“Men who aren’t gentle, women who cannot rightly be called ladies, we do not burn orphanages merely because we are evil, nor because we take joy from being so - even if massacring heartwarming orphans is amazingly entertaining - nor even because we need a tasty-popcorn like snack for Slave Gladiator Night. We do so because of how the perception of our evil affects those unfortunate enough to witness it. When they are consumed by fear, when they fall into despair, then they lack the fortitude or the courage to dream of a better world.

“Is this not what we need from the people - I use the word loosely, for they are no more than animals - who would be our servants and our slaves? To capitulate, wordlessly, without a fight, to our whims and follow us as we will. To be our tools - to farm our fields, keep our sect buildings in repair, pleasure us in every form and, when their use runs out, to serve as pills - even if it’s only for snacks on Slave Gladiator Night. This is why we not only kill orphans, but burn them alive and dismember those who escape the flames; why we torture mortals, and torment their hapless pets.

“A cowed mortal is a cowardly mortal, a coward no more than a cow, mere chattel for us to feast upon. So it has always been, so it is, and so it should be. But ever since the Yawn Dynasty Sleeping Sect and the other great orthodox sects fell to those blasted scholars from the Academy, and the Xuan Empire was founded in their march, we have found ourselves stymied, our despicability no more an ability, not even a despicapacity… with the decline of our fortunes we have gone from despicable to mere despicawill, and with our hopes floundering even that may fade.

“First, there were those ridiculous efforts by the scholars to ‘realise the potentials of the Ten Thousand Things,’ first with the so-called Neo-Confucian Peasants’ Brigades, which taught cultivation to the farmers and craftsmen so that they could defend their own homes, and then there was that thrice accursed how-to manual of basic cultivation prepared by the Master with No Name, So You Don’t Want To Die Like A Pathetic Side Character, which ensured that even those without a sect could stand against us.

“This, of course, had a recursive effect, thanks to the sudden explosion in cultivation sects and loose cultivators… and all the orthodox and unorthodox sects who had been pushed out of the territories that they were using for resources, crossed into our territories at the same time as our own slaves rose up against us. This, you will remember, was when our last sect master fell to the forces of the Ming Cult at the Battle of the Hooay, and we retreated across the Jiangzi to our current abode in the Xiaoxian region.

“Nor did the eventual victory of the Academies and the foundation of the Xuan cause these problems either to cease or to decrease in intensity. The new emperor swore to create a world where farmers could farm and cultivators cultivate without worrying about being arbitrarily murdered in a pointless dispute involving some arrogant bastards’ sense of honour. This, of course, would have been a benefit to us - for we suffer from said bastards’ sense of honour just as much as any mortal - except that it created Hope in the hearts of the people, and where a spark of Hope exists, Despair can find no foothold.

“All of a sudden, it was no longer enough to just tell mortals what we expected from them… they started expecting contracts, which contained - and I shudder even to mention it - guarantees of good treatment and payment. This burned through our treasury, a fire made all the more intense as our sources of income slowly dried up. Our ‘tax’ pool continues to shrink, as the peasantry decides more and more not to pay… you all remember two weeks back, when our ‘tax’ collector spent four hours wandering around some farmer’s Corn Formation Array, finally having to beg to be let out. And speaking of begging, less and less do travellers beg for mercy - if they can’t fight us themselves, they’ll often have a talisman. And then there was the sudden bottoming-out of the extortion and tolls market. Now there was a catastrophic loss."

It was half a tense standoff. On one side, the demonic cultivators of the Flaming Bloody Organs Sect, armed, deadly, poised to strike at the slightest provocation. On the other was Herbert the bridge troll, who was engaged in the monumentally important task of attempting to capture the essence of a butterfly taking wing, in watercolour.

The half a tense standoff continued, the atmosphere slightly ruined by the troll whistling 'Polly Put The Kettle On.’

Finally, one of the demonic cultivators had had enough. He strode forward, pointing a wickedly curved and very rusty blade at the amiable troll. “Fool! How dare you stand in our way. Don’t you know you face Jue Zheng, ninth disciple of Bu Yun, himself seventh disciple of Ou Tu, of the Six Swords of the Flaming Bloody Organs Sect? This is our bridge: those who cross it pay tolls to us and only us, nor are we beholden to anyone else.”

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Herbert didn’t stop painting (preserving his sense of priorities) as he replied. “Oh? And where’s your licence?”

“ …Licence?”

Herbert laid down his brush, and ruffled around in his straw like fur for several moments, finally producing a card case. He handed a card to Jue Zheng.

Herbert - Bridge Troll

Licenced to Demand Tolls at Xiǎo Chéngshì Bridge

Licenced Repairman at Xiǎo Chéngshì Bridge

Licenced to Post Mocking Comments on Local Signboards

For Questions or Concerns Please Consult the Provincial Bureau for Unorthodox and Demonic Cultivation

“I do hope that clears up matters. This is my bridge, which I charge tolls for, as is licit by law. If you would like to charge tolls here, then you need to register with the Provincial Bureau for Unorthodox and Demonic Cultivation, then file a complaint as to rightful bridge ownership. At that time we would go to court. Up and until that time, however, this remains my bridge, and if you want to cross it then you must pay my toll - which, at one copper persnickel per group, is really quite reasonable, and I would please thank you not to bother me over it.”

“You dare-!” Jue Zheng spluttered, but Herbert just went back to painting.

Thus followed several minutes of threats on the part of Jue Zheng, which bothered the unperturbable Herbert not in the least, as he slowly finished the butterfly’s left wing.

Finally, realising that the bridge troll would not be kowtowing one hundred times on this particular day, Jue had enough and, sword already in hand, launched into a lunge. The troll looked up as he sprung, wide eyes unblinking.

"Ah, is it time for us to fight? Then behold my secret technique: Art of Thump."

THUMP.

The demonic cultivators shuddered as the past came once more to mind. "Poor Jue Zheng. He didn't deserve to go out like that."

Tou Tong spit on the ground. “And to a dishonourable liar, to boot - I saw that troll making a flower wreath for some small children the other day - who he let cross the bridge for free - and there’s no way that wasn’t an orthodox THUMP.”

Gan nodded sympathetically, not that he actually cared about Jue Zheng. “Indeed. Those sick monsters in the government are trying to starve us out - and I’m afraid they’re succeeding. But why, you ask, am I telling you all this? It’s little better than exposition, of the type that’s only useful in cultivation novels when the readers need background to understand what’s going on. And you already know what’s going on, after all - you’re living this. But do you understand? Our last source of terror - burning orphanages, and slaughtering the heartwarming orphans within - is under threat. Someone has been fireproofing the orphanages and installing escape tunnels. The same person, based on the calligraphic style of the talismans. We cannot afford to shrug this off: we must find them, and make an example of them. Our power base in Xiaoxian depends upon it.”

Thus was his speech and it was, if not inspiring, certainly perspiring, as the demonic cultivators of the Flaming Bloody Organs Sect realised what awaited them were they to be reduced to poverty, and the sweat of fear began to pour off their bodies.

Convinced, then, of the necessity of inflicting horrible harm upon our entirely innocuous, noodle shop-loving protagonist, they set off.

But they were not the only ones set to do mischief to our valiant protagonist, no: for there were others - of a decidedly less ignoble character - equally bent on doing him malice.

Far far far away (about two counties over, or a distance of thirty miles), atop a high mountain, were two orthodox cultivators. One, his arm in a sling, was lamenting at length about evils that had been done to him; the other, having listened at far more length than he’d like, was sharpening a broadsword.

Mu Ba, Young Master of Jarnvidr Eastern Branch, sighed. Cultivation was hard enough when you were left alone, to meditate and contemplate at your own pace; it was far harder when whiners with grudges were appealing to you for aid. It was fathoms harder still when the whiners were appealing over what may be nothing at all. There were some out there who were as fond of starting fights between others as they were of starting fights themselves.

Mu would ignore them, but as the Scrolls of Jarnvidr said, ‘peace is not the absence of conflict but the existence of tranquillity among a community dedicated to the truth.’ And if the report being given to him by the outer disciple was even remotely true, then peace was impossible.

And so it was that Mu Ba descended the mountain, his footsteps direct towards the sleepy city of Xiǎo Chéngshì, padded portents of peril.