The boy stood straight in front of the large reinforced wooden doors. His black hair was tousled by the breeze. Early morning light fell upon Myrkas as if blessing this moment. A solemnity broken by the grunts and screams that travelled from beyond the doors. In a moment, Myrkas would join those poor souls in the torture called martial training. Soon. As soon as he finished gathering his will and courage.

Any moment now, Myrkas promised himself.

A last fortifying breath, and Myrkas pushed the doors. They were surprisingly easy to open despite their appearance. As the boy entered the open courtyard, smells of dust, sweat, and blood filled his nose. Men were spread around all over the open space. One corner had a few going through martial stances—katas—under the vigilant eye of a senior officer. A third of them were sparring with sharp weapons, their battered city guard garbs accumulating yet more bumps and scratches. Rivulets of sweat and blood trailed the hard-packed ground under their booted feet. Minimum concern was spent on the underlings' safety.

Healers ran around, easily identified by their harried looks and blue-green armbands. They delivered pills and potions left and right, resetting bones and joints when needed. Myrkas even saw one of the men begging to be left alone, preferring to endure the pain of his dislocated shoulder than to be sent back into the fray.

Few officers were barking orders, considering. They were too busy alternating with their own training to spend much energy on useless harassment. All men present, for they were all male, without exception, looked exhausted. Those on the sidelines waiting for their turn or doing maintenance weren't excluded from the "haunted look" crowd.

As he dragged his feet, Myrkas wondered if he had just entered the City Guard Training Hall or one of the Lower Hellish Realms. Hopefully, his Master, the Chief training officer, would be much too busy to pay poor little Myrkas much attention. Suna Ranil was a busy man, with many responsibilities. Newly minted guards didn't whip themselves into acceptable shape. His Martial Master was the second lieutenant for the whole guard after all. The third highest ranked, with only the captain and vice-captain above him. An important man. Too busy for his young, inexperienced disciple.

Myrkas hoped against hope while he took in the scene. The boy felt almost more dour than when he had first woken up at the fateful funeral. His insides were churning with nerves. His clothes soaked with sweat from the early summer sun and his anxious state. Myrkas was tempted to remove his outer robe, as light as it was. But it would not do to meet new people clad only in his underclothes, even if the tight-fitting light brown shirt and loose pants were more appropriate to move around. Some decorum had to be maintained, at least initially.

Too soon, Myrkas' Martial Master found him. The scarred man's sinister smile welcomed the boy to what would become his second home in Piercing Jade Valley. Myrkas gulped. The intensity had instantly raised over 9000. The boy almost regretted his choice. He would most likely not die. Everyone present still had all their limbs. It had to be a positive sign, right? Time to train, protagonist style!

A heavy hand landed on young Myrkas' shoulder, in what was quickly becoming a favourite move of his newly minted Master. Ranil's steel grip made certain Myrkas did not miss a single word he said. Not that Myrkas had any intention to let his mind wander. The boy wasn't stupid. Training deserved his full attention, with or without extra "physical incentive" needed. Suna Ranil's status as one of the strongest martial artists in town was sufficient motivation. Despite his— understandable—reticence, Myrkas was fully committed.

With one jump, Snow landed gracefully on Myrkas' other shoulder. She nuzzled his cheek and nibbled his hair to express her happiness at their reunion. Master Ranil, the miscreant, had shamelessly bunny-napped the white furball during their last encounter. "Extra incentive to prevent any thoughts of running away." A full four days without his steadfast meditation partner had affected Myrkas more than he had expected. He had missed her reassuring weight, which had surprisingly increased during their short separation.

Myrkas was starting to suspect his so-called Master was using underhanded tricks to gain the rabbit's affection. Myrkas wondered what Ranil fed her, if he mixed illicit substances in her treats. Maybe the man kept a patch of spiritual clover at his house? That was the only reasonable explanation for why she dared choose to jump right back in Ranil's arms after her short greetings to Myrkas.

The boy's hurt heart did not have time to recover before a booming voice brought him back to more pressing matters.

"Disciple! Welcome dear, dearly treasured Disciple. Welcome to our humble City Guard training halls. You'll come here six days a nonat: two on, one-off, two on, one-off and so on and so forth for the foreseeable future. All in accordance with the agreement between your uncle and me. All four nonats of all twelve months in a year. You only get the four separate nonats of the Changing Seasons off. Aren't I so generous a Master? So much quality time together! Such progress you'll make! Leaps and bounds.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"Additionally, Snow is expected to accompany you every single time. I suspect she'll outpace you in no time. She is so clever. Such a good girl, right Snow? Yes, all the pets and cuddles for you. I have decided to name her your senior disciple. Call her "Senior Sister" as of now."

Myrkas instantly opened his mouth to protest. However, a synchronized double glare delivered by both Ranil and Snow killed his words before they were even conceived.

"Young Myrkas, let me remind you, my word here is law," continued Master Ranil. "Don't bother trying to appeal to the people here. I gave them "strong suggestions" on how to act with you and clear examples of what would happen to them if they did not listen. No pity to be gained. Maybe some sympathy if you are lucky but no more. You'll see. They'll help with your training in time "

Myrkas took a minute to look around. He crossed gaze with a few training guards. Indeed, their eyes betrayed an inner bloodlust, a delight at the new fish in the pond without any desire to help it survive. Piranhas listening to their shark master.

"Koriss already fired your previous instructor. No more time for that weakling. I hope you have said your goodbyes. If not, well too bad. Good luck finding the time for those, Don't expect 'fair fights,' none of that bullshit in my hall. Fighting ain't fair. Use every advantage you can to win. Within reason for a spar. Try not to maim or kill, it makes too much paperwork after. We don't fight for "prestige" here. There are no "Martial Arts Displays" or narcissistic tournaments. You'll learn to fight for your life, to protect your comrades and to survive long enough to give report and get help. That's what a real warrior needs. Not the fancy noble skit."

The boy straightened his spine and clenched both fists in response. He looked at his Martial Master in the eyes, consciously ignoring the white rabbit in the man's arms. Myrkas was ready. Greatness required sacrifices. His days of leisure were over. This was Myrkas' first step up the True Mountain.

"Ready Master," said Myrkas as he bowed.

"Good disciple. We'll start with the utmost important skill for any martial artist, save maybe some ancient enlightened turtle. Guess which one, kid."

Myrkas paused to think for a moment. He reflected on his recent fight and on what he knew of Master Ranil's philosophy. With a hint of trepidation, the boy took a guess.

"How to take a hit and bounce back, Master."

Ranil smiled, his canines on full display. Pleased, one might say.

"Close, kid, damn close! Not bad, not bad at all for a first guess. But no. The answer is footwork. Movements, weight shifts, rhythm, dodging, stopping, and exploding. Plus stamina. Those make up the basics of all styles. Unless you are a square boulder. Even mountains move. Some immortal busybody wrote a treatise about it a century or two ago, apparently.

"Don't you dare worry though kid, I will personally ensure you know how to fall, take hits, and rebound once you've mastered a bit of footwork. Plenty of practical experience. Enough so you don't need to think about anything. It'll all become second nature.

"You'll train your body at the same time. Improve your endurance, build on some muscle, get more flexible. If you can't do body meditation yet, don't worry. We'll train you hard enough your little head will empty itself before you have time to think about anything. Just try not to pass out too much. We have healers on site but Koriss might skin me alive if I give you too many pills. He always worries too much about impurity accumulation. Even if we use his stuff. Anyway, you'll start with running suicides. Come, kid."

•••

The flows had lessened. An unacceptable fact. Something blocked their rivers upstream. Somewhere far, in the farthest reaches of this so-aptly named Province. Those regions of the Verdant Mountains That Pierce the Sky had not faltered for decades before. A drought here and there, perhaps, but nothing the likes of the past three years.

The noble Young Lord could not be the reason alone. While he made their type of trade a touch more difficult, the idealistic noble had never been able to make a significant dent in their organization. Their roots were too deep. Their allies bought and scared down their souls, from one generation to the next.

No, something else had perturbed their local flows of sacrifices. A pesky bug, out of place. Certainly with eyes too big for its stomach.

He'd have to take care of it again. Before the problem festered. Before his Master noticed. Furthermore, his newest disciple needed some fresh sources of tears. And sturdier sparring partners. The last ones were used and dried up, barely good enough for some bloodletting before being discarded. Or converted to alchemical ingredients.

Children were unfortunately not the sturdiest of materials. One was bestowed a surprise, from time to time, like his young disciple, but most didn't last. Still, children were the easiest. Innocents, too young to know better. With fresh dreams to be crushed and hopes to smother. The classic source of potent demonic energies. Much better than simple animals, even spirit beasts.

He had to act. Nothing too obvious. Time to remind his friend Flame Stone Fist of their shared past. No one stopped trading once they started. A break here and there was fine but nothing permanent. It would not do to set a precedent. Yes, that man would find the blockage and clear it. Find some fresh blood at the same time too, why not? One rock, two birds and the like.

Time to go back to his dear disciple. The boy was almost healed from his last supplice. Time to apply fresh wounds on his still too-tender flesh.