A [Heart Demon] perhaps.

  Yes.

  Mridul’s mind was as limpid water.

  No.

  Was it fear, then? Indeed, as one of Orchid he had sin a slew of immortals. But these false Imperials were more.

  The energy about this [Paifang] faded, showing that the threshold was now crossed.

  [Imperial Realm 109]

  [Core Formation Realm] [Spring] [Life Abundance] [Trial Realm]

  Coarse sunlight could not block his eyes upon entry, neither could it block the tide of those about him. Those that leapt prostrate at the mere glint of his robes. Droves, in their thousands, and unhelpful to his cause.

  She scoffed.

  “Daughter, we must continue,” he said, and Yashodhara cast aside his arm.

  “Tend to them. Is this not your duty?”

  His nerve had not wavered before [Sixth Under Heaven]. An Emperor’s weight of gaze. Those Orchids greater than he - the tallest bdes of grass - myriad insults and compliments had swayed nothing.

  Mridul knew his heart.

  So how could this adolescent cut him thus?

  Samudra’s arrival caused a greater stir. As would any appearance of a [Spirit Whale].

  An erupting dune, weaving between refugees to enter a space that might sustain her scale. No small feat within this crowded pavillion.

  “I hold fresh duty now, daughter,” he said.

  A sentiment wayid by those that approached.

  The avenue split further at a panquin’s appearance, lined at each side by armor-cd cultivators of sky-rich blue. A cavalry, uniform in the resplendent [Spirit Horses] that carried each of this hundred.

  Here, a messenger dropped. “[Imperial Realm 109] extends its joy at your arrival, wishing that [Spring’s] bounty be upon you. Our Imperial Magistrate is overcome that the great Mridul, Sun Demon of Orchids, deigns to visit our meagre realm.”

  “A kindness,” accepted Mridul. “May [Spring] favor you and nourish your growth.”

  The greetings extended to a beckoning arm. “Our Imperial Magistrate would be humbled should you wish to accept an offer of transport.”

  Wayid. Our flight should not be deyed.

  There came a second scoff. “Go, Sun Demon. That false hesitation you show is insulting. Go, seek your duty.”

  Astonishment tore through the spectators.

  “A Yellow dares speak as such?”

  “The Sun Demon’s honor-”

  More stood to avenge this in curled fist and bared fang. All hues and all Castes, incensed by the disrespect shown towards those highest. A True Imperial.

  Samudra flew between all, and this proved enough. Her tide was forever vast.

  “Citizens of [Spring], it is a father’s own duty to chastise his daughter. Where you see disrespect, and touch me with your loyalty, the barbs on her tongue are more than warranted,” called Mridul. “Yashodhara, daughter, blood of my blood.”

  His daughter’s eyes narrowed. “By what right do you call me such?”

  “By right of blood, as stated,” he said, offering a hand. “Our destination awaits, and this meeting will bring us closer. Come.”

  Samudra’s heart panged as the hand was swatted aside.

  “What choice have we but to be swept in your current, Sun Demon,” Yashodhara spat.

  Of [Foundation Realm], their travels had taken an evident toll on her. A limp spoke of blistered feet, and her [Spirit Crane], white-naped where all else was ruby, could scarce support its weight in tow.

  Much like her mother, is she not, Samudra?

  This sight hurt most, for the distress upon her was a true reflection of those final hours.

  The panquin was boarded swiftly. Another threshold passed.

  Yashodhara gasped as Mridul swept back the curtain, revealing there an expanse of azure forest that roamed for many hundred li.

  A river flowed. A path wound. The bamboo’s canopy shifted to have this pair ever walk beneath a pleasantry of moonlight.

  Serene.

  Mridul’s heart did not feel such. “Moments of peace should not be wasted, Yashodhara. Daughter. Though what right I have to call you this- your words were true. We are strangers, and for that, my penance shall be unceasing. Forgiveness may take an age, but…”

  So he wished to say.

  The Sun Demon walked ahead, hands csped to his rear. “Hospitality must be met with kind greetings. Let us do so properly.”

  “A Yellow would only be cking, no? Is that not the case?”

  Small nterns glowed upon their walk, culminating at a pool of some deep silence. At its end sat a figure of monastic bearing, half-cd in Blue save for a throng of silvering prayer beads about his chest.

  “Amitabha. This long-grown stalk extends greetings. A humble abode, ill-fitting for storied heroes,” spared the monk. “What honor could come from a shared cup? It is not dreamed of.”

  A bleach white paifang was set against his back, reflected simply in the pool there. It rippled as two rocks emerged, upon which the guests were invited to sit.

  “Magistrate,” csped Mridul, though their disparity of rank did not require it. “We welcome your hospitality. What beauty this realm holds. [Spring] holds you in high regard.”

  “Unnecessary kindness. Amitabha. The venerable Sun Demon does this long-grown stalk a service with his words.” A smile was shared. Ancient, despite this monk’s apparent adolescence. “Would you indulge this long-grown stalk further? It is wondered. Pleasant talk is a single pearl in [Spring’s] vast oceans.”

  Yashodhara expressed a yawn.

  “Daughter.”

  “Please, the road behind is long. Amitabha, the road ahead is longer,” waived the monk.

  A nameless Blue cannot speak on the road ahead, knowing nothing of it.

  Mridul was no vain sort. Cultivation had merely slowed his passing of moons, not reforged skin and vital appearance as this man had chosen. As such his brows wrinkled deeply with this coming frown. “A single pearl is all we must speak on then, Magistrate. Our road was indeed long. I accept hospitality as courtesy for my daughter, not for talk on other matters.”

  “Amitabha. As you say, Sun Demon, as you say,” the monk’s hand drew a small gong, striking it once.

  Death in abundance.

  Characters swarmed.

  Gold.

  Orchid.

  All about this gde did bamboo rise.

  Leaves. Stalks. Grasses. Blossoms.

  Then, his voice.

  “Little bde. Fledgling shoot. Child of my sphere.“

  [Spring] had Mridul press his crown to the ground, for it walked before him. A light of all lights. Radiant beyond [Season], beyond sun and star. And when uttered, this voice was the nourishment of all things.

  A beginning, eternal.

  “My soul reduces, little bde. [Summer] comes. Change comes. [Spring] ends where it should not. Poison in absence. A void made of worms. Of serpents. Rectify this.”

  Mridul knew his heart, and looked not to what it sought.

  After a century, it was no longer him.

  And yet, so did [Spring] know it.

  “Dey is no aspect of my sphere. Hesitation. Uncertainty. Roots are unconcerned by aphids. One granule will not block the sun. Heed this. Know.”

  “Your will be done,” called Mridul.

  Moonlight returned.

  The gong yet rung, reverberating from its first strike. But no sooner than its end had great boards of delicacy arrived.

  Servers, den with fruits and meats of [Spring’s] bounty.

  Yashodhara csped at the monk’s granted permission, her eyes ravenous until she met the troubled look of her estranged father. Then her scorn returned, oblivious to all that had transpired.

  The Emperor’s words were clear.

  His daughter - the granule that would not block the sun - poured their host a saucer of sweet-odoured tea.

  My betrayal is known. How my sight shifts from [Spring] to shoot. No life might be built for her if my duty dooms it before it begins.

  Above, Samudra hummed.

  Serpents. Then their end is our freedom.

  The monk bowed kindly, gesturing to his treats. “Amitabha. Please, righteous Sun Demon. Is it to your liking?”

  Mridul took a slice of ripened peach, and chewed.

  Finding it bitter beyond comparison.

  ?

  Her hour had come. A spare moment that arrived but once every three days.

  Grandmother Hua’s lessons had ended. Her readings; study; training; and strange waxings that often demanded insight.

  On this hour of all hours, Yuling did not linger on the items proferred. Those left atop her table. Not the meaning-rich root, of which Grandmother deposited daily, nor the vessel of water that evoked a thought of all seas - were she to breath near its fumes.

  [Dao] treasures, without forced insight.

  Yuling knew that fools guessed, for such a saying was engraved bone-deep. But reason, she thought, id her Grandmother’s pn clear.

  The [Dao] that is spoken is not the [Dao]. Her own cannot be imparted, for then it is not my insight, but the [Cherry River Sage’s].

  Perhaps this held her within the [First Pool].

  Perhaps Yuling’s loyalty held her more.

  The screen to her chambers was opened quietly, aided by the percussive strum of a pipa across the common room. There a fme flickered, and incense burned. A pleasant saturation of spirit herbs and [Spatial Q, winding about the bnket-wrapped form of An.

  Her mady was heavy.

  Winnowing.

  Feng’s melodies made it lighter, or so she quietly assured.

  Yuling’s chamber closed to a soft purr as Nuwang greeted her partner. The [Spirit Lion] sat poised beneath an open window, and understanding flowed before this pair silently leapt into the night.

  Mist cloyed.

  So it was within the Divine Clouded Mountain.

  Lanternlight paved all paths forward, casting a murky glow across avenues and the dimness of alleys.

  But here Yuling chose where it did not touch.

  A shawl of shadow was now comfort, familiar. The rooftops she crossed, despite the burn of lungs, granted the same.

  Some hundred were behind her now. An adequate distance into the heart.

  Gone were the grand furnishings of the Golden Merchant Canton. The apartment that held more space in one room than the deck of their father’s ship. At Grandmother’s word they had uprooted- voyaged across the vastness of the Cloudy Serpent Sect’s vast capital, to pnt fresh roots upon further shores.

  Some thousand li within this same district, if only upon the edge. A crook at the [Divine Serpent’s] back.

  “A better view,” she said aloud. “His smile will never fade to see it.”

  Embroiled in mists ahead, Nuwang growled. “Ever smiling.”

  Their journey came to an end by ivy, trailing and moist. A pagoda of insignificant scale, or so a citizen of this capital might say. To Yuling and Nuwang, it pierced the very Heavens, though none might ever be spied within this shrouding.

  Yet to cultivate her [Arts], Yuling began to climb. What comparison her [Might] held, or any attribute upon her [Ink], might hold against the geniuses of the realm was unknown.

  Grandmother scorned such questions, naming them ‘vain’ and ‘empty’ as she hummed her disdain.

  The fourteenth story welcomed her soon enough, and though sweat licked her skin it was cool against the night’s air. And the fisherman’s daughter wasted no time thereafter, treading forth with her palms csped.

  “It is I, Gao Yuling, humbly requesting my entry.”

  These walls of ivy hissed in reply, stirring a susurration so loud that their collective breath cleansed the interior of mists.

  “A thousand gratitudes,” she returned.

  Nuwang held herself high beneath the weight of myriad stares, deigning that no cultivators of their talent should bow to base beasts.

  Courtesy holds no cost, sister. These are wisdoms of Grandmother and Father both. Only the Heavens are perfect, as so we will act as such.

  In ten steps, Yuling reached her hand into the ivy. There, in a hollow behind, she drew forth a length of heavy, rusted metal.

  And began her practice.

  A set of kicks ranged first, ill-aligned with the motions of her [Spirit Lion]. This dance was of a spider’s making, or a beast of myriad legs. Rotations, extensions, bows, dives, somersaults and springs, culminating in a torrent as the chain within her grasp spun wild in the surrounding air.

  Yuling copied each motion verbatim, telegraphing the next in seamless step.

  A talent of hers, she had noticed, and a mirror to Yuqi. The ability to draw forth the memory of Martial techniques at a gnce, as her sister did where Qi might flow.

  Boons gifted by the tutege of the [Cherry River Sage].

  But even so, this style, these phantom-like strides… Even cking talent, Yuling knew that these would be well-etched within her soul.

  Important. Peerless.

  Familiar.

  Her chain flew, and she envisioned the unparalleled beasts he might sunder.

  Her chain flew, and pride welled that the Sect’s enemies would never rise to trouble another soul.

  Her chain flew, and her [Dantian] panged with a recurring misery.

  The head dropped, trembling a hiss throughout the pagoda.

  Yuling arm draped about Nuwang, quaking. “We ck in diligence, Nuwang. The passing of [Seasons] are mortal concerns. Yet we strike each day as if he might emerge from his chambers, hoping as fools do. Was our mind tempered, our vision focused, we would not fret. Our duty is all that he requires of us, not idle thoughts of concern.”

  “A fisherman fears no sea. Not of fire nor bdes.”

  Her braid swung as she nodded. “Neither is it he we worry over. Only, this-” Yuling gestured. “This rift. A change so great that we might not recognize him on return, or he, us.”

  Thus her hand firmed, and motions renewed. At least for all the minutes she might spare, striving closer to her father with each rotation.

  Swifter, that she might do all she can not to lose him once more.

  Nuwang was content as her cultivator’s practice concluded, for she did not support this style of dancing and leaping. Her view pced it as improper. Whimsical, where a Martial path should strike straight and unflinching.

  The [Spirit Lion] impressed a subtle joy that their [Ink] did not burn.

  Yuling only moved to return the chain, and so spread back the ivy that masked her small hollow in the wall.

  Finding the metal clinked as she set it down. Queer, against this moist bed of green. Her hand roamed beyond it, tracing rusted grooves until a warmth met her fingertips.

  A chit, where stylized characters were carved.

  “Savor all until his return, first daughter,” she read, finding a saber inid upon the smoothened jade. “So he might see loss firsthand, as we did not.”

  For long moments she inspected this chit, turning it in hand and having her [Senses] glean every perfection in its art. Then she searched the mists, and Nuwang, the shadows. To where more than serpents might roam.

  A fool guesses.

  The pair moved in concert, undeterred. Unfaltering through the gloom. Allowing it to bnket them once more.

  Their familiarity, growing.

  ?

  Zhenbao was senior only to his juniors.

  A statement the blind might see, perhaps, and the deaf might hear, but a distinction that could not be downpyed in current circumstances.

  What opinion would Matriarch [In Footsteps, A Crypt] hold? Zhenbao’s martial brothers, sisters and seniors? The inner disciples, of which he was not counted?

  The corpses of things stretched about the grounds of this [Reliquary]. No [Demons] of misshapen limb or distended jaw, but a convergence of [Spirit Beast] and cultivator. Feral and Bonded. A sea or carpet to line this underground expanse.

  But in fallen bodies alone.

  [Death Q drowned the very air.

  Leigu. Jizhu.

  At perch atop mounds of these dead Imperials, his [Spirit Bats] spared their attention. Fresh bones were held in their talons, and only the most saturated in both blood and energies.

  “Western Bone Cult,” he called. “Martial friends,” came his second.

  Those of Earth Tyrant Hall were swift to arrive first. Among the spoils of corpses and foul viscera were no treasures of their liking. Weapons, or [Pills], perhaps, but so righteous a Sect held compunctions about the looting of the dead.

  It was not Zhenbao’s pce to lecture.

  His Western Bone Cult, however, saw wealth elsewhere and much of this fight soon vanished into spatial pouches for it.

  Such observations counted for two thirds of those gathered.

  Then the ghosts descended, and Zhenbao could only watch.

  Where [Might] concerned, even his Path of [Qi Manipution] and manifestation-based techniques rewarded more than they possessed.

  These fledglings.

  Buds, yet to blossom.

  Bones held much truth. Few lied, or were capable of such. A cultivator of his tenure - a fledgling himself in some comparisons - could read them as easily as scrolls.

  How a reforming posture spoke of true youth, and no forgery of [Body Refinement] or external means. The grip upon jian, chain, qiang and dagger, held two widths lower than one whose wrists had blocked a thousand blows. Spines, unused to the burgeoning attributes upon their [Ink].

  Unsettled. Premature.

  And yet, what wonder this caused.

  Mi Cha grunted to his side. Wary of the shifting cave, and its rising shelves of stone. Containers for all this [Trial’s] completion would bestow.

  “A sour gaze,” she said.

  Zhenbao collected himself. “Our mutual ally spoke a greater truth than I care to admit. Idle hands make for idle minds.” A heartbeat passed. “Ah, forgiveness, Mi Cha. My words were for the Western Bone Cult. Earth Tyrant Hall could not be tarred with the same brush.”

  Perhaps their history waived this insult.

  “Gah. You’ve the heart of it,” Mi Cha surprisingly agreed.

  Attention fell to the gathering ghosts. Having suffered five completions since the first, all guise of their intentions had faded.

  And neither Sect would stir words of protest.

  A smaller ghost walked forth in bckened hanfu and douli-cd, as was the sigil of their faction. Fabric masked all else but the intensity of her eyes, well set upon the most prominent rise of stone.

  Their tithe.

  “Recall that bze of youth, Zhenbao? Growth, unfettered. Nourished by all the mysteries beneath Heaven,” offered Mi Cha. “My Earth Tyrant Hall knows shame for its loss.”

  “They know no such stagnancy,” he agreed.

  Divinity was raised in two csped hands, held at the end of a dim bow. For this ghost turned with treasure shown: an ore of poison-scented composition, and vanished it from sight.

  The seniors of both Sects csped in return. “Western Bone Cult, seek what you can.”

  “Earth Tyrant Hall,” commanded Mi Cha, and fell into a bout of instruction.

  Those suppressed figures ahead faded into the cavern’s bckness in the following moments. Zhenbao yet watched.

  Yet strained.

  Some two suns prior and their movements were as daylight. Unfiltered and pin. Now that comparison was… less.

  Ample.

  Leigu and Jizhu fed on his impressions, orbiting all that this low-ceilinged expanse might allow. With [Senses] expanded their search held less difficulty, unveiling those that had scattered into crevice and nook.

  Zhenbao knew that yesterday’s search had proven swifter.

  “...our return.”

  His eyes refocused at Mi Cha’s voice. “Apologies. I-” Zhenbao stroked at his brow, finding a rarity of dried sweat.

  The woman aside him did not suffer this, nor her titanic [Spirit Precursor] some strides over.

  “Why do these ghosts stir you so, Zhenbao? Crity and reason drive your path, and several dozen moons have tempered it. Share your thoughts, our shade-facing allies don’t see insult as others might. Odd, and I can’t speak to its merit, but a truth.”

  [Death Q cycled throughout his [Core]. A cold energy to reinvigorate his faculties, which of te had dulled from contemption.

  This much was clear.

  What distance his thoughts had travelled returned, as if kin, welcomed back from voyage. “A day within the Western Bone Cult does not follow this shape. From my sights, my travels and experiences, none would. Such things are pin. Without insult, Earth Tyrant Hall is of a mold with the Clear Sky Empire. All are, and I am not exempt.”

  Mi Cha’s partner stamped in small protest. “A sharp bde holds a point, Zhenbao. Best it is delivered.”

  “The foundations of an Empire are the foundations of all. A trellis through which our vines grow. With juniors close I will not speak more on this. How Qi solidifies, and more unspoken knowledge. The nature of which I am sure you know well. The true impressions that cultivation engraves.”

  His companion firmed her jaw, and for this he was gd. Those of solely Martial Sects often held a reputation of… cking schostic pursuits and shallow insight into truths beyond their techniques.

  “Then you pair concerns of this,” Mi Cha gestured. “With them.”

  A passing impression from Leigu concerned him then, for she had lost sight of one ally, if for a single moment.

  “Severe. Proper. Diligent. A litany of words I could attach to these ghosts. And for all that, their mortal [Impurities] are id bare. She, of the [Spirit Wolf]. Her leg was improperly set from a breakage one moon past. The [Spirit Serpent] cultivator recovered some five prior from an adjustment of spine. His discs are saturated with middle-grade external medicines.”

  “[Foundation Realm] is evident among them.”

  Zhenbao felt a cold thrill rise in his [Core]. “Hence, concern.”

  “You fear what they will become?” grinned Mi Cha. “Words for weak hearts, no? My trust isn’t blind, however, there is honor among this number and benefit to having shadows ward our backs.”

  He shook. “A misunderstanding. I hold great expectations of what they will become. Fear pys bedfellows with admiration. My musings go to the source of their talent. Serpents alone might foster this, but their upbringing rings in different chimes.”

  Mi Cha seemed impassioned by their talk, her features alight. “Their crippled senior? An arm I am keen to test.”

  “Or another,” he affirmed. “His disciples know the [Dao] within mere [Seasons]. [Intent] is fostered outwith the Path of [Spirit]. What [Prowess] holds among them is admirable, if cheapened in retion to other talents.”

  Errant calls voiced that this [Reliquary] was reaped, and so began the return of their collective number.

  “The point of this bde is all but exposed, bury it, or bring it to light,” grunted Mi Cha.

  “We strive to establish ourselves higher within the White Dragon Alliance, sister. But are there not Heavens beyond Heavens?” Zhenbao asked. “Should it not be considered that, perhaps, we seek a pond while a river rages aside it?”

  The conversation waned as myriad knees were taken before them.

  “If true, then how might we change our course?”

  Zhenbao sealed his lips. Uncertainty would garner no respect, not here. And yet, within, he held resolve.

  We mark their growth, for if such progress can be gained within a span of weeks then what might a [Season] bring?

  To his juniors, he stamped his gun. An attention-drawing noise to settle the small whispers about him.

  Orders followed.

  Yet inwardly he curbed another impression from his partners, for Jizhu now mirrored her sister’s earlier plight. The ghosts had vanished once more, repeating for a single heartbeat.

  A single [Season]’s growth. This much is adequate to gauge where best our allegiance should lie. What strength they reach by then is fine judge. To idle any longer… Yes. One [Season], for I shudder to think of their proficiency in two, or three.