Mu woke up only a few minutes later, but by that time Hong was gone. With the duel of honour completed Hong’s task was done, and he didn’t plan to let his fallen foe detain him from his holy mission (repairing noodle shops).

Mu was not unduly upset, at least not about that. Hong was the victor, and could do what he liked. Mu was upset, however.

He had lost.

He, the Young Master of Jarnvidr Eastern Branch, had lost.

To a noodle shop repairman.

This was intolerable. He was supposed to be a cultivator, an elite; and, as a Young Master, an elite all over again - an elite among elites. To lose to a mere repairman-

He felt rage bubbling up inside himself, and pushed it down. To lose to a mere repairman was bad; to lose his cool over a mere repairman was worse. He was a Young Master, and was expected to behave like one - to maintain control over himself at all times, and not allow his emotions or impulses to rule over him.

He got up, dusted himself off, and calmly walked away from the fields and the city, stopping only to pick up his coat.

The journey back to the mountain on which Jarnvidr Eastern Branch had built its base was a long one, and one made in silence.

Jarnvidr Eastern Branch was not one of the older sects in Great Xuan. Its parent sect, to be sure, was mind-bogglingly ancient: the Jarnvidr sect of Oktoberland dated to the earliest days of that kingdom. It had only spread to Great Xuan, however, during the Confucian Revolt some five centuries prior.

In spite of its comparatively young age it was nonetheless one of the larger sects, and its buildings and fields sprawled across the entirety of the mountain. The structures were simple yet elegant, a parallel to everything a cultivator should be. They’d been carved with well-treated red pine, weather-proofed, and then roofed in the traditional Oktoberlandish fashion (a sort of turtle shell covering).

Hundreds of cultivators could be seen bustling about; some members of the sect, others, the employees hired to maintain the grounds. Mu nodded to them politely as he entered, his figure the very picture of propriety.

No matter how torn up he might be inside, to behave improperly with his underlings would cause only chaos and confusion, and that was unfair to them. And so he bowed his head and received their own greetings as a leader should, as he slowly made his way to the main hall of the sect.

It was a large, low-slung building, with no windows and but two doors, used for holding court, meetings among the sect members, entertaining guests, and feasting. At present, Mu knew, the sect master would be holding court.

He pushed aside the flimsy cloth that functioned as a door and padded into the hall. The benches and tables had been pushed back to the wall, the floor cleared so that the elders and bureaucrats of the sect could stand to either side of the hall, watching as the petitioner propitiated the sect master.

The sect master - a thin but well-muscled man with a short black beard and sharp black eyes - sat impassively in his wooden throne as the current petitioner finished his request, which seemed to have something to do with mysterious tracks in the woods at the edge of the mountain. The sect master closed his eyes for a moment, thinking, and then delivered his verdict, ordering a disciple to go down the mountain and corroborate the petitioner’s account.

An elder of the Iron Haft House - which was in charge of protecting the land’s peasantry - nodded, and departed the room to make the necessary arrangements.

The petitioner bowed, accepting the judgement, and departed backwards out of the hall. After a moment a new petitioner took his place, and the process occurred all over again, but with differing complaints and judgements.

Mu Ba waited impatiently as the court continued, his expression serene but his heart stormy. At last it was over, and the sect master dismissed his gathered retinue before gathering up his own robes to leave.

The sect master exited the back door and returned to his home, and Mu Ba quietly followed. It wasn’t until they were both inside the house that the sect master addressed him, without turning around.

“I see you have returned from your journey down the mountain. Tell me, was it successful?”

Mu Ba bowed deeply. “I am sorry, Father, I… failed.”

Mu Kao, sect master of Jarnvidr Eastern Branch and Mu Ba’s father, merely blinked.

“Really? How?”

“I descended the mountain and was successful in locating Hong Yu of the Noodle Shop Repair Sect. I was successful in challenging him to a duel. I am ashamed to say, however, that I did not win the fight; in fact, I was knocked out in a single blow.”

“But how did you fail?”

“I’m sorry?” Mu asked, genuinely confused.

“You lost the fight, sure, but how did you fail?”

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“I failed to win; but I will train, and cultivate hard, and win yet.”

His father turned to face him, his eyes piercing into Mu’s soul. “Did you fail because you didn’t win? - Is your goal as a cultivator and Young Master merely to win fights?”

“Is defeat not failure, Father?”

His father stared at him sadly. “My son, go to the library and meditate upon the Sacred Histories. When you are done, come tell me the answer to that question yourself.”

Mu bowed, accepting the rebuke, and departed for the sect library.

The library of Jarnvidr Eastern Branch was one of the few buildings in the sect designed in the style of the Great Xuan, so as to better keep and preserve the scrolls contained within. It was a massive building, holding not only scrolls on cultivation, but also books on philosophy, jurisprudence, economics, mechanics, grammar, fiction, and history. (And, just possibly, the sect’s extensive stockpile of Wallmark paranormal romance novels, although they formally denied the rumours.)

It was to this last section that Mu removed himself, though it was not any of the mundane works of history he was looking for - or, really, any works of history at all, at least not as is commonly understood.

For what Mu wanted was not the history of what had happened, but rather the history of what might have happened - the prophetic novels of possible histories, authored by spirits who had once dwelled in the stars.

Mu Ba chose several volumes whose titles seemed appropriate, and settling himself in a comfy corner began to read.

He spent the next several days reading, basking in such ancient and hallowed classics as That Time I was Reincarnated as a Beanbag Chair, My Next Life as a Villainous Architect: All Routes Lead to Domes, and Return of the Former Roommate of the Husband of the Third Cousin of the Namgoong Clan.

He read, and he observed, and he noticed. He noticed how the protagonists and their foes behaved, how vengeance was meted out, justice gained, and how their actions ultimately defined who they were. It was useless for the advancement of his own good character - for well did the disciples of Jarnvidr know the duplicity of the spirits - but it revealed much about how the spirits saw the world.

A character, upon being given a crushing defeat, might train for months on end, and plot and plan for a rematch to defeat his once-triumphant foe; but that would be no guarantee of his victory. It was not, in fact, even a guarantee that Heaven would look on his struggles with favour: for sometimes the labours of the character would be met with sympathy, depicted so as to inspire and impress the reader; but sometimes they would be met with scorn, ridiculed so as to make the character look twisted, obsessed, and the object of the reader’s distaste.

The only thing that divided the two, so far as Mu could see, was whether they were a main character or not. The inspiring victor was always a protagonist; the twisted loser, an enemy. In which case, the question of whether or not he could beat Hong Yu (of the Noodle Shop Repair Sect) ultimately depended on a far simpler one: Was he the main character, or not?

But then it occurred to him that his father had not asked him if he could win against Hong Yu, but rather if winning against Hong Yu was what he considered success. And so he once more retreated into the library, to meditate upon such holy works as Ascendance of a Trogium pulsatorium and Paintings of Swords on a Clothesline.

Obviously, from the perspective of the ideal cultivator, winning a fight was not success: success was the attainment of immortality, the Unity of Heaven and Earth and the ascension of Man into his role as cosmic arbiter. But was this not true chiefly in an ultimate sense? Could there not be another, more limited form of success which included winning?

What, in other words, did not being a main character have to do with the difference between losing and failure? For Mu knew he was no main character - that much was abundantly clear.

Long he read, and long he pondered, and then one day while looking out the window it all clicked.

He’d been going about this all wrong. The Sacred Histories were not histories; and it was in the cracks between the two, the shadows where the potentialities of prophecy fragmented amidst the actualities of the annals, that he would find his answer.

For Mu Ba was not only familiar with the prophecies uttered by the spirits who once dwelled in the stars; he was also familiar with the records of their doings, of the plots that had been played out on the world stage in the footsteps of their visions.

In all of the prophecies - in all of their visions, utterances and predictions - there was not the slightest word of a noodle shop repairman. In all of them the protagonists went about their business unmolested, defeating evil and destroying noodle shops as they desired.

This was hardly surprising. It was only the cultivation sects which were sworn to great doings that drew the attention of the world; those dedicated to more humbler activities frequently escaped notice, especially since most cultivators rarely read.

Yet history was full of noodle shop repairmen, and in precisely those places where the Sacred Histories said there oughtn’t to be any.

For instance, Reincarnation of the Escort’s Daughter’s Weevil was explicit that the Heavenly Demon of the Ming Cult would fall at the Battle of the Hooay, killed by Shi Ti; yet during the real Battle of the Hooay, Shi had been assassinated by a very angry noodle shop repairwoman, and the Heavenly Demon had survived and triumphed. (Shi had made the mistake of burning the fields used to make noodles, in an attempt to starve the Ming Cult to death.)

And the plot of The Apophthegmata Affair had never even taken off the ground, for the necromancer who was supposed to kill the main character’s father in a noodle shop had been decapitated by a passing repairman. And in I’ll Make the Best of This Garbanzo Bean!, the plague that swept the Northern Wastes…

Dozens of historical examples crowded into Mu’s mind, and then it all came together. He knew now why his father had told him he didn’t need to win to succeed, and what this had to do with being an insignificant side character.

The book he was reading fell onto the table as he sat there in shock.

Mu Kao was in his study, sipping tea and reading a very pleasant romance novel (which he had not acquired from the sect library), when he heard a knock upon the door. It was horribly timed - he was just reaching the best part of the story, the main characters’ first smooch - but there was no help for it. Without looking up from his book he called for the knocker to enter.

His son entered and bowed, intoning the appropriate greeting. Mu Kao put his book to the side and steepled his fingers, leaning forwards in his chair.

“So, do you have your answer?”

“Yes,” his son replied, straightening up and looking his father dead in the eyes, “and I need to ask your permission to go back down the mountain.”