Now that the boy’s condition was stable, Wild Swan was carried to his room, and a physician from the higher Sect was summoned to tend to him. All throughout the Sect rumors had already spread and the writing was on the wall: Wild Swan had experienced life-changing luck. His body had been completely tempered by the lightning! He now possessed incredible powers! His star was rising!
As a cripple, nobody asked Booker’s opinion. And Booker was concerned he’d created a monster.
Wild Swan getting the power to kill as he pleases isn’t going to help anyone – even Wild Swan, in the long run. But now that he’s truly the golden child of the Sect, he’ll just be given even more permission to misbehave.
He moved from one courtyard to the next, rain sweeping in around the edges of the rooftops and scattering cold water against his robes.
It was with a great sense of relief that he arrived at his destination, one of the Sect’s many libraries. It was a tower built seven stories tall, and while Booker had seen some impressive libraries back on earth, there was no comparing it to this. Seven stories of scrolls, jade slips, and books printed on vertical strips of bamboo. Every one of them an artifact from another world; many of them explicitly magical. At every tier there were columns that held the next ring up, leaving a central space clear through all seven layers down to the bottom floor, where the floor was patterned with a massive mandala pattern.
As he entered, a crippled attendant stepped forward and bowed her head. “Where may I direct you, junior brother?”
“I need the book Ruminations of the Grass…” His master had told him to study it. And while Booker didn’t think he needed to study for the test, so much as find a way to escape the teacher’s notice, he definitely wanted his master to hear that he’d come and asked about the book. “And a basic medical textbook.” That would be the one he really poured his attention into.
His book had finally given him the new quest to replace Miracle Worker.
Quest: Theories of Medicine
Goal: Read and memorize the contents of 1 (0/1) medical textbooks.
Reward: Page of the Apprentice Book.
A page from the Apprentice Book… A single page from the Master Book had allowed him to gain total mastery over a single crafting process, and given him Snips. He was eager to see what a page from the Apprentice Book was worth.
“Very well sir.” The girl bowed and led him to a small reading desk enclosed by cloth screens to form a cubicle. A lamp hung over the desk for added light.
In moments she returned carrying a large book and a scroll.
The book was a slim volume bound in red while the scroll was capped by ornate bronze knobs. She set them down on the reading desk. The book was obviously more modern. Looking at it, Booker realized that his master had given him an easy assignment.
This book was obviously a simplified textbook for beginner students. It translated ancient works, scrolls in languages Booker didn't even know how to read, and made them comprehensible in modern terms.
It's important to remember that even though this world is ancient history to me, to them history begins now and stretches back for millennia. They have their own definitions of ancient. And the origins of alchemy are definitely ancient. Looking at this, they might be as old as ten-thousand years or more. Enough time to have faded, been rediscovered, and lost again.
Whereas with the alchemy text book Booker had his master to pick out an especially suitable volume, the scroll on medicine was completely oblique. It contained scraps of languages not held in any of Rain's memory. The diagrams were obtuse.
Glancing through it, Booker's head began to spin.
Memorizing this won't be easy, he thought. “Thank you”, he said to the attendant.
“Of course,” she replied, “is there anything else?” Booker paused for a moment. There were truly many things he wanted to know about this world. But he had to keep these scope of his studies focused.
“That’s all for now.”
As she departed he unfurled the scroll and began to read.
It wasn’t any kind of comprehensive medical literature. It didn’t explain how diseases were born or the root cause of maladies – the Sect’s medicine was much simpler than that. It simply described how to identify thirteen different ailments, and the treatment. It began with stitching a wound shut and concluded with how to remove the cornea to ‘cure’ cataracts.
So the Sect really does only know the most basic theories of surgery and disease. But I suppose that makes sense; alchemy is far more popular, while practical medicine is second-best, only for the poor who can’t afford an alchemical solution.
I guess I can’t complain. If I’d become a doctor, I’d be able to bring modern medicine to this world; I chose a degree in architecture.
The archaic language the scroll was written in was barely related to the modern dialect Rain spoke, and Booker was struggling to follow.
At that time, there was a knock at the wall of the reading cubicle, and a lanky apprentice with shaved blonde hair leaned over the top. He was chewing tree sap in the corner of his jaw.
“Hi-ya, cripple.”
Booker didn’t quite like his tone, but it wasn’t exactly hostile either. “Evening, brother.”
“Studying?”
“As you can see.” Booker’s smile became increasingly thin. If he wasn’t at a disadvantage, he’d tell this pest to get to the point.
“How about a focus pill then? My own personal concoction.” Slipping his hand out of his sleeve, he dangled a glass vial on a golden chain. Within the vial was a light blue powder. “Only ten liang.”
Instantly the book flipped open. It wasn’t good news.
Lilac Focus Powder (Dull)
12% Potency // 39% Toxicity
Effect:
Assists focus and memory, but causes headaches.
Ingredients:
Clear-Water Meditation Pill
Alchemical Ash Scrapings
Synthetic Spirit Crystal Shavings
“Get that away from me.” Booker’s face darkened and he waved the disciple away. “I’m an alchemist. Don’t you think I know what I’m looking at?”
“Hey, I made this myself…” He laughed. “Really, I’m hurt.”
“You broke down a Clear-Water Meditation Pill and added cheap accelerants.” Really, the crudest procedure you could still call alchemy. “It’s second-rate.”
The disciple squinted, suddenly sensing something. “Are you saying you could do better?”
Booker saw where he was going and stood up, collecting his books. The disciple stepped into his path, leaning in to whisper, “You said you were an alchemist?”
“I’m not for hire.” Booker responded.
“We could make a lot of money here.” The disciple grinned, his hands in his sleeves. “And I know everyone in this world needs more money than they have. Listen to me, it could profit you.”
You know what…
He looked up and met the lanky disciple eye-to-eye. “Does Zheng Bai know you’re on her territory?”
His new ‘friend’ froze up for a second, and then chuckled nervously. “Look, if you think dropping a name is going to make me disappear–”
“Get the fuck out of here.” Booker spat.
The disciple made a silent calculation, bit down his objections, and turned to walk away. Booker watched him coldly.
That felt pretty good…
But using Zheng Bai’s name could get dangerous.
Either way, my master was right. The Sect truly is full of parasites.
He settled back down, resuming his studies.
But what can I do about that? I’m just a disciple.
— — —
That evening, Booker went to the practice hall. Besides my main quest, Martial Basis has taken the longest to complete. I suppose that’s because there are no shortcuts with it. You simply have to put in the ten hours.
Shrugging off his outer robe and hanging it on a peg, Booker slid off his sandals and walked to a straw mat. Stretching his body, he jogged in place for a few seconds, getting warmed up fully.
And then with a single hard pivot he fed the whole of his body’s force into a single spinning back kick. The post the mat was wrapped around shook like a leaf in the storm.
With these long, lanky legs, Rain’s body is perfect for kicking.
But the Sect’s martial style doesn’t focus on kicking.
For several minutes he practiced his kicks, high and low, feeling out the limits of his new body’s strength and range.
Rain would have smoked any of the guys I’ve ever fought. He’s got a lifetime of practice. But his body isn’t fully built out like a top fighter. We have better understanding of nutrition and muscle-groups; the first thing I need is just to get better food.
As he practiced, Booker noticed he was drawing an audience. First one of the black-robed novices stopped by to watch, then two, then three…
Booker ignored them until one of the novices asked. “What is this? It’s not any Sect martial art.”
“Just some kicks.” Booker replied.
The novices paused and glanced between each other. One of them grinned. “How about a sparring match, oh tall one?” He was tall for a novice but still short, with a lean build and darker skin than moist.
“I’ve got a foot of height on you.” Booker warned.
“Won’t matter.” The novice waved his hand. “Y’see, I don’t practice the Sect’s martial art either.”
Booker nodded and stepped back, allowing the young blood to step into the ring. They assumed their martial stances – the boy’s was odd, low to the ground, his hands half-open and curled into claws. “Younger brother greets elder brother.” He said.
“What is that?” Booker asked.
“In Mount Hudan, which is my home, this is known as the strongest martial art. Hudan Bone Locking!” The young man grinned ear to ear.
With a name like that… a grappling technique, for sure. Booker thought. “Older brother greets younger brother.” He replied.
One of the boy’s friends held up a hand, shouted, “Ready?” And then chopped the hand downwards. “BEGIN.”
Instantly, Booker started forward, lifting up his leg for a simple front kick. He was offering a grappler the perfect opportunity to grab him, and the boy was already shifting to defend–
When Booker snapped his leg out to the side and converted to a high, head-aimed kick.
A question-mark kick. Never could do this one in my old body.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
It collided with perfect accuracy, catching the boy off guard and slamming dead into the side of his face. The boy fell side ways, caught himself before he hit the ground, and lunged for Booker.
Booker jabbed a straight left punch with the full reach of his arms to force a block and stop the movement in its tracks. The moment his legs stopped moving, Booker sensed weakness, and kicked into his left leg. The boy stumbled and Booker kicked again, tapping the left leg twice in quick succession.
The boy feinted back, and Booker followed aggressively with a thrown right hook. His opponent, faster than he’d anticipated, ducked under it. Booker threw out another straight left–
And the boy’s wide open guard closed like a trap. His hands grabbed onto the punch before Booker could pull it back, and the moment he’d wrapped his arms around Booker’s limb he was throwing his full weight to the ground, trying to drag Booker with him. His legs swung around and grasped on, his full body wrapped around Booker’s one arm.
Booker slammed to the ground on his knees, fighting desperately to keep his arm curled as the boy tried to pull it out straight for a joint lock. Disengaging one leg from the grapple he slammed it into Booker’s face, using repetitive heel kicks to try and keep Booker off guard.
Scowling through a mouthful of blood, Booker rolled off his knees onto all fours, on top of the boy. The interfering leg was now under him, trapped in the act of fighting to push him away. His good arm pulled back and he slammed an open-palmed strike down into the boy’s face. Again. And again.
The boy, dizzied, loosened his grip for a single second. Booker pulled his arm free and planted his hand across the boy’s face to push off, rolling away from him.
As they both stood up, exhausted and panting, Booker flicked another low kick into the boy’s left leg. The bruised and weakened limb locked hard with the blow, the boy sagging like he could hardly stand. Booker switched things up with a high kick coming from the right into the boy’s head.
He fell over, collapsing to the ground.
“Done!” The novice-turned-ref shouted. “An easy win to the cripple!”
“I did have a foot of height on him.” Booker reminded them, walking over to offer the boy a hand, “And that grapple was lightning-quick. I barely had time to react.” He praised his opponent.
And if I’d been a little less familiar with tiny guys who are bringing killer grapple games, I wouldn’t have known how to respond. This guy must wipe the ground with the average novice.
“What’s your name?” He asked.
“Me? I’m Little Snake.” The boy wiped the blood from his mouth and grinned, although it must have stung to even move his swollen face. “And when I get my growth spurt, I’ll come back and we’ll see who beats who.”
“You’ve got a good attitude.” Booker could only smile himself.
“What’s your name, then? I’ve got some friends I want to introduce you to.” Little Snake glanced back to the others, who nodded.
“You can call this elder brother Rain.” Booker said. It barely feels like lying anymore.
“Elder Brother Rain, you fight like a demon.” Another novice, a girl, said.
“It hurts worse than it looks, too.” Little Snake complained.
“You should come with us. We’re going to a place where the strong bare their fangs.” Her smile was beautiful but her eyes were totally cold. “You could win a lot of money, being an oddity like yourself. A cripple who can really fight.”
“Is it okay you’re just telling me about this place?” I’ve never heard of this, so it might be a secret.
She put a finger to her lips. “Hmm. It’s not a secret, exactly. Actually there are high-ranking members of the Sect who sometimes attend. But it’s tradition not to mention it to someone, unless you’re inviting them there to fight.”
“Alright, I’ll go. It sounds like an interesting place.”
What sold me is the mention of high-ranking Sect members…
I still have a quest to win one of them over as a sponsor.
— — —
The fighting ring was outside of the Sect proper, in a laundry house nearby where the Sect robes were washed in massive pools of hot water. At night the pools were empty, and the Sect held fights in the stone-lipped basins. Lanterns held in hand lit the place, and massive shadows crossed the stone walls as people walked in front of the lights. The air was thick with conversations.
In the depths of one pit, two men were fighting. They traded fast jabs left and right, not bothering to dodge, but trading blows directly.
In another there was a knife fight, fast brutal cuts slashing through the air and the crowd cheering whenever a knife found its mark and blood sprayed up.
What interested Booker most was…
These people aren’t all from the Sect.
Scattered among the crowds were men and women from the city, both rich ones here to gamble and lower-class ones, with thuggish faces and eyes that said they knew the sport well. Many of them were wearing the faded scars of brutal wounds, such as missing teeth that caved in a jawline, or a dent to the skull dimpling a bald head.
The Sect might know martial arts…
But these are real fighters.
Just the atmosphere was enough to excite Booker. The crowd and the sweat reminded him of his few fights in the ring. Yeah, I can’t wait to see what this world really has.
The three novices who’d collected Booker led him up to a woman with plaited black hair and a pair of ragged crescent scars on her cheek. She was standing at the edge of the VIP area, collecting bets from the crowd with the help of two disciples.
“This is Brother Rain. He’d like to fight.” The female novice introduced him.
Looking past the woman, Booker got a nasty surprise. The VIP area was simply a few high-backed seats that resembled thrones and a clear space away from the crowd. But sitting in one of the thrones was Instructor Greysky. Their eyes met, and the man’s gaze lit up in recognition, and a small smirk emerged on his face.
Wrenching his gaze away before he was compelled to throw a punch, Booker’s eyes landed on the second occupant of the seats. It was another Instructor, but this one wore an alchemist’s red robes alongside the yellow sash that indicated they were a teacher. He didn’t happen to meet Booker’s gaze – his eyes were fixed on the ring.
“He can’t cultivate, but he’s a great fighter.” Little Snake said. “I’m sure you’ve got some good citizens who can’t fight a full cultivator, but don’t want to waste their time beating up novices half their size. Our Brother Rain is just a perfect match for them!”
“A cripple against a full grown man, who could resist taking the easy money? But people do love an underdog. You’d get plenty of people rooting for him too.” The female novice added.
The woman hardly seemed to pay attention to them. She looked him up and down once, judged him, and said, “He’ll do.”
In the background the crowd around the knife-fight erupted into screams of triumph and groans of despair. One of the fighters was down, clutching an arm with a severed tendon.
But before he could blink, the woman with the scarred face stuck her fingers into his face and snapped them. “Don’t look at them. Don’t get distracted now. All eyes on me.”
“Right, right…” He turned his attention back and tried to ignore the screams. “I want to fight. Hand to hand.”
“I can see that. You’re all fired up.” He got the impression she was talking about more than his body language. Can she read martial intent like Fen can? “We’ll warm you up with a novice who owes me a favor. Don’t bother to make it look good for the crowd. Make it fast and show the fighters in the audience why they want to fight you.”
In the ring below one of the fighters lost his legs. It was all over as his body turned from agile and fast to slow, desperate, and weighed down. The other fighter simply punished him at a range where his own punches were too slow to land. When he fell over, the woman stepped forward to shout,
“DOWN! GIVE HIM THREE…”
“TWO…”
The fighter struggled to get to his feet, and she paused. Slowly he got one of his legs under him. But it was too much. Something gave out, he collapsed back down, and she called…
“ONE!”
“OVER!”
Hands reached down and pulled the triumphant fighter out. A friend gave the loser a hand as he clumsily beetle-crawled his way out of the pool, struggling to get himself over the high ledge. Money was furiously changing hands now, and Booker was pushed into the VIP area as people piled up demanding their payouts from the woman. Her two disciples were attending, counting coin so fast it blurred through their palms.
“Alright, it’s your turn. We go until my call. And my call is final. No gouging the eyes, no tearing the genitals. You get a tenth of the take and anything you bet on yourself if you win.” She held up a hand. “NO BETS THIS ROUND.” She turned and called to the crowd. “THIS ONE’S FOR WARM-UP.”
Booker slipped down into the stone pool and watched his opponent clamber down from the opposite side. He was an older novice, maybe sixteen, who’d hit a generous growth spurt early on his career. The boy was simply built like a brick house.
But can he move?
Booker began to dance, to move his feet in a boxer’s bounce, weaving left and right.
The novice responded with the Sect’s movement technique, a series of circling steps, each feeding into a defensive pose of the upper arms. It was supposed to resemble a mantis.
But it’s also a technique for cultivators…
And almost useless in a fight without magic.
Booker feinted forward and faked a kick. The novice responded with a fast left that found nothing– and he made a crucial mistake. He leaned further into the punch to try and hit Booker with it, fully overextending himself past his guard.
Booker dodged in and willingly caught it to trap the arm against his chest with his arms locked in a figure ‘x’ over it. His foot swung up and whipped a high straight strike into the novice’s chin, knocking his head so hard he could see veins bulging in the novice’s neck, then simply let himself fall backwards and pull the enemy’s body with him. He rolled, twisting the arm and using his knees and legs to lock it straight and in place, so the joint was locked in a brutal angle.
And then he simply applied pressure until the enemy was white-faced and the crowd was staring and the woman called, “OVER!”
He made one very bad mistake.
But let’s see how the crowd likes my switch-up from striking to grappling.
He unraveled his body from its serpentine grip on his enemy’s arm, and the boy let out a gasp of relief as the pressure released off his joint. Booker got to his feet first and offered a hand down.
“Never thought it would end so fast…” His opponent mumbled, nursing a sore jaw. Booker’s foot felt swollen and he was sure he’d broken a toe on that kick.
But it was worth it: he looked up and caught Little Snake’s face in the crowd, wearing an expression of utter shock.
I guess to him, it looks like I learned his technique just from seeing it…
That’s going to start some rumors…
But Booker couldn’t help but smile. As much as he wanted to remain hidden, he couldn’t help but let out his war side every now and again. He had this powerful new body, and like a tool demanded to be used, the strength in his frame demanded violence to inflict.
He licked the sweat off his lips and looked at the crowd, waiting for somebody to challenge him.
“He fights like a street brawler!” Somebody called. Booker’s gaze snapped to a heavy-set man, with a thick black beard combed into a braid and unruly masses of hair bound back in an untidy bun. He looked like a bear and had scars that suggested he might have fought one. “I like him.”
“Bearded Devil, Lin Feiyu!” The woman called. “A soldier of the streets versus a child of the Sect! ODDS ARE EVEN!”
The Bearded Devil dropped down, cracking his shoulders with a long stretch that made a whipcrack sound as his spine snapped into alignment. He took a coin purse from his belt and threw it up to the woman.
Booker, taking a fifty liang purse off his belt, threw it to her as well.
Their eyes met and by silent agreement they squared up, circling around the ring.
Booker shot forward, his back foot hammering the ground. The man met him with a right hook, which Booker took on the back of his arms, blocking it away. He got into the opening that left in the man’s defenses, getting him with a right jab before he could close his guard up.
The bearded devil rushed forward and tried to catch him with a grab, going for his lower waist and throwing his whole body and fat-bellied weight into a jumping lunge. Booker dodged back, but the man’s arms still caught his legs and dragged them out from under him.
Booker hit the ground and kicked down into the man’s face, squirming out of his grip and rolling away.
They both stood up heavily.
If that grab had fully connected, he’s twice my size; he would have buried me.
I can’t afford to let him take me to the ground.
He broke the ceasefire by lunging forward and throwing out a roundhouse kick. The man tilted and blocked with his shoulder, then swung into Booker’s midsection with a hook.
Booker went dancing back, breathless and aching from impact. He lifted his hands to catch a left jab aimed at his face, trying to catch him up by quickly switching from low strikes to high.
He’s clever. But he’s expecting me to try and maintain distance all day. He’s wide open to…
This!
The brute swung heavily into a right straight punch, expecting to get to punish Booker’s blocking arms for free while Booker dodged back. Instead, Booker dodged around it, grabbed hold, and hooked his other arm around the man’s neck. As the man tried to swing him off, turning and pulling away, Booker kicked off from the ground and used the momentum to sling himself around onto the man’s back, grasping his neck with both arms.
The man immediately pulled his chin in, expecting a chokehold. Instead Booker brought his elbow swinging in to chop against the man’s throat, repeating the motion again and again with vicious stinging force. When the man’s hands came up to defend, trying to grab the arm still around his neck and pull it away, Booker switched it up and began hammering his elbow down onto the top of the man’s skull.
The impact jarred through his entire arm. He felt the skin around his elbow split and bloody warmth drip out. The man roared and tried to slam backwards into the wall, attempting to crush Booker like a bug. The hard edge of the pool smashed against Booker’s shoulder blades and he cried out.
The bearded devil pulled back to try the same maneuver again. Booker got his legs pulled up, pushed his feet flat against the inner wall of the pool, and kicked off. The man was sent tumbling forward, crashing face-first towards the concrete ground. He lifted his arms to brace and Booker slid from his back, grabbing the man’s topknot on the way down.
They crashed to the ground, landing on their shoulders. White pain exploded in a kind of flash in front of Booker’s eyes, a burn-out searing open the center of his vision for a moment before washing away and letting the colors return.
When he woke from the daze, his body was already punching Lin Feiyu in the face. He had his legs locked around the man’s neck, absorbing weak inward punches as they threatened a triangle and kept him busy. His hand was mechanically reeling back and slamming into the man’s crushed nose. His other hand was clutching the topknot and ripping out the man’s hair.
He woke up and kicked away, rolling onto his feet as the man gasped and stood up slowly, pushing his way off the ground.
Too much danger holding that position. Once he stopped being winded, he could have reversed me easily.
The man’s face was a mass of red and black bruises. He could barely see, his eyes closed up by swelling. His feet were leaden on the ground.
Booker kicked high, and the man’s right arm jerked up to block the blow from reaching his head.
So Booker danced back, danced forward, and kicked high again– the man’s arm slashed up to block again, but this time there was less strength behind it.
He was in total control of the distance. There was no fight left. But the woman wasn’t calling the end, not until she saw a knockout.
So one more…
Booker spun into a roundhouse. Like a trained puppy, the bearded devil’s arm shot up. His right arm, as Booker’s kick slammed into the left side of his face.
The man’s knee buckled and he slid down.
“OVER!”
The crowd roared in approval. Booker saw Sister Mei cheering, jumping up and down and clapping her hands together like she’d just seen him wrestle a lion.
“This cripple’s getting pretty full of himself!” Someone called out, and at their voice people hurriedly backed away, revealing them among the crowd. It was a face that was vaguely familiar to Booker, because it belonged to one of Wild Swan’s henchmen and toadies who’d attended the spirit beast fight.
A cultivator and a full disciple.
He dropped down into the ring, not waiting for people to help haul Bearded Devil out. His every posture and expression reeked of cockiness, his hand sitting with his thumb hooked through his white disciple sash.
“I think it’s high time someone teaches him a lesson.” The man said to the crowd, who jeered back, a disapproving bellow of sound.
“You hear them, Redwater! No fight!” The woman stepped forward, slashing an ‘x’ in the air with her arms. “You won’t beat up the cripple simply because you lost your bet.”
“Wait!” Booker shouted.
The whole crowd froze. Even the seemingly unflappable scar-faced woman seemed surprised.
He could read the thought behind their eyes: Was he really going to…
“No, I won’t fight you.” He said. “What a losing proposition. But I do have an idea that might satisfy everyone.”
He held up three fingers. “Three punches.” Booker said. “If I can’t get back up after taking three punches from you, its my loss. If I can… Then it’s my win.”
The crowd let out a holler of approval. And in the VIP section, the red-robed alchemy instructor had leaned forward in his seat, and was watching the fight intently.
Time to see…
Time to see how deep the gulf between me and a cultivator is.