction that the crater seemed to hold its breath to witness. They stared at each other, trying to determine who was the liar and who was the madman.

  “…”

  “…”

  After several minutes of silence, noticing the level of confusion between them, the two seemed to have come up with an equally unbelievable and remarkable theory.

  “Earth.”

  “Lotusia.”

  Sigh

  Sigh

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Soloman said, holding up a hand. “You’re telling me I’m in a place called Lotusia? That sounds like a fancy spa resort.”

  Master Mùchén raised an eyebrow. “And you’re from Earth? What kind of name is that for a world? Sounds like dirt.”

  Soloman blinked, then burst out laughing. “Dirt! Oh man, that’s rich. I guess we’re both in the same boat of ridiculous names.”

  But as the laughter died, his smile faded. His eyes darted toward the sky—not a single satellite streak, no drone patrols, just an impossibly gold-speckled expanse. “You’re serious, aren’t you? This isn’t some elaborate prank? No hidden cameras?”

  Master Mùchén shook his head solemnly. “I don’t know what a ‘kameera’ is, but this is no prank.”

  “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Soloman grabbed his head. The empirical walls of his mind were under siege. This was the stuff of cheap fiction—the ‘Other World’ trope. But then, a flicker of scientific hope returned. “That’s it. I must still be slumped over my desk, passed out by that botched gene solution my step-sister gave me. Tsk Here I was singing praise of it in my dreams. Hahahahahaha.”

  “No, I can quite assure you that you are, in fact, here.” Master Mùchén had a look of understanding at the man’s response, but was still marveled at the fact a human came from another realm only told of in legends.

  “No, no, no. I am simply having an eventful dream from bad genes and being over-caffeinated. I simply need to shock myself awake so I can walk to the nearest purging capsule to remove that bad batch from my body.” Soloman was convinced; the notion of being in a fantasy world did not mesh well with him.

  “Hmm… a shock, you say?”

  “Yeah, a simple shock wil—”

  Soloman’s words died as he reflexively caught Mùchén’s wrist. The elder had moved with a speed that defied biological limits. He felt the smooth silk of the robe, the scent of damp earth and ancient incense, and most importantly, the terrifying force behind the old man’s arm. It wasn't mechanical; it was something else.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  “Come to terms yet?”

  Soloman let go, his shoulders slumping. “Mmm… absolutely crestfallen about it.” He looked at his makeshift belt of scrap metal, and gadgets feeling the weight of reality. “How do we get out of this hole, then?”

  “Mmm, oh… brace yourself.”

  Wisps of pale gray aura started to wrap around Soloman’s ankles. Rayleigh stared at the energy—it wasn't light, it wasn't gas. It felt like a pressurized magnetic field, warm and vibrating at a frequency his brain couldn't map.

  “Hey, hey, hey! What is… no… bad touch… whoaaa!” He was jerked upward, the world blurring as Mùchén guffawed. They drifted out of the crater like ghosts, landing near the nervous disciples.

  “Master, are you alright? We heard a loud noise.” The young swordsman quickly ran up to his master after seeing him float out of the hole.

  “Who is that?” The young swordswoman immediately noticed the man who looked green around the gills, floating behind her master and looking around methodically.

  “This is the owner of the heaven-grade armor. He finds himself in a rather troubling situation. We will need to confer with the others at the sect,” Master Mùchén curtly explained to avoid a bombardment of questions from his energetic disciples.

  “You could have warned me, you bastard… ugh~” Soloman weakly reprimanded the old man while holding down his stomach contents. “I’m tired of being in the air.”

  “Understood.” The twin sister quickly grasped the underlying message: stay quiet.

  “What happened to the armor, Master?” the muscle-headed Ouro asked, peering into the hole.

  Mùchén remembered the state he’d left it in—stripped, gutted, and scavenged. The pinnacle of armor turned trash. His face turned as white as his beard. An image of his soul could almost be seen floating away in despair. “Ah.”

  “M-master!” The twins quickly rushed towards their master in shock at his reaction.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine, settle down you two. You’re embarrassing the sect in front of our guest.” Master Mùchén pointed towards the now-recovered Soloman. “This is Xīn Yuè Soloman, or just Soloman. He will be staying with us until we can remedy his situation. Let us quickly leave.”

  The four mounted the remaining crane. The twins were enthusiastic to return to the sect, leaving only Soloman to become as white as his lab coat. He was so dispirited, an image of his soul could be envisioned leaving his body.

  “I HATE FLYYYYYYyyyyiiinng~….” A scream reaching for tens of kilometers resonated, causing birds to scramble from their nests.

  The flight took several hours, during which the four started their Q&A with varying expressions of wonder and confusion as they heard of each other’s worlds and events. Lotusia consists of three continents controlled by a feudal system, with sects being an independent auxiliary power.

  The sects could be summarized, by Soloman’s inference, as a self-dictated police force for the general population, while the Imperial family takes initiative for international affairs and very rarely intermingle with each other.

  With the sects producing strong forces to repel monsters whose corpses could sell for high value while having a good image in front of the general population, Soloman took notice of a contradiction of power that the imperial family somehow allowed to pass but kept quiet since it effectively had nothing to do with him.

  “So what is this cultivation thing you mentioned?”

  “Your world doesn’t have cultivators?” The twins were shocked at his question; it was similar to asking why water was wet. Even Master Mùchén was left without words.

  “Ahem… I shall explain it to avoid any confusion. There is a natural flow of power permeating the world that we call spirit energy or Qi.” He waved his arms out toward the passing landscape as if illustrating. “This energy allows all manner of phenomena to be invoked, from minerals to plants, animals, and finally humans."

  "Most humans can sense this energy, with fewer who can store it. We call this ‘cultivation.’ The stages are: Qi Refinement, Foundation, Core Forming, Golden Pill, Ascendant, Nascent Soul, Void Returning, Dao Immortal, and True Immortal. Each with their own ten levels.”

  “Stages? Like software updates?” Soloman muttered, absorbing the data. “And I take it there are numerous True Immortals?”

  The twins burst out laughing. “Hahaha! It wouldn’t be called cultivating if it wasn’t arduous!”

  “Hohoho, each level takes decades, even centuries,” Mùchén added, entertained by Soloman’s question while remembering his own naivety.

  “Limited returns, huh… with people living for so long, your medicine and technology must be equally advanced?” Soloman absorbed the information and quickly asked a question that left the three taken aback.

  He noticed they were enamored with his tales of mechs, transports, space travel, and weaponry. Rayleigh misinterpreted their wonder, believing instead that they were far ahead of the scope of his world’s technology, akin to viewing his stories as a child showing simple art to a parent.

  “Can you send me back to my world with your transporters and even help with dealing with my world’s enemy?”

  “Well, we do have many artificers who can make mortal-grade, earth-grade, and a few heaven-grade weapons and flying ships or pagodas. Isn’t your world as advanced, to give you such good armor?” The old man answered back but was embarrassed when asked to compare.

  “Our medicine is very good; our pill masters and doctors can heal many injuries,” the young swordsman stepped in to answer, swelling with pride.

  “Oh, even missing limbs and flesh?” Soloman hoped they had better means to heal the injured en masse than his world, where placing soldiers in healing pods for days to fix spinal injuries would cost them ground during an oncoming assault.

  “Of course! With enough 200-year-old Rank-4 herbs, they are easily healed.”

  “200 years?” Soloman cocked an eyebrow at the length of plant maturity.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And how common are they? Do you grow them yourselves? Have you learned a way to simulate the aging process with your technology?”

  “Hahaha, how could Rank-4 herbs be so easy to find?”

  “Tch… such a stupid question. That would go against the heavens to have so many miraculous herbs,” Illia scoffed at the man’s question.

  “Heavens?” Soloman was confused at the usage of that word. “…what about your tools or weapons then?”

  “Behold! My master granted me this Mortal-grade flying sword with a heat inscription on the pommel.” Ouro proudly presented his gifted sword to Soloman.

  “Master gave me one as well with an ice inscription,” Illia showed her weapon as well, not wanting to appear lesser than her brother.

  “Uhmm… cool… Is this sword powerful?” Soloman unsheathed the sword, squinting at it. He expected titanium-carbide or high-density polymers. Instead, it looked like basic, hand-forged steel. He lightly pressed his thumb against the flat of the blade to test the tensile strength.

  Creeeeeak

  His eyes widened. The metal didn't spring back; it yielded like soft lead. He quickly re-sheathed the sword back to Ouro, hoping he wouldn’t notice a perfect, deep whorl of his fingerprint was permanently embossed into the "rare" treasure.

  “Absolutely, there are only 30 such flying swords in our sect with how rare and expensive they are to make,” Ouro proclaimed with a cocky grin.

  “Flying, you said.”

  “Mmm… yes. Observe.” Illia used her yellow-tinted Qi to unsheathe her blade and fly alongside them. The blade hovered beside the crane, and Illia jumped off, landing on top of the blade and performing acrobatics.

  The spectacle caused her brother to join in, while their master applauded the demonstration of their efforts in handling Qi and swordplay.

  Soloman watched the show, internally unamused compared to the hoverboards of his world. Though the swords could perform sharper turns, the speed was lackluster. He concluded that while this Qi substance deserved study, this world’s technology was similar to the Renaissance age.

  “Heh~ impressive, how do you stay on top without a foot strap?” Soloman tried to hide his unamused face. The twins landed back on the crane, exhausted from the Qi drain.

  “Hmph!” Illia appeared miffed that her effort earned her a question and not praise.

  “We are finally here,” the old man announced.

  Peeking over the gold-tinted clouds were a series of steep, sharp mountains with palaces and houses littered across their surface, creating a beautifully powerful picturesque scene.

  “You two go to Medicine Hall to check the patrol team.”

  “Yes, Master.” The two quickly leaped out of view.

  “Soloman, if you would please follow me to the Main Hall.” Master Mùchén ordered. His arm pointed at the peak of the largest mountain, whose top was replaced with a regal crimson-and-black pagoda.

  “How are we gonna… don’t tell me.” Wisps of pale gray energy wrapped around him again.

  “Yes.” Master Mùchén politely smiled.