by Rick Scott
“Just wait till she grows up again then.” Waru shrugged. “It’s your fault you’re waiting in the first place.”
Kenji balked at him. “What?”
“Didn’t I tell you to ask her to the festival before she reached 8th tier? If you’d let your intentions be known and given her the choice between you and rebirth, she would have chosen you!”
Kenji grew quiet. He did recall Waru telling him that. He recalled contemplating it too. “You’re right, Waru. She probably would have chosen me. Which is why I didn’t ask.”
“So who’s the fool then?”
“She wants to become a mystic warrior,” Kenji said. “That’s her dream. How could I ask her to choose between that and me?”
“So…” Waru shrugged. “You’ve got only one other choice then. Get to channeling, lad. You need to catch up to her before she goes off to become a great mystic artist, travelling the world in search of adventure and fame, never to return to this hovel and your sorry face ever again.”
Waru laughed then, amused at his own rhyme. It was not a haughty laugh, but more like one resigned to his own fate—as if he could see into Kenji’s soul and recognized the same illness that prevented him from ever reaching the most basic of tiers. It was a laugh that said the ship had long since sailed.
But even if he could do just that, if he could be reborn and join Shinoto on her journey, there was another problem to overcome. “I got into a fight with her brother today, too. He wants me to have nothing to do with her.”
“That fool, Chet Fai?” Waru said, suddenly sobering. “What happened?”
Kenji told him the story and the old man laughed.
“Serves him right!” Waru slapped him on the knee. “To the hells with them all. With their baby faces and gold stripes. They probably hadn’t seen defiance like that since the days of the Bloody Duke!” Waru raised his bottle in salute to the legendary mystic warrior who had nearly overthrown the emperor decades ago. Waru then stared at Kenji with an odd little smile on his face. “Only natural, I suppose.”
“What do you mean?”
Waru slapped him on the knee again. “Hells if I know. I’m drunk. Help me off this damn roof.”
Kenji slid Waru onto his back and lowered them both down the ladder. Waru was a small man, but his body was dense and still strong for his age and it was only thanks to Kenji’s own strength—and that of the ladder—that they made it to the ground unharmed.
“I’ll take you home,” Kenji said, but by then Waru was already snoring upon his back.
Chapter 4 – Xian Lu
“Where were you?”
Kenji paused halfway through the door at the sound of his father’s voice. The lanterns were already lit and the aroma of freshly steamed rice filled the air. Their home was a typical one for the region, a single story with three rooms. At times like this, he wished his home were a bit bigger and that he could somehow sneak in through a rear entrance and feign having arrived before curfew. Not that a trick such as that would ever work on his father.
Xian Lu sat at his low desk within the study, brush in hand. Before him was a stack of blank glyph parchments. With slow, elegant strokes he scribed the glyphs with painstaking precision and care—black ink on red card.
Even from a distance and before it was fully formed, Kenji recognized the glyph being written. Shí: Time. As one of the mystic sages responsible for producing the glyphs and ropes for rebirthing, Xian Lu had taught Kenji the ancient art of the reversal script. And while Kenji could reproduce the glyphs near perfectly, he lacked the inner strength to imbue them with the power of Qi.
After finishing the script, Xian Lu did just that and with a wave of the brush, the glyph flashed for a moment and the glyph transformed from being simply red paper and black ink into a mystic rune capable of reversing time.
“Did you not hear me?” Xian Lu said. “Where were you?”
Kenji removed his sandals as he closed the door behind him. “I’m sorry, Father. I bumped into Waru. He was drunk and so I took him home.”
The 14-year-old Xian Lu grunted like the old man he was. “Waru…”
Growing up, Kenji had never seen his father age much beyond twenty before undergoing a rebirth—his latest only a few years past. Much like Chief Wu, Xian Lu’s features were subtle yet hard, made so by his mannerism more than his physical form. His mouth tugged downward with a constant frown, his eyes squinting with perpetual discernment, like one constantly seeking flaws.
Kenji shared no physical traits with him. Where Xian Lu was round-shouldered and stooped, even as a boy, Kenji had the build of an athlete. Kenji’s hair too was odd, more brown than black and it curled slightly when it grew too long. Xian Lu’s however was always straight and dark.
Well into his 80s by now, Xian Lu had never had children of his own. It was perhaps why, after his mother died and he’d become an orphan, Xian Lu had volunteered to raise Kenji. Xian Lu had told him about his true parents, but it was a story perhaps best left unheard.
His mother had come from the city and his birth father had been unknown. That was as much as he was told, but Kenji was mature enough now to read between the lines of the story. His mother had perhaps been one of the many brothel workers in the city and after suffering difficulty in childbirth, the brothel owner was left with a dead employee and an unwanted burden.
To think of it like that, to end up here, a Han and the son of an elder, perhaps the fates had smiled upon him far more than he deserved. Even if it came with the tradeoff of having no doma.
“Eat quickly and come help me with the scripting,” Xin Lu said. “We need to rebirth a tree tomorrow.”
“Which one?”
“The peach,” he said. “Once you’re done with the sigils, finish weaving the rope in the shed. And then don’t forget your channeling exercises before bed.”
Kenji bowed. “Yes, Father.”
So like him to pack a full day’s work into the tail end of a celebration day, Kenji thought. He would be up well into the night finishing it all. Perhaps Xian Lu was seeking an apprentice more than a son, but given his beginnings, Kenji had little room to complain.
He hurriedly ate his supper and then set about to work.
* * *
Glyph writing was one of Kenji’s greatest joys.
It was one of the few things that he was both good at and that his father approved of. Dipping the soft brush into the ink, he paused to let it dry slightly before starting the long strokes across the parchment. If ascending to 8th tier was never to be, Kenji was at least assured to have a very good future as a calligraphist. He worked in silence next to his father, passing to Xian Lu the completed glyphs when he was done. After a quick second of study and a small, almost-indecipherable nod, Xian Lu summoned his Qi and imbued the charm with power.
It was the nod Kenji cherished the most—the small acknowledgement of acceptance and approval. If he could only reach the 1st tier of off-white, he could use his own Qi and imbue himself. He’d be transformed from mere calligrapher to full-fledged rebirther, just like his father. At only 1st-tier ascension, it would of course take him nearly half a day to do what his father had just done in an instant, but he knew all the scripts, the weaving techniques for the ropes, how to make them and ensure they simply regressed one’s age appropriately and did nothing more. In short, he had all the skills, but lacked the power.
After finishing the last charm, Xian Lu retired to perform meditation while Kenji ventured into the weaving shed in the backyard. Crickets chirped loudly in the still night and paused only momentarily when he slid open the shed doors. After lighting a lantern and setting the basket full of freshly imbued charms aside, he set to the intricate task of weaving them into the rope.
At the back of the shed, spools of multicolored twine were stored on high shelves. Some of them Kenji had even crafted himself—turning normal hemp and silk rope into a conduit for the mystic arts using a slow process of boiling and dyeing.
Kenji had st
udied for almost three years just to properly learn the exact measurements of chalk, willow bark ash, and chestnut oil to make the Off White pigment for a five-year rope. From there the pigments grew more complicated and their ingredients more expensive to create. The rankings for the various rope colors were easy to remember as they followed the same pattern as the ascension ranks.
In his mind’s eye he could see the ranks listed clearly as if on a tablet, next to their corresponding ascension ranks.
Off White – 1st Tier – 5 Years
Yellow – 2nd Tier – 10 Years
Orange – 3rd Tier – 20 Years
Red – 4rd Tier – 30 Years
Purple 5th Tier – 40 Years
Violet 6th Tier – 50 Years
Blue 7th Tier – 60 Years
Jade 8th Tier – 80 Years
After that point however the ropes’ colors differed from the ranks. Rarely would a rope be used to rebirth a person beyond the color of yellow or orange. If a regression past 30 years was to be made, the likelihood that such a person could even afford such a rope was slim.
For trees however, rope use did not start until at least orange and most times red. Much of the village’s income came not only from selling the highly concentrated fruit of truly ancient trees, but also in creating saplings for transport and replanting in other villages. Whole orchards of thirty-year-old trees could be shrunk down to less than a year old and sold for hundreds of taels of silver each.
It was a reminder that the knowledge he possessed, the sacred Han art of rope making, was a treasure indeed—literally worth thousands of taels of silver. Kenji used this as his mantra as he focused himself mentally to perform his work. The tree tomorrow was special and required the most powerful rope they could produce. He passed over the brown twine used for a 90-year reversal and went straight to the pitch-black twine reserved for century ropes.
The pigment used to create it was similar to the ink used to create the glyphs. Over thirty rare and exotic ingredients were used and in great quantity, one of which was notably the dried blood of a dragon. Kenji had never seen a dragon and dared to hope he never would. But such were the items necessary to perform these sacred arts. To fight a dragon was a task suitable only for a mystic warrior and even then, a highly skilled one. Kenji reflected on that a moment.
It was a cycle in a way.
The materials the Han clan produced was the fuel used to create the Qi concentrating elixirs and pills that turned ordinary men and women into mystic champions, capable of sundering a tree with a kick or even a whole forest when they were strong enough. Those same champions were the ones who slew the dragons and great spirit beasts to produce yet more rare materials. And then they, the artisan clans, would use those materials to craft even greater and more potent items, or materia, for ascension.
Kenji was quite happy to stay within the artisan side of that cycle—safe crafting script and braiding rope while the mystic warriors challenged beasts that could destroy whole villages and level mountains. Why Shinoto longed for such a life still perplexed him. But it intrigued him as well.
For a moment he caught a glimpse of the two of them travelling the world together: she a legendary mystic warrior, slaying beasts; and he her trusted artisan companion, crafting new potions from the spoils of her great battles. He laughed at such a thought. But it was perhaps more realistic than anything else at the moment.
He already had the knowledge. All he needed was to reach a single tier of Qi storage to be able to imbue. Even if it took him ten years, if it led to an eventual lifetime with Shinoto…it’d be worth it.
Kenji hurried himself to collect the coils of expensive black twine from the top shelf, each one easily worth over one hundred taels of gold. If he was to ever achieve even 1st tier he needed to keep training and that meant getting to his channeling exercises once the rope was complete.
He balanced three spools of twine on top of one another, removing them from the top of the shelf. His eye caught something glinting at the back of the shelf and he paused. Reaching for whatever it was, his hand rested on a very small spool of twine, but he’d never seen it dyed such a color before.
Gold?
At first he thought it was actual gold spun into twine, but it was not heavy enough to be pure gold. It was a pigment for certain, but as to what it was made of, he had no idea. There was nothing else written on the spool to identify it either. He thought to take it to his father to ask him about it, but it was not so important now. He needed to get this rope finished before the night was out.
He would ask him in the morning.
* * *
Kenji finished braiding the century rope close to midnight.
His eyes were heavy while doing the work, but he forced himself to concentrate. One misplaced glyph and the rope could just as easily kill a multi-century tree as return it to the size of a sapling. Ensuring the glyphs were interwoven properly, Kenji completed his work and blew out the lanterns before returning to the house.
He was dog-tired and craved only his bed, but the words of his father, coupled with his tenacity to never break a routine, forced him to forgo sleep and channel.
Channeling was an art form in and of itself and each clan and school had its own nuances and techniques. For the Han clan the focus was, like their patron saint, related to time. Which meant that unfortunately, there was no way to accelerate it quickly the same way one could do with techniques based on elements such as fire, water, or air. Theirs was a technique of simply remaining still.
Which was much harder than one would think.
But it came with the added benefit of passively increasing whether one channeled or not. Time stopped for no one, after all. Which was also what made Kenji’s inability to do so, that much more frustrating. Even without channeling every day, he should have at least reached third tier by now.
Pushing the negative thoughts aside, Kenji assumed lotus position seated upon his mattress. He touched his thumb and forefinger together and held them as well as his breath. Closing his eyes, he focused on feeling the flow of time itself. The steady beat of his heart became his guide and it slowed as his concentration stirred.
Warmth spread from his fingertip and toes. With all his might he forced it towards his doma, his center where the Qi would pool like water in a lake. He envisioned it as so. A great river emptying into a lake. He envisioned the lake swelling at its banks. No…A dam trapping a river and a great lake forming behind it. The waters flowed faster and faster. The lake growing larger. He could feel it. The Qi. The energy flowing through his meridians. But it was weak and dispersed, diluted. He sought to concentrate it.
Focus it.
Sweat sheened upon his brow as the mental strain increased. He felt for it—the swelling of his doma. And while he did feel some sense of pressure there, as soon as he stopped channeling it dissipated quickly like air escaping the lungs.
Every time…
He was a bottle with no cork. A bucket with no bottom. He could sense Qi, harness it even. But he could not store any of his own. That wasn’t enough to make him give up, however. If reaching just 1st tier would give him a future, even one as far-fetched as being a travelling artisan for Shinoto, then he had to keep at it.
Kenji channeled again and again, finally losing count how many times he tried, before he finally fell asleep, still in lotus position, upon his bed.
Chapter 5 – Olja
The night was still and windless, the air damp and cool. Within the dark confines of the forest, Olja stopped long enough to gain her bearings and centered the Qi within her doma.
With a thought, she channeled it through her meridians, invoking her senses and the forest illuminated as bright as if under a full moon’s light. Crouched low in the shrubbery, the earthy scent of undergrowth was overwhelming. Tree frogs sang like a thousand whistles in her ears. A trail of ants climbing the tree next to her caught her eye with such detail that she could barely look away.
Too much…
> Trying again, she pushed aside her superficial senses and focused on the Qi present within the forest itself. The subtle tones of earth and wood…and then suddenly, like a burst of sparks from a fire, she sensed it.
A sudden sickening reek.
She focused on it more and tried to gain a direction. To the west. She would need to climb higher to spot it. Focusing her Qi once more, she summoned the wind arts to lighten her step and bounded swiftly up the side of the tree with Qinggong. Landing on a thick bough, it creaked as it took her considerable weight.
Olja was not a small woman, and the armor and furs she wore made her even heavier. From her vantage atop the tree limb, she oversaw the entirety of the forest valley below. Find it… find it. Channeling the air once more, she focused on that pungent odor and within her mind’s eye she glimpsed it—putrid and loathsome.
It was headed this way.
Olja switched from extending her senses to masking them, using her Qi in reverse. She stilled herself as if in meditation, wishing for not even the branch to move. It was a technique she had become quite skilled at, of late—hiding. Ever since she’d entered the Zhou region, that was all she seemed to have been doing. She was quite sure by now that even a Shadow Master would be impressed with her skill.
The snapping of twigs and the rustle of underbrush drew her attention. She looked below as the thing finally emerged. It stalked through the forest on all fours and halted just below the tree long enough to sniff the night air. It had assumed the body of a wolf, but was perhaps twice the size of a normal one, resembling more a tiger than a wolf.
Cunning, Olja thought. The last time she’d seen the beast, it’d been fording a river and had taken on the form of a giant carp, but now the demon was in the form of a lupine. Its coat was dark grey and as it raised its head to sniff the air, Olja could just make out the glow of its red eyes.
It would be easy to mistake the creature for a spirit beast—a normal animal that had ascended through either age or fate, perhaps ingesting some potent herb or even defeating another spirit beast less powerful than it. But the creature below her was nothing of the sort. Even now its Dark Qi permeated the forest like the stench of death.
