Booker woke up in his room with little idea how the last of the night had gone. He had bid a tearful goodbye to the three brothers, explaining that with the success of their scam, they shouldn’t be seen in each other’s company for at least a week. He hoped he’d remembered to set them looking for connections to the child buried beneath the bathhouse. If not…

He’d have to find a way to stay in contact without revealing his connections to them.

Heavy is the head that bears the crown. He grumbled, trying to shrug off the sunlight falling through the shutters onto his eyes. It was a losing battle. Heavy, heavy, heavy…

Stretching, he slid out of bed naked and shadowboxed around the narrow confines of his room, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet and throwing quick jabs, heavy rights, feeling out the basic vigor of this new body until sweat dripped down his face. In the corner, a confused Snips was attempting to dance along, waving his claws in rhythm.

Booker smiled. He had been nearing the end of his 20s– enough to feel the beginnings of age’s gravity pulling down the arc of his MMA ‘career’. Now he wasn’t sure if his body had even hit twenty proper. He was tall and lean with a dense muscle and a chance of one last growth spurt. With better nutrition and modern weightlifting, Booker could pack a real muscle onto this frame.

I really need to cut down on the nights I spend drinking…

I haven’t trained nearly enough for the Martial Basis quest. A few less parties and it’d be done already.

But I need better food, too. This congee diet isn’t doing me any favors in terms of nutrition.

He cleaned up in the basin, thanking the source of the Sect’s cold, clean water, which trickled out from a small hole in the wall. No other buildings in town had any sort of plumbing, but the Sect had a single continuous flow.

Washing his hair, he sighed as he went through the motions of tying and layering his robes. It was a black outer robe around a white inner robe. Both were tied shut by a sash of red cloth. I wish we could dress like normal people.

But before he left for the day, there was one thing he wanted to see.

Quest: Miracle Worker

Goal: Heal (5/5) other people of their sicknesses or wounds.

Reward: Karmic Pill.

His work in the hospital had finished this quest, and he wanted to know what a ‘Karmic Pill’ might be.

As he focused on the quest, a light poured through the surface of his outstretched hand, materializing into a small redwood box that sat neatly in his palm, barely large enough to contain a single pill. As he set it down and pried open the lid, a bloody metallic sourness reached his nose, distinctly unlike the heavenly aromas of other medicines.

Within was a pitch black pill. Unlike a normal pill with a smooth surface, the exterior was wrinkled and warped like a walnut, with many ridges and trenches arranged in a spiral.

On the inside of the lid was written ‘This is a lucky pill. What kind of luck depends on you.”

That… could mean almost anything.

Iron Hell Crucible Pill

29% Potency // 43% Toxicity

Effect:

Grants a burst of energy, resilience to pain, and exercise efficiency. Forges the body stronger.

Special Effect: Benefits are magnified by physical strain and damage taken during the effects of this pill.

Ingredients:

Bitter River Draketongue

Blue Imp Toxin

Jade Twin-Tail Scorpion Gland

Hangman Willow Bark

Hmm. The pill itself has nothing to do with luck, so I guess I can put together that Karmic Pill means some kind of random draw.

His nose wrinkled.

Does it being a hell pill mean I have bad luck?

— — —

Overnight the clouds above the city had transformed. From a low and persistent drizzle, the rain had become a driving force of cold wind and sharp, stinging droplets. The trees beyond the city bent and swayed wildly in the gale.

Thunder crackled within massive inverse canyons carved between the clouds. In those spaces, Booker thought he saw the white shapes of birds flying through the storm’s desolate gray towers. Storms were simply bigger here – more magnificent, more threatening, the wind strong enough to pluck people off the streets unless they stayed indoors. A true storm could rip the rooftops of the city apart.

But for the cultivating students it was a time of excitement. As a group they were preparing, tied together with ropes and dressed in heavy hoods to absorb the rain. When the instructor called they would begin to climb the mountain, rushing through the alpine forests and trudging against the sloping mud, until they reached the mountain range’s lowest peak, the Stormfront Pagoda.

There they would cultivate under the lightning-strewn heavens, collecting the energies of storm and wind to use in their cultivation.

Booker was glad he wasn’t one of them today. He got to stay indoors, and eat free congee. Because there were fewer mouths to feed, it wasn’t the burnt ends from the bottom of the cauldron today, and there were pickled greens and bacon chunks sprinkled on top. Booker sat down with a grin.

“You’re chipper today.” Spider said.

Booker looked up. The wiry, bald-headed cripple sat across from him, digging into a bowl of congee. Hmm. What’s he want?

“Yeah, well… The storm is out there and I’m in here. That puts a smile on any face, surely.” Booker allowed himself to ease up, treating the conversation as casual talk instead of some kind of verbal duel. “And the food is good today.”

“The food is good today…” Spider agreed sleepily, stirring at his congee and lifting a piece to his mouth. He slowly chewed, taking his time to get to the point. “But today’s the day the examiner for the Sparrow Examination is chosen, Rain.” He leaned forward and his eyes shone.

“And who would that be?” Booker asked cautiously.

Behind them, the doors banged open and the crews of tied-together cultivators went roaring out into the boom and pour of the rainstorm.

“Word is, it’s Instructor Graysky.” Spider said happily.

Graysky. The name brought instant bile to the pit of Booker’s stomach. Rain’s memory of him was pure, acrid hate. The Instructor who had Rain branded. He hates me – he always has, because of something my sister did.

He’d never gotten the details.

Shit. I’m not going to pass with him at the helm. Not a single chance. Booker’s expression turned sour and he glared at Spider, knowing full well the man had gotten what he wanted.

Spider chuckled and stirred his congee.

“Ugh, an animal. Get out you filthy vulture!” Sister Mei snapped, sitting down beside Booker and glaring at Spider. The man laughed and pulled his tray off the table, walking away and settling with his friends further down.

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

“Thank you Sister Mei. You are a shield against all evils.” Booker said. She did a petite bow, accepting the praise like a venerable master.

“You shouldn’t let the ugly old vultures bother you like that. They don’t see you like I do. They see you being nice, and they think it’s weakness.” Sister Mei bumped her shoulder against him.

“I’ll keep your advice in mind. You certainly seem adept at warding them off.” Booker ate with enthusiasm between words. He needed all the food he could get if he was going to keep up this triple life, working and training and getting into trouble in the city.

Honestly, I can read her signals but… I don’t have time for romance. I especially don’t want to end up in relationship where I have to lie.

This whole dual-life situation… It’s really a lot on my shoulders.

But if there was one thing that relaxed him, it was working. Oddly, there was a great deal of satisfaction in the act for Booker. The lightning-fast way his hands moved, like they had a lifetime of experience, the razor certainty with which he could handle the knife… It took just enough effort to be satisfying and just little enough that he could think.

He was smiling faintly as he made his way to the alchemy lab.

— — —

“Today, we were meant to go out and police the forest for toxic weeds. But the heavens had other plans.” The old master said, tying on his apron. “Do you know the root nature of toxic plants?”

Booker paused, trying to think. The root nature of toxic plants. “No.” He admitted.

“Plants draw power from the soil, the water, and the sun. Of these three, the soil is the source of toxicity. If you taste it…” He reached into the pot holding a small leafy herb, taking a pinch of the dirt and placing it in his mouth. With a wave, he suggested Booker do the same.

Booker did so, and winced. He couldn’t taste a damn thing over how much he hated the texture on his tongue.

“You’ll sense a bitter, metallic flavor. But were you to taste the soil of the upper mountain, it might taste sweeter. That’s because the Sect has drawn the pollution out with a formation of sacred trees. This allows sacred herbs to survive and prosper, where normally the inherent sickness of the earth prevents all but a rare few specimens from flourishing.”

“The earth is poisoned?” Booker asked, scraping his tongue clean.

“This earth’s essential nature is poison. Only rainwater and the wind are pure; everything that touches the ground inherits some portion of the pollution.” The master gestured to a small beaker full of something pitch black. It only took Booker a moment to recognize it; beast blood. “And where this pollution grows too thick, monsters are born. Common animals and plants can become possessed by a rabid desire to kill humans; this plague manifests as red eyes.”

He took the beaker in a pair of tongs and held it out towards Booker. The blood inside began to writhe, extending into red tendrils that brushed the glass inside the beaker.

“You see? The plague changes them on a fundamental level. Even their blood seeks to kill humans.” His master said triumphantly.

“Why? What makes the plague so hateful towards us?” Booker asked.

“Hateful? It’s not hate, but greed. The greed for immortality. Beasts and corrupted cultivators practice a form of cultivation that can only devour others. It creates nothing, but one can achieve immortal life simply by killing and eating.” He set the beaker back down, and explained the final part in a soft voice. “Listen to me, Rain. Every pill we create contains a certain amount of poison. Pill usage leads to psychosis, to fits of rage… to addiction.”

Booker remained silent.

“It is of the utmost importance to use medicine carefully. That said…” He did not look directly at Booker as he asked. “Have you been approached by illicit alchemists yet?”

Booker paused for a second, and then realized there was no need to lie – whatever faults Rain had, he’d chosen to die over remaining Zheng Bai’s dog.

“I was approached before I knew who they were, and they helped me with my exams. When I found out what they wanted, I told them no.” Booker said, leaning back against a granite topped workbench. “I think they’ll kick me around a bit but I don’t think they’ll kill me.”

I like the old geezer too much to really bend the truth, but Rain made it easy.

“They will certainly not!” The master’s nostrils flared, and he turned. “Make no mistake, your master is no pushover. If they try to bother you, you will remind them I am not blind. Harm you, and I’ll tear up all their petty grifts in this workshop!”

His words echoed and several people in the workshop looked over. Booker winced, but when the embarrassment faded, what he was left with was a deep impression – his master did really care about him. He scratched the back of his neck.

“Thank you, master.”

“Mm. Listen to your master, Rain, because one day this duty may fall to you. The workshop is infested with parasites.” His master’s voice lowered to an uncharacteristically harsh whisper. “The black market feeds off the Sect wherever it finds weakness. Too many disciples are content to collect their dirty money without looking at the full picture, and seeing how many small leaks will sink the ship.”

Damn. Poor Master Ping… He’s really bad at spotting a liar. And he trusts with his whole heart. I guess I’m lucky to be here. If someone who was willing to take advantage of his generosity had become his apprentice…

It wasn’t hard to see how badly that could go.

But before the conversation could continue, there was a banging on the doors to the courtyard, and someone shouted, “Open the doors! There’s a man injured!”

As disciples rushed to move the massive wood bolt and pulled it aside, the wind drove the doors open. Six men came through bearing a seventh on a stretcher. It was Wild Swan, but his face was red and raw with vibrant red burns and his hair had turned shock-white, smoke trailing up from where embers flickered and burned on the edges of his skin.

“What happened?” Booker asked as he rushed to the boy’s side, checking his vitals with a finger to the neck. Despite everything, his breathing was clear and strong.

“Struck by lightning!” A rain-soaked cultivator gasped out.

They all heaved him onto a table on the workshop. His master elbowed his way in, pressing a pill to the boy’s lips. Seizing a pair of cutting sheers he began to cut away Wild Swan’s clothes. As he peeled the cloth away from the burns wounds, flesh sloughed off. He hissed.

“Disinfect some tar.” His master commanded. Booker immediately seized ingredients off the shelf, tossing pillow moss bloom and coldfinger root together and dicing them into a paste, mixing the sticky sap of the flowers and the root together with pine tar to create a disinfectant paste that could be packed into a wound to glue it shut.

Joining his master, Booker began to slather it over the boy’s wounds. “Cover everything you can. His burns are wide but shallow; more risk of death by infection than anything.” His master said. “I will go fetch something strong.”

He rushed off, and Booker was for the moment alone in the duty of caring to Wild Swan. The six disciples were nervously clustered around him, but offered no help. Some of them…

Some of them looked hungry. They had the dark eyes of vultures, gleaming with delight at the talented Wild Swan’s downfall.

Booker checked the boy’s belt. It was empty. No coin pouch or any other cultivating tools.

He looked up venomously at the nearest cultivator. “Do you want me to tell his father he was robbed on his deathbed?”

“Wha-” The man started to protest innocence, but Booker cut in

“His coin purse. His things. All of them are missing; did you think nobody would notice?” In the background rain and storm billowed into the courtyard as servants struggled to push the door closed against the roaring wind.

“Did the storm blow your wits out, cripple? Don’t talk to us like that.” Another disciple, lanky and long-haired, stepped in. His lips curled.

“I’ll talk alright – I’ll tell his father he died surrounded by jackals. And worse, he might not die. Do you think he’ll abandon the matter if he discovers you took advantage of him today?” Booker didn’t flinch as the cultivator stepped up to him, cracking his neck.

“What are you going to do?” He asked, pushing his face towards Booker’s with a menacing snort. “Tell me again?”

“You don’t have a winning hand.” Booker replied, eye-to-eye. “The boy’s father will extract payment, or the boy will. Anything you do will backfire.”

The man stepped back and then suddenly threw a punch. Booker was ready for this most sophomoric of strategies. The blow exploded against the back of his arm, nearly breaking the bone, and sent him skidding back.

He checked that. It was only half-power.

Booker read the faint pause and backwards jerk as an attempt to stop short of killing him, but leave him badly bruised. Without that – I might not have been able to block at all.

Now the cultivator snorted, reaching into his robes and taking out a coin purse, he slammed it onto the table beside Wild Swan. “Satisfied now, cripple? He’ll die rich while the rest of us eat congee.”

“...”

It was so faint Booker couldn’t hear it – he barely realized there had been anything to hear.

But Wild Swan had spoken.

“I said–”

“... dol…” Wild Swan’s hand rose, shaking.

Booker tilted his head down to hear, and then straightened back up to stare down the cultivators again. The group was posturing tough, but even that first punch had already drawn attention. Instructors and witnesses were circling.

“He wants something back. An idol.”

There was a moment of silence, and then a younger cultivator stepped forward, reluctantly pulling something familiar from their robes. It was the bronze idol with the jade-fleck eyes that Booker had sold him a day before.

Did it… The metal must have attracted the lightning.

He snatched the idol away and handed it to Wild Swan, who grasped it weakly.

His master returned, bearing a small wooden coffer. He took a single pill from within with tweezers, placing it into Wild Swan’s mouth.

The boy swallowed, and after a moment, a gentle light rose from his chest. His breathing rose and fell, taking on a rhythm, and his fingers began to move. “Lightning steals control of the body. It can paralyze or kill by destroying the heart.” His master explained. “I gave him a pill that promotes the regrowth of the spinal column. It’s strange, but that is the prescribed method. So long as his heart is strong he should recover.”

I’d bet that what that pill really does is repair nervous system tissue. So it could heal a spinal injury or the pervasive damage caused by 1.21 gigawatts of lightning.

Suddenly, Wild Swan’s body curled inwards and the boy’s head lifted from the pillows as he vomited over the edge of the table. Blood washed out of him, carrying large chunks of vile black tar.

“Lightning… also purifies the body. This is the impurities being forced out.”

Or maybe it’s some totally magical reason that it works for both. What do I know? Back on earth, lightning didn’t make you puke black gunk.

Booker moved to help Wild Swan lie back down, but as soon as his hand came remotely close to the boy’s shoulder, a thick spark-edged line of purple lightning jumped off Wild Swan and stung against the palm of Booker’s hand.

Wild Swan sat up slowly. His legs folded before him, he rested his arms around his legs and looked very casual. “You’re lucky…” His voice was a harsh, grating sandpaper sound. “This cripple saved you.” It sounded hollow inside. “If you made me take back my property… I wouldn’t have spared you…” Lifting his hand, Wild Swan made lightning sear at the points of each of his fingers, surrounding them with a white-blue glow.

The whole room was spellbound by that sight, the vibrant humming sound it made as the light flickered around his hand.

Wild Swan chopped down with his hand and a beam of lightning flung itself like a spear. It smashed into the wall inches from a disciple’s head, and all six of the cultivators who’d brought him in bowed their heads and retreated swiftly from the room. The sudden and total retreat almost made Booker laugh, and he looked over to Wild Swan with a grin, inviting him to share the moment of triumph.

Wild Swan only looked at his own hand, seeing nothing beyond the light of the storm dancing between his fingertips.