“He’ll live. If that’s what you’re asking,” the Ancestor sarcastically said.

  “Father…”

Ancestor Hao raised his hands, “You shouldn’t show such faces at me, you’re really a frightening one when pushed like that. Does your wife know you look at your father this way?” He stopped, sneered, then raised his chin over to the limp body, “She’d done her job as I requested, that’s all. Inspect him yourself.”

When Patriarch Meng loomed over him, a pot of emotions stirred. He wasn’t asleep peacefully, for the boy had a holding grip of discomfort painted on his face. Twitching occasionally as the hired muscle’s work made the rounds inside him. The Patriarch opened his spiritual sense, looking into what the eyes cannot. For all intents and purposes he was asleep, yet his heart was drumming along as if his marathon wasn’t completed. What gripped him immediately after—made his own heart constrict. “His cultivation,” he said.

  “Seventh cycle of Juva Solidification, leaking cultivation till it hits down to rock-bottom." Ancestor Hao let an object fly out of his hands, and when Patriarch Meng caught it the lasting smell of the vial made him instinctively retch.

  “Mortal Reminder,” the Ancestor himself had a wary look towards the now empty glass. “Used as a suppressor for martial artists too dangerous to be held in captivity, the substance tasteless, nutritional value null. It’s nearly an antithetical to what we are, and what makes us so. Our cores will be poisoned to varying degrees by the changeful dosage. A drop is enough to temporarily drop their cultivation for a year, and if the recovery is not optimal there’s no guarantee their foundation will be the same as it was.”

  Patriarch Meng went pale at the volume of the vial, “And… a gulp?”

  “See for yourself.”

Meng’s senses drilled down below Grisla’s navel, and from there, the thing so similarly like a ball of glass, his core, was a spiderwebbed and brittle thing. Its light glowed a faint hue, teetering on the edge of destruction. If he willed it, he could’ve sent pieces of it flying, finalizing the deed.

  “With this foundation…”

  A sigh came. “He’ll never trouble you, or your son again. Not in this lifetime, anyway. The Orlith’s are finished. Are you happy now?”

  Patriarch Meng looked at his father; wondering, “No. No amount of petty revenge can close the wound of humiliation. In this, I share some of your inclinations. Regardless, this is more for Xinrei than it is for me.”

  “Even if he were to learn the truth that Mira was defeated, sent away to that land looking to bring what’s rightfully theirs back, what can he do now?”

The Ancestor shook his head.

  “In any case, be grateful. It cost me a fortune to have that thing procured from the One-City Kingdom. Alchemist’s able to make that don’t come cheap. Not only that, but they also ask questions. Questions that’ll be looked into if… a rather suspicious monarch has due cause.”

Patriarch Meng made a face, doubtfully saying, “What would it matter to her?”

  “Matters nothing, but it’ll be a justification that her thoughts on us aren’t misplaced.”

  “I see,” he blinked. “Well, what’s done is done. The rest is up to me then.”

  “Memory manipulation?”

  “Memory manipulation.” the Patriarch answered. “What occurred to him in the last two hours would be a dream, and the dream I’ll input will be reality. I’ll think of something to fill in for the lost time.”

  And Hao, who was skeptical, “You think he’s not going to notice something’s horribly wrong? The second he wakes up it’ll be apparent. Like the sun glowing blue.”

  “I sort of have that planned out too, appreciate the curiosity, however.”

  “I’ll just stitch together his core somewhat; enough to get him by for a couple hours.”

  Realizing what he meant, “And in those couple of hours, it’ll be the ceremony.” Ancestor Hao said.

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  Patriarch Meng nodded. “Precisely.”

The Ancestor’s face went through multiple transformations, finally deciding upon what emotion he just wanted to tell. The expression of laughter, it was, the old man gave in as if he were sitting at the best show of all time. “You’re not a good person, you know that, right?” He caught his breath. “Not a single bit, I pity the child.”

The man shrugged off the comment. His hands moved; fingers twisting into shapes as if they were crafting a story. Light condensed to his fingertips during his brief performance, their trails made it seem like he had fireflies for fingers. He let the spell dissipate off one hand, two would be overkill. A hawk’s claw drew a shadow over the boy.

  “Let our business be done.”

His palm captured the boy’s forehead. Then, he grunted.

“Seal!” He momentarily released this hold over him, fingers changing their sign, and he was back to the boy’s head, and closed his eyes for the final act.

The stagnant air remained; the Ancestor made not a movement since. Their assassin was still dead. He removed his hand from the boy, and in its absence, a sole mark was branded without heat or the tragic cries. It faded about a moment later.

The man turned his head, “If you weren’t going to kill her before, I’d do it myself. She obviously doesn’t know the meaning of restraint.”

  “Just her?” His father grinned. “Oh, there it is again! That face!”

Meng rolled his eyes, “He’ll be up in a little. I’ve included an extra scene during his spar with Xinrei, he’ll just believe his sick feeling to be an aftereffect.”

  “Suspicious still.”

  “Well, it can’t be perfect. It’s enough to fool a child.”

  “Then, you’ve got it all figured out. I’ll leave you to it then,”

  “Will you be making an appearance?”

  “Not a hint of me will show. I’ve got other things on my mind. After I’m gone, I’ll be taking a stint at her highness’ court for a few. When I return if things go well, we’ll need to talk.”

  “You’re uncharacteristically serious.”

  “Quite,” Ancestor Hao petted his winged companion, “in any case, what comes next for me will be including you. Possibly even the clan.”

  “Yes, My Ancestor.”

----------------------------------------

Grisha felt as if a castle had been dropped on him. He was only looking for where the door was. When he pulled himself out of bed, he recoiled intermittently at every time he poked his bruises, reminding him that Xinrei was a competent opponent after all. The young cultivator stood up and headed to the pantry. Whenever he thought about the fight, it seemed to smear in certain parts like a watercolor. Now, whether it was due to the combat being as intense as he thought, he couldn’t say.

  “I feel like I’m forgetting something.” he said.

Though his memory of the fight seemed to be distorted, the looming event was not.

“The ceremony! I haven’t picked out my uniform yet!” he exclaimed. Grisla threw himself to his wardrobe, hands yanking out almost whatever they could touch. Shirts, trousers, and robes in a spectrum of colors littered his bed. He had a few hairpieces he couldn’t figure out which was best to use, though he did not deliberate long on it. His gut had told him later.

The Chosen Ceremony was a grand spectacle, serving as both celebration for the clan, and the crowning of a new Grittus cultivator, whose talent in the now and future will be purposed to protecting the clan, reaching new heights unseen by the generation before, and among other things that those below them wouldn’t have to be burdened with.

Every clansman would be in attendance, and heaven’s help you if you try to find some way to weasel out of it. But that was rare, and other than that, whatever could be the reason one would try to dodge the most important day of the year? That Chosen will, if they don’t somehow manage to find themselves in an “accident,” become a pillar that’ll influence the clan’s structure for generations. That slight could ruin a family, so, even without thinking of that, clansmen still obligated themselves to the event.

Grisla tightened his sash in the mirror. He wore some of the clan’s blacks, with his personal touch of red. He looked like the Chosen he was inaugurated to be.

“Xinrei’ll always be mad at me for being elected before him.” There was nothing he could do about that, leaving the mirror with a sigh. Once, Xinrei and him had better relations, when he didn’t get excelled, or before his father paid more attention to whomever he competed with.

Taking a step outside, he wobbled; reaching for the doorframe to give him strength. Grisla almost found it hard to believe he won the way he feels now. Xinrei had given it his all, and he felt it in every step. It didn’t matter, he’ll shake it off on his way back over to the ceremonial grounds. He traveled down the same roads, which were now all devoid of clansmen, and sparse with regular villagers. Yet, the lamplights, and banners spoke otherwise.

Eventually, when he came to the grounds, a crowd unlike any ever gathered in Leimuth blocked the passage to the entrance. A human blockade that’d make one think it was more of a riot, than what was. He couldn’t wait. Taking the next best option as he leaped above the crowd, when gravity claimed him, the floor was lava, and the best platforms were unmistakable because of their number.

Grisla’s foot landed delicately on the first head.

  “What the?”

  Then the next.

  “Get off me!”

  “Hey!”

Till he made it to the first cordon. The guards initially were prepared to swat him from the air for daring to cut ahead, but Grisla’s face and his Chosen badge were unmistakable. Immediately, they shoved a passerby who’d just gotten acceptance, maybe even waited outside the grounds for a time longer than brief.

  “You were almost late, my Chosen. The Patriarch is expecting you.”

  Grisla nodded. “I’ve erred. Is he distracted right now?”

  “It’s uncertain,” One of them shrugged, then shoved another to respect the line, “but may good fortune smile on you, and, if you could, pass a note from us to Xinrei on congratulations.”

  “Noted.” he moved inside.