In the dead of night, the wind whistled and the crisp air stung bare skin as a single disciple darted between the shadows. Although the harsh rain earlier had softened considerably, so had the ground of the dirt packed streets of the monastery. Each step echoed like a clap of thunder in the young master's mind as he raced through the night, although in reality the untrained ear would have heard nothing as the cardio silencing qi technique the young master used quieted all footfalls, allowing him to run across muddied earth and puddle surfaces as if he were lighter than a feather.

  Nearing the outer gatehouse he a shaky, yet controlled deep breath, felt himself slow for a moment as his body began to burn in protest of the sudden break in his breathing's rhythm, and practically lunged forward as he forcefully exhaled with a closed mouth grimace. Willing his legs to pound out faster, longer strides routinely propelling himself off the ground for seconds at a time, the dull burn that had faded to barely a topical heat now slowly reignited in his core dantian, quickly spreading to his chest and legs like a lumbering wildfire.

  The sleep dazed sentinels stationed outside the monastery walls quickly sobered and snapped to attention, caught off guard by the young master's now unmasked qi like a sudden gust of air on a windless day. Stumbling forward from the sudden draft of qi billowing from behind, the two guards whipped around to face a blur of white, violet and muscle hidden behind the haze of an invisible fire.

  In the seconds it takes for the senior of the two guards to even form a vowel of authority in his throat, the haze and the blur are upon them and the sentinels' bodies fly out from in front of the gatehouse as if thrown from the saddle of some wild horse. Crashing into the deceptively soft mud with sickening cracks and choked screams, as the young master barrels past them down the mountain face, the cry of his stride's wind roaring after him in the dazed guard's ears only a moment later.

  Trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and the sect's temple grounds before anyone could react, the young master throws himself headlong into maintaining his breakneck pace and just barely manages to dodge a crescent razor of flat cloud.

  His concentration broken, he stumbles, fighting to keep his balance as he skids in the slick earth of the rice paddock, over extending his leg and shooting out a hand to catch himself from crashing face first into the mud. Bringing himself to a knee and using his opposite arm to balance himself in the mud, the young master looks up in a burning fury, only to find the cold gaze of his teacher looking down on him. Instantly he realizes that the old man had predicted this and lain in wait for him all along.

  Trapped by his own predictable impulsiveness, he can only watch in a silent rage as his teacher leapt from the branches of a tree that he had concealed himself in. Despite having been no less than 10 metres up, the old man lands with the practiced deliberateness of a 9th rank qi master. A second later, seven more land behind him, although these ones lack the control and form of the former's landing. One even stumbles into a face full of dirt before two pairs of arms roughly hoist him upright. 

  A pair of irons around his legs, hands bound behind him and streaks of brown and red dripping down his face and torn hauberk, the captured liaison looked beyond worse for wear between the muscle knotted arms of the young master's former sect brothers.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "Boy…," the old teacher began with a sigh, "Are you really so keen to rush to your death? What did I tell you before?"

  "It doesn't matter!" The young master spat back, "Dantians, discipline, technique scrolls, fighting form, none of it matters. I couldn't give a rat's ass about immortal life! what's the point of power if all you do is sit on your ass and let everyone you love be slaughtered like dogs!?" His voice cracking and his cotton training gi stained brown with drying mud, the young master rose to his feet as his fury welled inside him and stood defiantly against the gaze of his teacher. 

  Although the night air was cold, the letter from the liaison practically burned in his pocket, as did the guilt in his heart and the memory of his weakness. Three months ago, when the first letter had arrived announcing his lady mother's oath of continued fealty to his lord uncle's paramilitia in the face of their empire's treason against their clan he'd immediately sought out his teacher to beg leave, so that he may fight by his mother's side and protect her and their family with the teachings he'd learn from his time training with the sect. 

  But his teacher had denied him. "Whether you are here above in our mountains, or below within the walls of your bloodline's manor, it is all the same. One grain cannot feed the starved, just as one man alone cannot change the course of fate," his teacher been quick to answer, "lest of all war."

  "B-but… Teacher, if something w-were… if something were to happen to them!---"

  "If you are so cocksure of what little you have gleamed from our sect's ancient tutelage, than you should have no trouble putting down everyone on this mountain at once," the old man had actually said so matter-of-factly. "That would be only a fraction of the power you would need in order to conquer your family's enemies," he'd absolutely declared to the young master before commanding him to try his hand in mock combat against his six classmates all at once.

  When he'd been subdued by his sect brothers' greater numbers the old man shook his head disparagingly, "perhaps now you won't be so keen to rush to your death," and he'd dismissed him with a wave of his hand, leaving him in the care of those same brothers to see to his wounds.

  Although the ache in his body and his teacher's words had left him worn down and convinced that his best bet to help his family was to stay and finish his training at the monastery at first, all of that had changed with the arrival of yesterday's mail. 

  Now, as he stood in front of his teacher and lost brothers one last time, bare chested and covered in mud, he could feel himself lose the last of his fear. Just as he'd feared he'd been caught trying to desert the sect and now he'd have to face the consequences. However, as a pitiful young man limped off into the night down the face of the mountain, he smiled to himself.

  Though half dead, bloodied and without the arts he'd spent near half a decade cultivating, at least he would not die sitting on his ass.