by Tao Wong
“No. Again!”
Of course, none of that did Wu Ying a lick of good as he moved through his forms, attempting to string together the first, second, and third forms of the Long family style under the intense guidance of Elder Cheng. The master swordsman was one of the rare few individuals who had gained the Heart of the Sword—a state of mind where one could not only wield the weapon like the extension of one’s body but could also maneuver it as instinctively as an untrained individual might breathe.
It was only superseded by the Soul of the Sword, a mythic state of control that allowed a wielder to become a living weapon, obviating the need for the physical representation of what they had come to mimic in their very soul.
Even Master Cheng had yet to reach that stage. Few cultivators did, for sheer dedication to the weapon was insufficient. It required enlightenment, that rarest and most chaotic of graces. Even if Master Cheng—with his strong, masculine chin and his extra-long arms—was the perfect swordsman in every other way.
Still, due to his skill, his vaunted physical abilities, Elder Cheng was able to train Wu Ying in his own style and serve as a peerless sparring partner.
Of course, to get to that stage, Wu Ying had to satisfy his Master in the conduction of his forms. And that was his present difficulty. Each of the three forms—the generic basic form at the start, and the second and third forms for Body Cleansers and Energy cultivators—were meant to work together. To flow from one to another.
But each time Wu Ying made even the smallest mistake, his Master had him restart. An inch too far, an elbow too high or a leg that dragged rather than stepped and his Master would call out that most hated word.
“Again!”
Once more, Wu Ying began again. Dragon unsheathes its Claws transitioned to Dragon swiping at the Clouds, to Return in the Snow, to Dragon sweeping its Tail. With each motion, chi informed his use, flowing through his body. What should have been simple, instinctive by this point, was wrong. His body was too heavy, his muscles a little too jerky in motion, prone to flowing when they should be stiff, stiff when it should be fluid as water. When he exploded into the Sword’s Truth as part of his form, he moved too far. When he blocked with Raindrops caught on Scales, his sword went out of alignment.
By inches at times, less at others.
All of it, wrong. For an inch was all it took for a blade to slip past and tear out a throat.
Or plunge into a chest.
The worst part was, Wu Ying could sense his sword better than ever. He could tell where it was with each motion, the weight of the wooden practice weapon and its momentum with exceptional clarity. He felt himself on the edge of a breakthrough of both his understanding of weapon and form, but his body… his body betrayed him.
“Again!”
Over and over, his body betrayed him. Forms learnt by rote, then studied to become more than routine motions, were repeated again and again, each mistake discarded. Frustration threatened to bubble up from his heart but was squashed by dedication and discipline. Wu Ying floated and fought, muscles tensing and releasing in a quiet bubble of physical serenity, broken only by the occasional interjection.
“Again!”
Until such time when he collapsed, hours later, muscles throbbing and twitching. Nonstop motion had drained the cultivator. His extraordinary stamina provided by the flow of chi through his body, gone. His dantian was nearly empty now. Even so, the Never Empty Wine Pot cultivation exercise churned through his aura and his dantian as it sucked down the environmental chi, helping Wu Ying to convert it to his own.
“Wash yourself again. And then we will spar,” Master Cheng commanded Wu Ying without looking at the tired cultivator. He walked over to a nearby table and picked up a teacup. Sipping on the liquid, he ignored his heaving student.
Stumbling to his feet, Wu Ying followed Master Cheng’s instructions. As was routine by now, he found the washroom, towels and a pail of water awaiting him. A quick wash followed before Wu Ying exited, his hair still damp. Each second, each motion, he cultivated, drawing upon the energy of the world, knowing that he would not receive much time to rest.
Already, his Master waited on the sands, his sword drawn and pointing at the ground. Master Cheng wielded no practice weapon, but a sharp that would cut and sting, that could kill if used improperly. At first, his Master had used a blunt, practical weapon; but soon after their personal lessons had begun again since Wu Ying’s injury, he had discarded it for this weapon. When asked, he had cited a lack of improvement on Wu Ying’s part.
Staring at the weapon that had tasted his blood over and over again, Wu Ying could not help but shiver a little. His body was littered with tiny scars, wounds picked up from that weapon as it tore into his skin, leaving him bleeding. Never seriously injured, of course, but still, they stung from the numerous washings and the sweat that he exuded.
Even so, Wu Ying dared not object. To receive the personal instruction of an Elder as he did was a benefit that few inner sect cultivators could hope to achieve. Certainly not from the quiet, aloof Elder Cheng, the Elder obsessed with karma and karmic ties.
Dantian barely a quarter filled, Wu Ying picked up his practice weapon and faced his Master on the sands. He saluted with his weapon, closed fist gripped by clasped hand, blade pointing along the back of his arm. And then, falling into his guard, they fought.
There was no holding back in their sparring, no careful searching for openings, no hesitant movements to verify measure. They had fought one another so often that the recognition of measure was instinctual. Their match disregarded minor nuisances like that, instead focusing on the higher end of combat. Timing, control of the weapon and zones of engagement, positioning of the body and the proper combination of sequences of attacks and defenses. Counters to attacks that became defenses against returned lunges, cuts that transformed into thrusts which set up kicks.
Dragon Stretches in reverse let him avoid a sudden passing lunge by Master Cheng. Combined with Dragon strokes the Painting to deal with the sudden dropped wrist-cut that Master Cheng preferred that targeted his thigh. The reversing of motion in his upper body for Dragon strokes the Painting allowed Wu Ying to begin the process of altering his momentum, allowing him to push forward.
Of course, Master Cheng was not just holding still. The wrist-cut pushed aside, his Master continued moving forward, twisting his body into a pretzel as he dodged the edge of Wu Ying’s blade, spinning to bring his non-sword arm’s elbow toward Wu Ying’s temple.
The Moon Rises in the West let Wu Ying spiral in the same direction as Master Cheng’s elbow, slipping by a fraction of an inch even as his leg rose. The combination of the Northern Shen Kicking Style to the Long family sword form was still developing. If the combination had been in its infancy a few years ago, now it was a stroppy teenager. Mostly functional, but with occasional bouts of incompetence and overexaggerated confidence in its ability to complete an action.
The kick was dodged, the edge of Master Cheng’s sword elbow rising to catch Wu Ying’s calf with a hard strike. It pushed off the young cultivator’s balance, forcing him to stumble and throw himself into another spinning attack, sword held outward to ward off his opponent. It succeeded, mostly, though a light prick against Wu Ying’s shoulder marked the edge of Master Cheng’s blade sinking into his shoulder.
As Wu Ying landed and recovered, a part of him knew he had lost that point. If Master Cheng had wanted to, Wu Ying would have been skewered entirely. Instead, he had been allowed to fall and recover. Just long enough that he had his sense of balance. Before another pass began, the straight blade stabbed at his face, forcing Wu Ying back with each motion.
One pass after the other, the pair fought, each moment a struggle, each breath a harshly drawn exchange. Blades grew and shortened as energy filled them and forced dodges in anticipation of unseen chi strikes. The cultivators fought, and Wu Ying struggled, his openings exploited at each moment.
Until he collapsed, bleeding from a half-dozen w
ounds, his dantian empty. His blood was a little darker than it had been before. Or was that just his imagination?
“Your stamina has improved. Have you achieved the Sense-level for the Never Empty Wine Pot exercise?” Master Cheng asked, walking over to the corner and tossing Wu Ying the waterbag it held.
“Yes, Master.” Draining the liquid greedily, Wu Ying coughed a little as the refreshingly cool drink entered his throat. He felt the sting of his wounds fading, his body refilling his dantian as he breathed. The wounds stopped bleeding, his cultivator’s constitution already healing it. It would not take long before they were just another scar, and then, eventually, smooth skin. “And I believe I have cleared another meridian.”
“Do not break through any further,” Elder Cheng snapped, head whipping around to stare at his student.
“Why?” Wu Ying said, surprised.
“Did Liu Tsong speak to you?” When Wu Ying nodded, Elder Cheng continued. “Then you know.”
“But—”
“There is no but. We have significant concerns about your body now and breaking through other meridians—altering your body further—could lead to unforeseen consequences.” Elder Cheng paused then continued, more calmly. “It is unlikely, but it is best to be careful. A month or two more will do little to change matters, no?”
Wu Ying reluctantly nodded, though his thoughts turned to the other reason why they trained so hard. The reason why he had been injured. His brows drew down, his lips pursed as he remembered the dark sect that threatened the Sect and the nation.
“Do not concern yourself about the other matter. Your job is to heal and improve yourself,” Master Cheng said. “Focus on the now for yourself. Growing strong is your only objective at the moment, for the weak have no say in this world.”
And to that, Wu Ying had nothing to say. While there might be other forms of power—judicial, moral, heavenly—those forms had as little to do with him as the peaches of immortality. Wished for at times, but ultimately, only gifted to a select few. Perhaps he might be able to steal one, one day, but even Sun Wukong had to have the personal strength to deal with the consequences of such behavior.
“Now. Again!”
Chapter 2
It was late afternoon, just before dinner, when Wu Ying stumbled down the mountain, his tired and aching body still healing from the abuse he had received. Today was a training day. Tomorrow would be just as harsh, working the fields for Elder Li.
In the meantime, he limped down the mountain slowly, his stomach growling in anguish. Gulps of flavored water with bamboo sugar was insufficient nourishment, and even the handful of nuts he had been allowed to consume had done little to assuage his hunger.
As he traveled down the cobbled streets, the persistent mountaintop winds tugged at his outer robes, pushing them against his open wounds and staining them further. More than a few passing inner sect cultivators who spotted Wu Ying frowned at him, their eyes sweeping over his intrusive presence. While injuries were not uncommon in the Sect—training for martial and cultivation arts was dangerous—walking around the Sect unkempt and bleeding was less than civilized. Add the fact that unlike the uniformly pale-skinned, jade-smooth complexions of the inner sect, Wu Ying looked more like the rough-skinned peasants and mortals who lived below, and his social status was somewhat in question.
Even if the nobles who made up the majority of the inner sect had put aside their initial bias toward those who rose from the lower ranks, a constant reminder like Wu Ying that they were not yet the vaunted immortals they sought to emulate was tough to swallow.
Of course, there were also those few nobles who had not grown sufficiently enlightened to ignore such minor matters like an individual’s upbringing. To them, Wu Ying knew he would always be on the outside of the inner sect. Thankfully, he’d found his own friends, one of whom he was about to meet.
The mess hall, a large wooden building with connected kitchens and a single, open eating area for the inner sect members, was, as usual for this time of day, filled to the brim. Large helpings of food were placed upon each dining table, multiple dishes in all forms of meat, vegetables, and tofu, with covered pots of rice beside the dishes. The smells from within competed only with the din, scattered conversations being overheard by Wu Ying as he limped toward his usual table.
“… lost another trade caravan between the cities of Jiyan and Erluyan last week. They say there were large tiger paws that disappeared from the attack site, as if it flew away.”
“… forget it. She wasn’t worth my time. Did you see that…”
“No, no. The fire element is the weakest—it’s so common and popular that half the talismans on sale are focused on protecting against it. You’re better off adding a metal element to your skill.”
Wu Ying glanced at that trio of speakers to spot a pair of talisman makers and a blacksmith student arguing, using pieces of their dinner as stand-ins for the elements.
“…they’re real, I tell you. The Dark Sects are moving. I heard the Golden Crane Sect was wiped out, to the last member, just last week.”
Wu Ying’s steps slowed down, turning a little when he looked at that pair of speakers. The male of the pair laughed, shaking his head.
“I heard it was because they had angered a Nascent Soul thrice-born metal monkey. Something about killing too many of his descendants.”
“Cover up!”
Wu Ying moved on, finally spotting his friend and his waiting seat. To his surprise, they had a visitor, one he had not seen in ages. The young lady, small and refined, was chatting happily with the bald ex-monk and waving a drumstick in one hand.
“And then I told him, if he couldn’t find his spear, I could pull one out for him,” Li Yao said. “He got angry. Really, really, angry, which meant he led with his face. That’s when I put my spear into it and…”
Spotting the way Tou He looked over his shoulder, Li Yao turned. To Wu Ying’s surprise, she did not get up and walk away. She did not flinch. Even if he did, a little.
“Oh. Good evening, Wu Ying.”
“Li Yao,” Wu Ying greeted his ex back. He noted the distance in the way she spoke to him, the addition of his generation name. Not that they switched to personal names often, especially not in public. But it was the way she said it that really put him on notice. They might be able to sit together, but what they had had was over.
“You look horrible,” Li Yao said. “Like you rolled through a pile of swords while making out with an angry cat.”
“Now that’s an image,” Tou He said. “One I’d prefer to forget.”
Ignoring them, Wu Ying sat down heavily and pulled over a bowl. He ladled rice into his small porcelain bowl. “What were you two talking about? More assignments?”
“Actually, we were discussing the research on my…” Tou He waved down his body to where his lower dantian would be located.
Wu Ying raised a surprised eyebrow. He hadn’t known that Li Yao had been informed about Tou He’s problem.
“Tou He and I have been taking assignments together. Mostly beast hunting, though there were a few bandit clearings too.” Li Yao frowned. “More and more of those really.”
“Not all of them are bandits.” Tou He’s lips pursed.
“That’s just your belief,” she said.
“Their skin is too fair. Their clothing too good. And the way they looked, the size of their noses, the cleft of their chins!” Tou He said, waving his chopsticks.
Frowning, Wu Ying leaned forward and spoke over Li Yao as she began to reply. “What are you two arguing about?”
“Tou He believes that the bandits are actually dark sect members. Low-level, outer sect ones maybe. Maybe just hopefuls,” Li Yao explained. “I think the rising price of food and the on-going war a more likely explanation.”
The war between the States of Shen and Wei had continued throughout the summer and into the fall. And while the armies had managed to hinder the vast majority of the incursions into the country, sortie
parties and a few armies had penetrated deep enough to do real damage. Even if peasants weren’t allowed to leave their farms—legally—the fear of being caught by a raiding party had created a steady stream of refugees. Refugees who had no legal way to feed themselves could turn to banditry if they lacked the funds or extended family to see them through.
“Not all of them, just some!” Tou He objected.
“One group. We found one group that was mildly suspicious,” Li Yao said.
“One that we encountered. Others have found other suspicious teams.”
Wu Ying watched the pair argue, their tone of voice and the speed that they rebutted one another showing how well-worn an argument this had become. He blinked, somewhat surprised, but he had to admit that between his initial convalescence and the current training regime he was under, he had been out of touch for months. Winter was arriving, along with the mid-autumn harvest festival.
He would probably have to make his way down to the village for that. While his parents were accepting of his absence for the most part, the mid-autumn festival had always been a big festival when he was a peasant. A time of remembrance, of celebration and preparation. That was for later. Right now…
“What’s the news about, you know…” Wu Ying looked at Tou He’s stomach.
The ex-monk blinked then flashed one of his devil-may-care grins, running a hand along his shaved head before saying, humbly, “Well, we’re thinking it might be time for me to consider opening the middle dantian instead.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
The lower dantian was the most commonly used dantian. Its location meant that it was the least dangerous to manipulate and make mistakes with. Opening and using the middle or upper dantian—located in the chest and head respectively—was dangerous. While those dantians were open naturally, the act of opening a dantian meant widening energy flow through them and forcibly increasing the amount they could store.
“Yes. But the few exercises we’ve found have not been particularly useful,” Tou He said. “Adjusting them to fit my particular situation is dangerous. Maybe even more dangerous than using a tried-and-tested method of opening another dantian.”
