Ji-eun woke to the grating beep of a digital alarm. She turned the annoyance off gently, careful not to smash in the surprisingly delicate device sitting on the floor. Again. She rolled out of her comfortable blanket, off the couch, and onto her feet.

  Bare concrete met her. Ji-eun imagined it should have been cold against her feet.

  “Morning,” came the tired voice of her impromptu roommate with a yawn. Qin Mo shuffled out of her room in her fluffy blue nightgown, crazed brown bed hair on full display.

  “Good morning,” Ji-eun replied with a slow bow. She wasn’t much of a morning person either. Becoming a cultivator hadn’t changed that, and the steel edged discipline of the Sworn Sword Sect was all too quick to disappear.

  Qin Mo arranged several plastic containers from the fridge across a nearby low table. Congee, day old yontiao, and the steamed vegetables they had ordered in last night. She shuffled over to the table and kicked off her cute fluffy slippers. Qin Mo sat cross-legged, Ji-eun sat on her knees. Breakfast, as always, was a quiet affair.

  The pair got dressed after their brief meal.

  “Got everything?” Asked Qin.

  “Yes, thank you,” Ji-eun replied, a large canvas bag slung over her shoulder. It’s strap ran across the oversized coat she had been gifted, baggy and bright blue. Together they left the small apartment and walked past rows of duplicate dwellings. Floors and floors passed by. Ji-eun peered out across the light well. High above a courtyard the size of a public park, the concrete facades all became indistinguishable. Hundreds - thousands - lived in this complex alone, dozens of storeys tall. It was just one of many in Cloudrest. She was still coming to terms with the sheer size.

  Qin Mo lived close to an inner-city rail stop. Ji-eun suspected that, technically, everyone in the city did. For just over two weeks now, her day had become routine. Every morning and every night she found herself at this above-ground stop. Still she couldn’t help but stare at the towering buildings around her. As sure as the sun rising, their train arrived at 6.43am exactly.

  The train rattled along the track at great speed. Beside her, Qin Mo vaguely rattled off some news she read on her PDA. Most everybody in the cabin was doing something similar. The ride had become somewhat boring over time. She preferred that over nerve wracking. With a glance out the window, she idly gauged their speed. Between the constant stopping and the winding track, Ji-eun had the odd notion it would be faster for her to get out and run.

  “Check this one out,” Qin Mo said as she half thrust the slim metal device into Ji-eun’s hands. It hummed uncomfortably in her grip, the faint ripple of qi powering the PDA rubbing — and resisting — against her own. Ji-eun suppressed the urge to crush the fragile thing, then a sigh. The article was at least mildly interesting. A delegation of politicians from the East were passing through Cloudrest before heading further south towards the Central Provinces.

  Their stop was about an hour away. An underground station, two flights of stairs removed from the streets above. An old, worn sign hung at the exit. ‘Plate 14.’ One of the older districts of Cloudrest, Qin Mo had explained. It was sunny, slightly cloudy, as they stepped onto the steadily filling street. Well-maintained trees dotted the pedestrian space.

  “Come on,” motioned Qin Mo.

  It was another fifteen minutes or so walk towards the workshop. Qin Mo did her best to make small talk along the way. Ji-eun… tried.

  Walking through a familiar park, the storefront of her new workplace came into view. It was an unassuming building with a sleek, modern visage. Stark white concrete sat at perfect right angles, framing the tall window that dominated the facade. Three wall scrolls were suspended on taught strings, both advertisements and blinds for the open warehouse-esque spacewithin. They read “Cloudrest,” “Courtly,” “Characters,” each painted in a distinct style.

  —-

  Surei hauled a heavy folder down onto the table in front of her gathered staff. Its cover, somewhat bulging from all the extra paper stuffed inside, read “Record of Commissions.” With a relieved huff, she began.

  “Alrighty ladies and gent, it’s that time of year, and the Jiang family have once again commissioned us with festival prep. We’ve got about two months to get everything ready. Same deal as last year, and every other year before that. No major revisions: just keep up the good work.”

  Surei was a tall woman, taller than most men Ji-eun had met. A thick head of bleached hair ran long down her back. She often forewent traditional clothes in favour of foreign styles, such as today’s choice: a brightly coloured, checkered blouse over a black top and ‘skinny jeans’. Ji-eun’s coat was a gift from the woman: it sat thigh length (though it probably wasn’t meant to be), red embroidery bright against sky blue.

  Ji-eun gingerly raised a hand.

  “Yes, Ji-eun?”

  “What do you mean by ‘that time of year’? And who is the Jiang family?”

  Surei cocked her head a little and stared quizzically at Jie-un for a moment. A soft cough from Qin Mo jogged her memory.

  “Ah,” she belatedly croaked, “sorry, I forgot you’re not a local.”

  Surei rapidly flipped through her overflowing ledger. Dozens of pages flipped by every second, each inked with cost spreadsheets and the occasional drawing. She stopped on a particular page, annotated over several times with a few extra coloured tabs stuck along its edge. Ji-eun leaned over and gave the page a glancing read. It was, unsurprisingly, a commission from ‘Honourable Jiang Community Holdings’. Detailed were specifications for festival signage and decorations including dates, colour choices, and projected costs neatly organised in spreadsheets.

  “The Jiang family,” Surei began, “are a noble family of Cloudrest. They were one of the first families to settle in the region during the reign of the last Emperor, and still retain a seat within the province’s government.” She pointed to several pieces of text on the page, all relating to the festival commissions. “Each year they hold the Penjing festival. It’s a huge celebration of the cities growth and prosperity. I think there’s something similar in the central provinces,” Surei added in thought, “but I’ve never left the city, let alone the province, so I don’t know for sure.”

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “And each year, they come to us for signage and print work?” Ji-eun added.

  “Yep, spot on! I know it’s only been a few weeks since you started, but you’ve got a real talent for calligraphy. I think you’ll do great work for the festival,” Surei said with a smile. “Alright, let’s divide up the groundwork and go from there!”

  —

  Inkwells of several sizes sat neatly ordered upon a large desk. A thick paper scroll, arms-width and taller than Jj-eun, lay flat underneath a layer of clear film. Ink would not seep through the film, but it would stick, allowing iteration and mistakes without costing precious paper. Ji-eun was assigned decorative work for the upcoming Penjing festival. Surei and Qin Mo had gone through the previous years’ designs with her. They were simple things: flowering motifs and reaching branches. Much of it rendered in vibrant reds and orange, as was apparently fitting for any Imperial event.

  Ji-eun cast an eye over her colours of choice. It would have been easy to choose the same shades as the year before - it was all well documented and labelled extensively - but Ji-eun had her own biases to work with. There was too much red for her liking. Especially to liven a festival dedicated to growth.

  With a careful eye, she appraised the demonstration prints kept from years prior. They were just black and white renders, but each was a study of individual motifs and composition for the festival proper. They hadn’t been changed in nearly a decade, on request of the Jiang family. Her job wasn’t to reinvent the wheel. It was to rearrange the spokes. Keep it fresh, but recognisable.

  Ji-eun chose a few she liked the look of and began copying them onto an inkpad. Once satisfied, she lifted and flipped the strip of parchment and stamped it onto the scroll across the table. A reversed copy of the motif imprinted itself onto the film. It would be a lot easier - and quicker - to do any repeating elements this way, rather than hand drawing them every time.

  Colours found their way across the scroll, the same pattern experiment with in combinations of colour and contrast. After a while, Ji-eun’s brush moved with an almost inhuman speed. Lackluster prints were wiped away, leaving not even a smudge. After several hours, the scroll had a passable first attempt inked atop it. A reaching branch climbed from end to end. Flames danced in place of flowers, Imperial characters forming from smoke and knots in the vivid red bark. A serpent coiled itself around the largest branch; red, orange, and yellow scales almost hidden against the tree.

  Ji-eun gave her work a close look. The linework was overall messy, and she didn’t know how the colour would turn out once properly dried on paper. It was also… she didn’t quite know how to put it. The image was very upfront. Aggressive? A frown tugged at Ji-eun’s face. She left her desk in search of an experienced opinion.

  The workshop of the Courtly Characters was a warehouse dedicated to the arts. Rows upon rows of industrial shelving housed inks in hundreds of hues, paper of a thousand varieties, and enough art supplies to field an army. All carefully documented, catalogued, and organised under Surei’s meticulous eye. Past rows of shelves and drying scrolls, Ji-eun found the makeshift office of her new employer.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Need a hand, Ji-eun?” Surei asked, buried in paperwork.

  “I’ve got a first template done and I’d like to have you appraise it,” Ji-eun said as she walked the room, careful not to topple anything.

  “Appraise it? You make me sound so much more important than I am,” she said in humour.

  “It would be appreciated if you could lend your experience then,” Ji-eun tried.

  With a dry chuckle, Surei stood. She placed a final mark on the page in front of her and returned it to the correct pile of sheets, each one squared and separated in its own tray. Ji-eun was constantly impressed by how organised the lady was.

  “Have you gotten a grasp on the style the Jiang family is after?” Surei asked on the way.

  “I think I have. It’s traditional, but the single-colour shapes are a unique take. Most traditionalist artwork take advantage of gradient for depth, rather than hard edged shading.”

  “Hmmm? You’re pretty familiar with older artwork. Is that the style you prefer to paint in?”

  “I… just spent a lot of time around classical pieces. I’m still finding my way under the guidance of my betters.”

  Surei hummed to herself again.

  “Betters? I don’t see anybody like that around here…”

  Ji-eun led her back to her own workstation, tucked beside a tall shelf lined with inkwells and brushes. It made for a nice divider between herself and the rest of the high-vaulted workshop. Surei leaned over the desk and looked over Ji-eun’s work. Out of sight, she shuffled slightly.

  “It’s good~! Your linework is a little messy, but this is just a first draft, so that’s fine. The composition is solid and your choice of colour is fresh.”

  Ji-eun felt her shoulders ease a little.

  “But… hmmm… it’s very aggressive? I think your tree is angry at me.”

  She frowned, and a sigh escaped her.

  “That’s what I thought too,” Ji-eun said as she strode up beside Surei. “I don’t know, I think it’s all the red. I was hoping for some advice; maybe I should go a shade lighter?”

  Surei placed a hand on her chin in thought. After a moment, she said;

  “Try that. More orange, too. You’ve got a good head for colour theory. Feel free to mix it up a little!” She made to leave, but turned around and gave Ji-eun’s work a final look. “No snakes, though. The Penjing festival is just a small provincial festival, but it’s still an official Imperial ceremony. Gotta stick to their rules,” Surei said with a shrug.

  Ji-eun gave Surei a look that clearly asked “why?” She was quite proud of her attempt at the serpent. It was her own little touch. Surei shrugged and shook her head. With a cough, she recited as if from a script.

  “Any Imperially approved publication has to follow Imperial printing law. No depictions of serpents, turtles, tigers in any colour but ‘suitable orange’, biologically accurate marine life larger than two and a half metres, and… crows, I think? Also, no use of phoenix or dragon imagery without express approval from a local Ministry of Rites or Ministry of Works. Which we have by the way, just go through me first please~.”

  “That’s… a lot,” Ji-eun noted, a little dumbfounded.

  “Imperial printing law is a very large book. Thicker than our ledger you saw earlier. I’ve got a complete edition in the office somewhere; I’ll find it and give it to you to thumb through in your spare time. Although there’s a lot to take in, Imperial law is a good thing to have memorised. Keeps us out of trouble, y’know?”

  Ji-eun scowled a little at the thought. A book thicker than the commissions ledger? What a violent image.

  “Alright. Thank you for informing me,” Ji-eun said.

  “You’re always so polite, Ji-eun. Lighten up a little,” Surei chuckled. “I’ll let you get back to work. Good job as always!” With a wave, Surei turned and left.

  Ji-eun carefully removed the film atop the scroll. Careful not to crease it, she hung the see-through sheet on a pair of clips along the wall. She had a draft to work with now. Future iterations would come much quicker. She found another roll of film along one of many industrial shelf racks that divided the workshop of Cloudrest Courtly Characters. Even after working here for weeks, it still looked more like a depot than an art studio.

  With a flick of her wrist, the film uncoiled mid air and drifted down into place. Ji-eun smoothed out its edges and held it in place with wooden blocks. She fell back into her chair. Idly, she flicked an ink brush between the fingers of her right hand. It drew sweeping circles in the air as she considered ways to improve her piece. The brush moved in a dance. And an inkwell to her left wobbled in time. A pirouette: the inkwell threw itself to match the tempo, and a hand threw itself forward to catch it. Ji-eun stared at the rebellious pot of deep black ink like it had personally offended her.

  Ji-eun suppressed a shiver as she recollected her qi. It didn’t like staying bottled inside, no matter how uncomfortable the worldy qi around her was. It was better to keep it suppressed, to reduce her friction against the world. Let alone to avoid being spotted by whatever watchful eyes the Empire kept in the city.

  But it had been two weeks now, and nothing. Surely it would be okay. Surely she could relax a little. Surely she could let got of some of this pressure. Like keeping a muscle taught for hours on end, Ji-eun imagined suppressing her qi couldn’t be good for her. But it was the safer choice. It was the necessary choice.

  Her coworkers couldn’t learn she was a cultivator; mortals did not look kindly upon them. And what of a Demon? The Empire could not learn that she was, and in the midst of a city at that. She did not know what the Empire did to its captured enemies. She didn’t want to find out. Death was likely what she should hope for.

  With a bitter sigh, Ji-eun put down the rebellious inkwell. She gave it one last contemptuous look and returned her thoughts to the festival work. She imagined, to the best of her ability, a prosperous tree in orange and red. Hopefully one that did not speak of violence.