“Right. So basically... you process the power source, store it in your battery slot, ????, and profit?”

  Lena laughs. “Sure, but it’s a lot more useful than collecting underwear.”

  Aster scratches his temple. “And that chunk she refines... how much does it cost her? Faith-wise?”

  “Two hundred,” she says casually.

  He chokes. “Two hundred Faith?! That’s a month of ramen and despair.”

  “And that’s Elemental Aether,” Lena adds. “It’s worse for Spirit cultivators like you. Most materials only yield about a fifth of their Elemental output in Spirit Aether.”

  Aster stares at her. “And how much is that from the same chunk of meat?”

  “…About four hundred grams.”

  His eye twitches. “And how much do I need to open a gate?”

  Lena winces like she’s just been asked to euthanize a puppy. “Fifty kilos.”

  There’s a long pause. Then Aster stands up and shouts, “Fifty?! Are you joking? I need to refine the ghost equivalent of a small child to make progress?!”

  A few students turn to glare, one visibly debating whether to hex him, but Aster ignores them. His brain melts from the math.

  He drops back into his chair, dazed. “I’m going to need... I don’t know. A loan, a crime spree, divine intervention. Something.”

  Lena pats his shoulder. “We’ll figure something out.”

  “‘We’?” he mutters. “Lady, I barely figure out how not to die two days ago.”

  She smiles sweetly and ignores that. “Ready to try it?”

  “Do I just slap my hands on it and believe in myself?”

  “Basically.”

  He rolls his eyes and places his hands on the glyphs hidden below the script. Instantly, they adhere to his palms, glowing faintly. “Huh. Neat.”

  “Yes,” Lena says with matching sarcasm. “Now close your eyes. Focus. You’re looking for the Veneration spell—it’s already inside you, tied to the same system that lets you spend Faith. It feels like a pull or a current, something foreign but familiar. Like a thread running through your chest.”

  Aster shuts his eyes, takes a breath, and pushes inward.

  At first, he feels everything at once: the ambient noise of the room, the subtle ache of the Void Wyrm nested like a tumour in his chest. Yeah, no thanks—not poking that.

  But beneath that, he feels something else. A soft buzz. A low hum pulses in his ribs like a hidden metronome, quiet but steady.

  “There,” Lena whispers. “That’s it. The Veneration spell. Guide it outward, like you’re forming a circuit with the glyphs.”

  Aster nudges the sensation toward his hands, and immediately the sigils flare in response. They don’t burn or sting—they recognize him. The current snaps into place like it’s been waiting for him.

  “Got it,” he murmurs, opening one eye. “Is it supposed to be this easy?”

  Lena looks at him, mildly bewildered. “Your Will is unusually high-level. Most people can’t link on the first try.”

  Aster blinks. “So I’m gifted.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  Too late.

  She hands him a small, deep-blue bone, like something carved from ocean depths.

  Blenkinsop’s voice suddenly rings in his mind.

  ?? [F-Grade Ice Hue Material Detected]

  [Mmm, bone handling. My favourite subject.]

  [Pro Tip: Proper penetration of Aether barriers begins with gentle Faith application, followed by vigorous Will thrusting.]

  [Would you like a demonstration?]

  Aster slams the tooltip closed with a mental flick. I swear I will uninstall you with fire.

  Lena ignores Aster’s sudden mood shift from interest to disgust and the resulting flicker of irritation like a social worker dealing with the local town loon.

  “Place the glyphs on either side. That’s the crucible. Let your Faith pour into the sigils through the spell, and you begin refining.”

  He nods, placing the glyphs around the bone. The dome forms instantly, shimmering with anticipation. Aster opens the mental gate holding back his Faith, and it surges.

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  200 Faith Spent

  The sigils flare bright, and the bone begins to smoke, slowly dissolving into a swirl of dark blue vapor.

  “Now,” Lena says gently, “reach with your Will. Grip the Aether and pull it into your gate. Let it follow the flow.”

  Aster extends his Will and nearly jumps out of his seat as he feels the tug.

  “Why do I feel it being vacuumed into my groin?”

  Another pop-up:

  [?? It looks like you’re trying to ‘spiritually vape’ through your groin. Would you like help?]

  ? “NO.”

  ? “Yes, but only in a platonic, academically appropriate way.”

  ?? “Please be gentle with my Vortex Hole?”

  Lena blinks. “...That’s your Sacral Gate.”

  “Oh fantastic,” Aster mutters as he closes the pervert’s prompt in his head again. “Can’t wait to be known as Aether Crotch.”

  “Focus.”

  He does. The vapor flows into him like warm water into dry earth. He feels it carving channels, paths through something porous inside him. Like unlocking conduits that have always been there, just waiting.

  Another pop-up.

  “Go away,” he curses under his breath, trying to ignore the NII explaining the vibrations of his gates are only the faint suggestion of his own chakra whispering, “harder, daddy.”

  He already accepts that Cultivation is weird.

  But this?

  The dome clears. The material is gone, only ash remaining.

  And Aster is... different. Not stronger, not faster. But aware. Like something inside him opens, and he can take in more breath somehow.

  ?? Gate Progress Update – Sacral Gate

  [Progress Update: 1.5% Spirit Water Gate Opening Achieved]

  “Mmm. I feel that. A gentle stretch. A tender yield. Just the beginning... but oh, what a beginning.”

  Your Sacral Gate is now 1.5% dilated.

  Would you like a positioning diagram to optimize Faith-to-Will alignment for future insertions?

  ? Yes, but only for research.

  ? I’m not tight? My gate’s just in Chastity Mode

  ?? Can my other gates watch?

  Aster twitches like he’s been slapped with a wet glove. The UI doesn’t vanish. It just lingers. Like a voyeuristic therapist waiting for him to admit things he buried since puberty.

  “Nope. We’re not doing this,” he mutters under his breath, jaw tight. He closes his eyes and screams—mentally, diplomatically, in the space between thought and madness.

  “System interface. Settings. Preferences. Customization. Disable voice prompts. Mute tooltips. Burn NII with fire. Please?”

  A window suddenly blinks into existence like an over-eager waiter.

  He squints at the window pulsing faintly in the back of his vision as a row of nested menus fans out like a smug digital lotus.

  “Interface audio… accessibility… voice profile... override. Yes.”

  A blink. A new menu:

  [?? Voice Behavior Override: Blenkinsop Protocol – Active]

  [Personality Module: Scholarly Tantrist (Uneditable)]

  [Voice Output: ON]

  “Finally.” He hovers over the toggle.

  It grays out before he can mentally flick it.

  Aster blinks.

  The screen updates:

  [? Unable to mute interface.]

  [Reason: SHAME LOCK – Level 4]

  [Shame Level: 91% (Persistent)]

  [“You are not yet emotionally mature enough to know the world through silence.”]

  [Recommended Action: Begin introspective vulnerability journey.]

  “What,” Aster hisses. “What the hell is a Shame Lock?!”

  A new prompt appears, gently pulsing like it’s staging an intervention:

  [?? Shame Lock is an Astral Safety Feature designed to protect spiritually repressed cultivators from abandoning necessary growth.]

  [Until you can experience metaphysical intimacy without reflexive denial, this feature cannot be disabled.]

  [It’s okay to feel things. Even in your Root Gate.]

  A vein twitches in his temple.

  “I would rather punch my own Root Gate closed than accept life coaching from a glorified kink spreadsheet.”

  The final prompt pops in with no urgency, no sound, no flourish. Just a cold, deadpan line of text:

  [?? Resistance noted. Shame Index now at 93%.]

  Aster exhales sharply, mutters something unprintable, and pinches the bridge of his nose.

  Only then—after the fifteenth layer of metaphysical UI humiliation—he realizes:

  The class is silent again.

  Very silent.

  He looks up. Every student within earshot stares at him like they just watched a grown man argue with an e-therapist about the dignity of his own groin.

  Lena weeps with laughter beside him.

  “I’m fine,” he announces stiffly, straightening his collar like dignity is something he can iron back into his spine. “Just having a… spiritual disagreement.”

  The interface blinks one last time.

  [?? You’re doing so well, sweetheart.]