Air rushed around Fan Zhong as the rays of the waning sun cast a soft light over the plateau. All around him the world seemed to fade into a blur as his vision focused on his opponent, only he and Xing Zheng existed at that moment. Two origin palm strikes, one heaven, and the other earth went out expending a small part of his momentum.
Casually, as if strolling through his own backyard, the immortal swordsman batted the two strikes away, his sword flickered to intercept the blows before they even began. Hot pinpricks of pain blossomed on Fan Zhong’s arm as small trickles of blood ran from a small thrusting wound on both his left hand and right elbow. Before he could move it was too late and his opponent's blade whipped about in a flourish to push on the inside of his leg.
In an instant Fan Zhong lost his balance and fell forward onto a pommel strike that drove up into his gut and sent him flying 10 feet back.
“Again, surely you can do better than this?” Xing Zheng’s voice was mocking and condescending instead of his usual sagely tone.
Fire blossomed in the pits of Fan Zhong’s stomach as the words hit him almost as hard as the hard rock of the plateau greeted his back. With a snarl he was on his feet in an instant, dashing forward. Momentum building from his movement technique he lashed out with a shifting palm before taking a circular step to the outside of the old swordsman’s guard.
Lazy blocks met his blows as Xing Zheng seemed to slow more and more, now only moving at the speed of a Second-grade martial artist. Still, none of his blows landed, instead met by cold steel and biting pain. Red started to creep into his sight and after a dozen shifting and receiving palms he let loose a snarl before throwing one last shifting palm.
Doing so he waited for the immortal to block the simple blow and fell into a void gate stance. With a primal roar, he slid forward with all the momentum he had gathered, reaching the limits of First-grade realm speed as he delivered an origin-piercing palm with his brick. The attack was straightforward and simple, meant to disregard the enemy's defense and blow through with strength alone.
Before Fan Zhong even fell into stance Xing Zheng’s sword moved in a lazy upward arc and as soon as his brick was in range the tip slightly nudged the bottom of it. All the force was thrown off course and his strike was now aimed at his opponent’s shoulder. In another blur, the sword spun and met the front top side of his brick.
Instantly the tip went towards the ground while the backend tried to continue upward at Xing Zheng’s shoulder. Fan Zhong almost stumbled as his arm speared toward the ground. Completing his attack the old swordsman allowed his downward strike to complete its arc so that he was holding his sword in a reverse grip.
Without even moving this motion aligned the pommel of his sword with Fan Zhong’s chin and he slammed into it. Stars swam in his vision as his body dropped to the floor, feeling numb and unresponsive.
“Is that all then? All the anger you have for the Wei? The love you have for your clan only amounts to this much? Pathetic, perhaps you should’ve asked Senior Li Cheng to end your miserable existence that day.” Xing Zheng sneered and the contempt in his words was a palpable venom.
Hearing those words sent a familiar spike of unbridled rage through Fan Zhong’s body and he rose with a roar. Crimson colored his vision and he charged at the arrogant immortal as the man simply faced away from him, sword held casually at his side. In a rush, he arrived and lashed out with a fist at Xing Zheng, madness overtaking him as the only thought in his mind was to kill.
In slow motion as if moving through molasses the old swordsman simply shifted his body slightly as his leg moved, not even deigning to look at Fan Zhong. Incredibly the movement connected the flat of Xing Zheng’s sword against his ankle and the earth slammed into his chest as he met the ground with the momentum of his charge. Blackness quickly overtook his mind as Fan Zhong’s consciousness faded…
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“Brother Yong, this is truly a masterpiece! Where did you learn to play so well?” A youth with short black hair spoke with an enthusiastic tone as Fan Yong sat across from him as well as two other sect disciples while holding his lute.
“It's simply a hobby, something to add color to my life. Honestly, you should hear Brother Zhong play with me, now that is something to remember!” Fan Yong smiled at the disciples and bowed slightly to them while slowly putting away the instrument.
These weeks at the Reclusive Sword Mountain Sect had been like a balm for him and he felt truly grateful that Xing Zheng had agreed to take him. Although his martial arts were progressing slower than before after speaking with some of the instructers it became apparent that his recent training had simply been allowing him to condense his experience over the last five years.
During his time with the clan, there were many responsibilities that kept him from training diligently and dedicating his heart to it. Although Fan Yong had never been one to focus on the martial path even he had put more effort into it before the war. However, life is cruel and with Fan Shun bearing so much weight as the interim clan leader he had taken it upon himself to assist with as much of the weight as he could.
Rarely had he been out on missions for the clan, instead relegated to filling out mountains of paperwork and attending long negotiation meetings that took up his day. The stress had mounted and the little joy he had found in feeling good after a solid day of training had quickly wilted away. That wasn’t to say he had never gone on missions, far from it, however, it was nowhere near Zi Bao.
Thinking of his friend left a bitter taste in his mouth. Although they hadn’t always gotten along, the two had gotten closer as they became a team under Su Fen and he could honestly say that Zi Bao had become one of his best friends. Following that day, however, the always angry heir to the Zi clan had become a storm of violence.
Each and every day he threw himself into sparring or missions that were considered the most dangerous the clan was accepting. It had gotten so bad that Fan Shun had limited how many missions he could take per month simply to stop Zi Bao from committing suicide through battle. If it was just this it would be understandable, everyone in the clan had lost so much in that final battle.
What crossed Fan Yong’s bottom line, however, was Zi Bao’s attitude toward Fan Zhong. Every time the subject was brought up he would become increasingly angry. The final straw came when one evening, a year after the fall of the clan, Zi Bao stormed into Fan Zhong’s room and started beating him.
Blood had been running from the face of a curled-up Fan Zhong before clan members had pulled Zi Bao away. He still remembered the rage in his friend's eyes, the same type of rage that seemed to consume Fan Zhong when he fought nowadays.
“ANSWER ME, WHY DID YOU LET THIS HAPPEN? HOW CAN YOU BE SO WEAK?” Zi Bao had shouted over and over as he was dragged away from that room, a blazing sun of fury in his eyes.
Sighing Fan Yong noticed that he had been staring off into space and the small pavilion he was sitting in had become quiet. At first, he had been thinking while making small talk with the sect members however, it seemed his emotions had gotten the better of him. This rarely happened nowadays with his enhanced mental energy but it seemed some wounds still cut so deep they wiped away all other thoughts.
“Apologies Fellow Daoists, it seemed my mind was wandering. What was that again?” Fan Yong smiled wryly as he dipped his head in apologies and spoke with a jovial tone, attempting to rally his own spirits.
“It's not a problem Brother Yong, we all have things that keep us occupied. I was just wondering if you’ll be staying to participate in the sect tournament. It occurs every four years however, the recent war has postponed that schedule for some time. With most of the conflict dying down the Sect Master has deemed it safe to once again make plans to run the event. Recently he announced that one year from now will be the official start of the new tournament cycle.” The response came from a slim female disciple who radiated mental energy with the same strength as Fan Yong’s own, she had piercing yellow eyes with shoulder-length crimson hair.
“Hmmm, I suppose it all depends on Senior Zhang Zheng and how much time he wishes to spend here. However, the idea of a tournament sounds interesting. I’ll make sure to bring it up to him the next time we speak to see if it's possible.” Fan Yong searched his memories and couldn’t think of a set amount of time they were meant to stay, as such he was amicable to the idea of settling into the sect life until the tournament happened. “In any case, I was wondering if Fellow Daoists would be interested in trying one of my new recipes? Recently I’ve found…”
As Fan Yong spoke he allowed himself to simply enjoy the company he had and put complicated thoughts to the back of his mind.
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Cold water jolted Fan Zhong awake from the blackness of the void and he gasped desperately for air as his senses returned. As his eyes opened a dark sky overheard greeted him as soft rain poured through the valley. Small rays of moonlight peeked through the sparse few cracks in the cloud cover casting rays that looked like heavenly swords that pierced the earth.
All around the valley rain fell, not a deluge nor a sprinkle but a steady cadence of rain. It poured down the valley, running down from the peaks of the mountains. Water raced down the cliffs pooling to overcome the lips of depressions as slim streams diverged to find the path of least resistance. Thunderous roars could be heard echoing below as the water built, joining in great amounts as it smashed great boulders and trees at the base of the mountains.
Like lightning it appeared with the force of a dragon before dispersing as calm as the clear sky, gently feeding the earth. Bamboo shoots drank greedily as the water ran through the ground of the valley. Mirage carp danced at the surface of the Flowing Grass River, reveling in the turbulence the rain brought to the waters.
Soft rains overcame hard obstacles and soft water crushed rock that stood as stalwart as the mountain. As Fan Zhong gazed over this sight it was as if all the fire in his soul had been doused by that rain, an indescribable calm settling over him. That haze in his mind appeared again as if it was dampening his true thoughts so he could gaze at the majesty of the world.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Without even realizing it he understood that a song was playing in his mind, a piece that spoke to the shifting of soft force and the stalwartness of gathering. Of the patience to erode the earth with the swiftness to follow the will of heaven. Slowly he lost himself in the song as it crescendoed in his mind.
Time passed and it felt like he was coming close to… something. To complete a beautiful work or grasp something ungraspable. Further, he pushed his mental energy, desperate like a drowning man in the ocean trying to find dry land. Finally, his hand seemed to touch something, and triumph rang throughout Fan Zhong’s soul!
He smiled and looked inward, eager to see what he had sown, to hear the true melody that had felt just out of reach for so long. As the image formed in his mind he saw his hand grasping the edge of a cresting horizon. Suddenly the edge was hot and he pulled his hand away into the water to cool the heat.
There he saw it, his hand was covered in blood. Terror spread throughout Fan Zhong’s mind, a fear as primal as any he had ever felt. Wildly he swung his arm, desperate to wash away that blood into the waters around him. Soon the ocean turned red and the waters thickened.
The scent of blood invaded his soul and pain rang in his mind as a song that seemed too wrong to belong in this world played a discordant melody. Nowhere in the world was he safe from that noise, it existed in all places, all times… Then, it did not.
Calmness washed over Fan Zhong’s mind and he sat up, realizing he was once again at the edge of the plateau overlooking the valley as the sun rose on the horizon. Xing Zheng sat next to him, calm and composed in a lotus position.
“Void gate stance, NOW!” Xing Zheng’s words rang out with the force of a celestial general in Fan Zhong’s mind.
Struggling to fight through the hazy Fan Zhong simply complied, rising quickly and falling into a fighting stance. Next, the old swordsman called out technique names in rapid succession and he executed them one by one. Before he knew it Fan Zhong was flowing into a rhythm of techniques and Xing Zheng was calling out combinations of techniques, forms that used multiple sets even.
His body moved with grace and speed until abruptly Xing Zheng stepped in and started countering him. No longer did the older man command his response, he simply went slowly allowing Fan Zhong to improvise. Quickly his techniques fell apart, chaos and disorder entering them.
After around half an hour of this Xing Zheng called a stop to the free flow form practice and once again the two stood across from each other on the plateau, Fan Zhong bent over panting from exhaustion.
“Once again a beautiful piece, Junior Zhong. Tell me, do you understand now?” Xing Zheng’s voice was kind and sagely as he examined Fan Zhong with a serious look.
Taking a deep breath he tried to calm himself. What was the point of all of this, what was he supposed to be understanding? Fire built in his stomach as Fan Zhong started to remember the words Xing Zheng had said to him. Only… that tone didn’t match with the old swordsman he knew.
Was that a dream, an illusion? Had they really been sparing all day? An irritated grunt escaped his lips as he leveled a confused expression at the older man.
“No, Senior. I don’t think I understand at all.” Fan Zhong felt helpless as he spoke as if the answer were obviously in front of him, yet impossibly far away at the same time.
“I see. Then it seems we have more work to do. Defend yourself!” With those words, Xing Zheng’s eyes became hard as he blurred.
Before he could reply Fan Zhong felt the darkness of unconsciousness overtake him.
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“Remember that when cooking with natural treasure ingredients not only is the affinity of the meal important. Yin and Yang balance, as well as effect balance, are all equally important.” The raspy voice of the old man echoed throughout the small two-row lecture room.
Fan Yong grasped his chin in thought for a moment before writing down some notes. This was one of the lectures offered by the sect and the only one that spoke of using cooking to produce medicinal effects. Normally natural treasures would have a refining method used to remove elemental and medicinal properties when being used as food.
Most preferred this as cooking without doing so would be the same as doing alchemy but without precise measurements and instruments. Since food was mostly eaten for pleasure by higher-realm martial artists it was simply safer to prepare the natural treasure ingredients in this way. The refining process would leave the neutral energies of heaven and earth still in the food so it was still beneficial to eat without the need for overly complicated cooking processes.
Though rare, some martial artists did follow the path of cooking unprocessed ingredients. This was most common among spirit beast hunters or wandering martial artists as they had to make the most of what they got and couldn’t afford to waste spirit stones hiring someone to refine the ingredients. It just so happened that the master who taught this class was one of the ‘Nine Swords’ of the sect, their nine most powerful elders who were led by the sect master.
He had been one such wandering martial artist and wanted to pass his knowledge onto the sect as he thought it was a very practical skill to have. Fan Yong had taken to the class instantly as if some part of him that had been missing was filled by practicing the art. Although music and his calligraphy were enjoyable they didn’t speak to his soul as closely as this ‘Spirit Cooking’, as the master had referred to it, had.
As he had delved into the craft it had started to clear some of the fog in his mind about martial techniques. Each of them broken down like recipes for him, a little extra push there and bringing in your arm closer here, each adjustment like fine-tuning the amount of an ingredient to get the energy balance or taste right. Even his lessons from Xing Zheng had been easier to dissolve with this and he almost gasped when he realized it.
The old swordsman had realized that no one method would allow him or Brother Zhong to heal or progress in some miraculous fashion. Instead, his recipe for this had been a little affection with their physical training, a dash of comfort from a powerful senior’s protection, and finally a heaping of encouragement to accept and process the past. Slowly but surely that mix was coming to a boil and Fan Yong couldn’t help but feel warmth in his heart at the thought.
Inwardly, he was feeling better, stronger, and less alone. Now they just needed time, that and perhaps a few more ingredients to help thaw out Brother Zhong. Thinking of the two, Fan Yong felt a twinge of worry in the back of his mind.
He hadn’t seen his best friend for over a month and the only news of his whereabouts that could be found was some disciples saying Xing Zheng took him away earlier the day he had asked. Fan Yong had only found this out as he’d tried to find the pair to ask about staying for the tournament the day the sect disciples had informed him. With a sigh, he decided that nothing bad could happen to Fan Zhong with Xing Zheng by his side.
Quickly he refocused his mind on the lecture and his recipe, after all, Spirit Cooking took serious dedication.
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Fan Zhong awoke once again atop the plateau. Previously Xing Zheng had cut him a thousand times, painting the stone red with his blood. Never too deep or too shallow, each flick of the blade had been precise and accurate.
Every blur of that steel had become slower and slower yet he had never been able to dodge a single time. Like every previous time, the very last strike that had ended the bout was barely a movement from the immortal swordsman. He had flung himself in a bear tackle at the man’s feet and a shifting motion had brought Xing Zheng such that his sword ran lightly along Fan Zhong’s back.
Strangely this time the immortal hadn’t spoken a word and only fixed him with a gaze of contempt. That gaze spoke of a being that was above him, someone who considered Fan Zhong nothing more than an ant squirming on the earth. It was a look that threatened to erase his existence simply by will alone, something only the mighty could achieve.
Inside his mind, Fan Zhong had rebelled against that haughty look. He had screamed and raged all the while bleeding yet Xing Zheng had never said a word, simply stared at him like he was a pitiful insect. The memory of that look on the old man’s face sent a shiver down his spine and he quickly tried to shift his thoughts.
Looking out of the valley his mind once again seemed to be calmed by the beauty. A hot sun rose over the landscape as lancing rays of sun brought heavenly golden rays down like the swords of celestials. In this, he saw the splendor, however… there was more. The sunlight fed the trees and grass, and dried the wet ground yet… it wrought a tax on the living. Across the prairies and forests, life struggled under the cruelness of the sun.
In beauty, there was a struggle and in struggle, there was beauty. As he thought this Fan Zhong’s thoughts seemed to speed up, his mind racing. A song was already playing and he focused on it, intent on understanding.
Slowly the melody of the song shifted as discordant notes played. Pain blossomed in his head, but the pain was an old companion for him by now. He welcomed the agony, letting its message bleed into the song.
Shifting sands were no longer the soft whimsical breeze but now the eroding winds that forever shaved away at all things. Mountains were stalwart however, they were also heavy and crushed everything in their path. Swiftness was a flexible thing, able to move and bend but also an unstoppable force able to break all things when marshaled.
“It is… less beautiful. Still, it is more true.” Xing Zheng’s voice rang out softly beside him, sorrow and melancholy rooted deep in his tone.
Fan Zhong broke from his contemplation, his mind reeling.
“Why…. couldn’t you just tell me…” Fan Zhong found tears streaming down his face, anger, and sadness rushing out of the depths of his soul like a steady river.
Now he understood, maybe not all of it but enough. That beautiful song was forever out of reach, a dream that had been thought up in his innocence. Something that the world had taken from him as a price for continuing forward. Was it fair? No. Was it fate? Who could say. Was it reality? Certainly.
“Would you understand if I did?” Xing Zheng turned to him and opened his eyes, a profound gaze landed on Fan Zhong that seemed to pierce his very soul.
“No… I don’t think I would.” Fan Zhong shook his head as he rubbed the tears from his eyes, his understanding growing.
“Is this your final choice then?” The immortal’s voice carried the sorrow of the ages as if he wasn’t only asking this question to Fan Zhong, but countless others he had met throughout his life as well.
“What choice? Is this not my Dao? My path? What choice do the heavens give us mortals who struggle under these uncaring skies.” Fan Zhong’s face grew gloomy as he too stared out over the valley once more, some of that sorrow settling into his very being.
“There is always a choice. Who determines your Dao? Me? The Emperor? The Immortals? The Will of Heaven? No, Junior Zhong, your path is for you to choose. You could leave the mortal world, come to the Azure Rainsword Sect and spend decades meditating within the rain. Perhaps, one day your heart would heal, are you willing?” Xing Zheng stood and walked to the very edge of the plateau, his hands clasped behind his back and he stood in front of Fan Zhong.
“Hmph, no again.” Fan Zhong could only shake his head, knowing whether to laugh or cry while staring into the boundless sky.
“As I said, there is always a choice. Sometimes that's the most terrifying part.” Xing Zheng smiled a sad smile, one meant only for the heavens as he too stared into the sky.