Zhuzhu’s wave, his arm a meaty flag over the heads of shorter disciples, caught my eye as I made my way into the pavilion. “Laoshu! Grab your food quickly and join me.” Heads turned throughout the open space, and I heard snickers at the nickname. Mouse. I could tell from the grins on the other disciples’ faces that it was going to stick. I made my way to where the food was laid out over steaming clay ovens. A giant pot of sweet rice, served hot, was the base of the meal. I ladled myself a bowl of it and topped it with strips of peppery meat–lamb, by the smell–along with onions and roasted pine nuts. I added a few spoonfuls of some sort of spicy sauce whose ingredients I couldn’t immediately identify. It made the tiny hairs in my nose tingle when I sniffed it, though, and that was always a good sign. A servant poured a cup of tea into a thick, plain cup and I did my best to juggle everything without getting burned.
As I sat down in the place Zhuzhu’d saved for me, I said, “Are you really going to call me Mouse?”
His teeth flashed. “It suits you.”
“About as well as Fat Little Pig suits you.”
He roared laughter and slapped me on my back. “You’re right about that!” When he stopped chuckling, he studied my face more closely. “Does it bother you?”
I opened my mouth to tell him yes. But before I got the word out, I realized that there could be a benefit to being underestimated. And, if I were to face the truth, I was the smallest of the disciples I’d seen. I was already going to be seen as less than the others. If I made a fuss about a stupid nickname on the first day, I’d only be seen as humorless and that would make me an even bigger target.
With that in mind, I shook my head. “It’s fine. I suppose compared to you, everyone’s a mouse, so what’s there to be offended by?”
The joke, weak as it was, chased away Zhuzhu’s concern in another peal of laughter. And a bruising slap on the back. The pill Yuanshu had given us had healed my wounds while I slept; I even had two brand new fingernails, although they were still tender to the touch. But I doubted the medicine could stand against the force of Zhuzhu’s affection. I’d probably have a bruise by the evening. We ate the simple meal quickly, without a lot of chatter among the disciples. Zhuzhu was one of the few who didn’t look apprehensive about our first day in the sect. At least the food was good. I tried to be discreet about the speed I was eating. It was more food than I’d had at a meal for the last six months.
I shouldn’t have worried. I was surrounded by men who were mostly in the first two decades of their lives. I watched one simply pick his bowl up and tilt his head back, letting the last of the rice and meat juices slide into a mouth that already seemed quite acceptably full. Grease ran down his chin with reckless abandon. I looked away to spare my own appetite, only to find myself watching the demon-blooded disciple, Kai, instead.
He had nothing but plain rice in his bowl, and with his chopsticks he ate it grain by singular grain. It was surprisingly fast because his aim with the sticks was unerring. He barely opened his mouth to receive each one, and unlike almost every other disciple (including me), his meal was eaten in total silence. It was fascinating and strange.
Kai’s head tilted and rose as if he sensed my regard. His eyes–black from end to end–fixed on mine and his chopsticks paused in the air before his mouth. Before I could break the stare, a long, forked tongue darted from between his parted lips and captured the grain of rice before retreating.
My face went hot and I jerked my gaze away, scarfing down the last bit of my bowl. Zhuzhu was finishing his at the same time, oblivious to anything else. He let out a satisfied burp after swallowing the last mouthful. “If we eat like this at every meal, I think I’ll like it here.”
I nodded; I wasn’t ever going to like it here, but I had to admit that the food was flavorful and filling. It wasn’t fancy and I knew enough about the crafts of the kitchen to realize that the preparation and ingredients were simple. The inner disciples probably ate better than this, but this was more than I’d had in the lean seasons of my life at home. We hadn’t received any formal schedules on what our days as outer disciples would look like, but as more of us finished their meals and started to look bored or anxious, disciples in cinnamon robes appeared. They guided us out of the pavilion and to a large field in the center of the sect compound.
The man waiting there wasn’t anyone I recognized. His face held that unnatural perfection of a seasoned cultivator, but I suspected that among that lofty company, he might be considered only average. There was some sort of intrinsic aura that the elders possessed that this man, like Wen Gao, lacked. His hair was the color of dried cinnamon bark, bound into a bun, although a few strands had already escaped it and fanned around his face like broken spider webs. His dark eyes were cool and assessing. “Greetings, Younger Brothers. I am Fuxi Wei. I will teach you the very basics of laying your spiritual foundations. Many of you will not see me every day; as your spiritual cauldrons begin to refine your qi, you will wish to take instruction from other Elder Brothers in the arts that resonate with your abilities and affinities. In fact,” he drawled, “it is my sincere hope that none of you will need my instruction past the first month of your time here. I have better things to do.”
I had to wonder if there was anyone in the sect who actually wanted new initiates around, or if all of this was just a production to make it clear where we ranked among our ‘brothers’. Zhuzhu clapped his hands and rubbed them with anticipation. He, at least, didn’t seem to mind. Aside from his homicidal aspirations, he was by far the most even-tempered and pleasant person I’d met so far.
Fuxi Wei gave us little time to react to his proclamation, and certainly none to be used in asking questions. Instead, we…breathed. With his curt instruction guiding us, we assumed the position for what he called ‘proper’ breathing: feet apart, spine straight, head back. I closed my eyes to visualize what he described: the bright thread passing through the crown of my head, down my spine, through my entire body to connect with the earth. My breathing slowed and lengthened. As we struggled to find the right rhythm and posture, his cool voice continued.
“First, the lower dantian. Here is the Gate of Life, where you will find your primal energies. For most of you, this Gate has never truly opened. You have only had access to the smallest portion of your true aptitude. Through meditation and reflection, you will open the Gate of Life, and strengthen your lower dantian until it can hold the qi you need to pursue enlightenment. Understand–without these fundamentals, your cultivation is doomed to fail. Aptitude is useless without your foundation. Build it well, Younger Brothers, or you will die.”
We breathed, moving through a small number of poses meant to help channel the breathing, for hours. At first, it was easy. It even felt good in a way I’d never expected. As if, for the first time in my entire life, I was getting enough air. My head grew light, and I tingled from my scalp all the way to the tips of my fingers and toes. I could see the energy Fuxi Wei spoke of as a flickering ball of golden light just below my belly button. Like a flame being stoked, it grew brighter with each indrawn breath and dimmed as I expelled my used air. That thread ran right through it, connecting it to my heart, my spine, and my head.
But the more I concentrated on that feeling of power, of connection, the more something felt…wrong. The more I wanted it, the harder it became to evoke. I found myself grasping at it, and feeling the vision slipping and sliding away. My breathing went ragged. The earth tilted under my feet as I tried to recapture the rhythm. Instead of energized, I was light-headed, as if my body was disconnected from my soul. In panic, I felt something inside myself lunge at that fleeting sense of power to try and ground myself once more.
That desperate movement reached past its mark and touched something beyond. An immense ocean of vital energy that poured into me through that single connection like a tidal wave into a streambed. My vision went white and the music of eternity rang joyously in my ears.
When I came to, I was flat on my back on the practice field, blinking up at the stormy sky without comprehension. The music faded, and I could focus on Fuxi Wei where he stood above me, hands on his hips as he looked down. “And that, Younger Brothers, is what happens when you breathe incorrectly. I suggest you learn from your brother’s mistake.” But, before he turned away his eyes lingered on my sprawled form, and his frown was thoughtful.
I climbed to my feet, shaking, and tried again. Someone behind me made a mocking chu-chu-chu: the sound of a squeaking mouse. I pretended that I didn’t hear it and concentrated on my damned breathing. Despite my half-hope and half-fear, I wasn’t able to recapture that sense of power and connection. My breath was just breath, and my muscles ached after going through the same poses again and again. Fuxi Wei finally said, “That concludes today’s lesson. There are none of you who should not be here at the same time tomorrow.” He turned and walked away without another word.
Zhuzhu said in a surprisingly winded voice, “Where do we go now?”
The answer, we learned from the sect’s servants, was chores. We were divided into groups and each group directed by a gray-clad servant towards some of the menial labor that any collection of people inevitably needed done. Even immortals require laundry to be washed and nightsoil to be emptied. A young man of aristocratic bearing was the only one to try and protest this treatment, insisting that he be given work befitting his status and bloodline. I found myself having to hide my smile as the head servant sneeringly assigned him to the waste bucket group.
Zhuzhu and most of the other large and muscular disciples were assigned to a group permitted–required, even–to go beyond the walls to chop and haul wood from the forests hidden in the storm. He looked as enthusiastic about this as he did about everything else; I wasn’t going to ruin it for him by pointing out that we’d only barely survived the storm last time, and none of us had been carrying logs. But I couldn’t help the worry that twinged as his broad back dwindled into the everpresent fog. Even if he did plan to kill me one day, it was as close to a friendship as I’d found so far.
My group was a motley assortment of six, including the blind disciple. We were led back towards the food pavilion, to a building behind it–the kitchen. Our guide was a tart-faced man in his third decade or so. He said, “You will all be helping with food preparation. Not cooking. The very gods know we don’t want to be accidentally poisoned because one of you thinks you can cook.” He gestured at the long tables. “You will dice, peel, portion, and crush, as required. You won’t get in the way of those of us doing the work, and you will not hold up the meal through laziness or incompetence. Understood?”
This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
“Yes, Older Brother,” we chorused. No one wanted to be tossing shit instead.
His face became, if possible, even more sour. “I’m no brother of yours. You may call me Biming. Now get to work.”
I ended up at the end of the long table, sitting across from the blind disciple, with a paring knife and baskets of what looked like freshly picked and trimmed ginseng at our feet. He also had a knife, and I couldn’t help but peek down the table to see if anyone else had noticed or was concerned about this. Several of the other disciples were watching, but no one said anything. And the servants bustled by without even a glance in our direction.
For his part, the blind disciple cleared his throat and said, his cloudy eyes fixed somewhere above my left shoulder, “I don’t suppose you could describe our task?”
I blinked, then blushed. “Of course. We’re slicing ginseng. The buckets of roots are at our left foot and our right. They’re heaped up there, so it shouldn't be hard to grab.” He nodded and reached down to grasp one of the wrinkled, brown roots. I did the same; it gave a little under my touch, so it must have been fresh. I wondered where the garden was here in the sect, and what other herbs might be grown there. I would eventually need to make new ink for my talisman of disguise, and I wanted to experiment with others, as well.
But in this moment, my most pressing concern was the blind man across from me, and his knife. “Uh, do you want me to–” I fell silent as his fingers caressed the root, quick and confident. He placed the knife precisely at one end, and chopped the entire thing into delicate slices before I could think of finishing the sentence.
His smile was bland. “Where is the bowl for the finished work?”
I stuttered as I said, “It’s forward and to your right, about a hand’s length.” He reached out with the blade to confirm my directions, nodding with satisfaction as the point tapped the fired clay.
“Thank you.” He reached for another root. “I am Ju Jing. And you are?”
I started on my own portion of the work. The servants didn’t seem to mind that we were talking, but my idle hands were drawing more looks than Ju Jing’s. I also didn’t mention that I’d heard his name yesterday. It would make it seem as if I had taken notice of the obvious features that set him apart from the other disciples. Even if it was true, it was rude. “Zhou Hou.” I watched him dump another group of slices into the bowl, hastily following suit myself. “You’re very good with a knife.”
His smile tilted. “For a blind man, you mean?” The fact that his stare was aimed somewhere over my shoulder didn’t make it any less piercing.
If I stuck my foot any farther into my mouth, I’d be able to scratch my rear with my toes. “No, of course not–” and turned even more red as he smirked in disbelief. “...yes. I’m sorry. It was a dumb thing to say.”
“Yes,” he replied, easily. “It was. Knives aren’t hard if you’re in contact with what you’re cutting.” He demonstrated on another root, sliding his fingers to guide the blade as he made quick, neat slices. “Throwing is more difficult, but that was actually part of my act.”
“Act?”
He inclined his head. “Indeed. Until I came here, I was a performer with the Vermillion Hundred Palace Singers. Obviously, we did more than sing. I was an acrobat. And,” he grinned, flipping the knife until it was balancing by its very sharp point on the tip of one finger, “knife thrower.”
“How?” I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t imagine it. Could he actually see?
Ju Jing’s grin faded to an enigmatic smile as he tossed the knife into the air and caught it neatly by the handle. “Trade secret, I’m afraid.”
Biming, passing by, snarled, “Stop showing off and get to work. If the Elder Brothers complain about their soup not being ready, I won’t protect you.”
Sheepishly, we both ducked our heads and mumbled acknowledgment. We fell silent as we got into the rhythm of the work. It was the same down the length of the table, whether a given disciple was chopping, peeling, or using the mortar and pestle. The sounds of food preparation were lulling, and I think we all fell into a light trance as our bodies took over the work. My mind wandered. I wondered first what had brought Ju Jing to seek the path of enlightenment…and why to Seven Striking Thunder, of all the sects he might have chosen. Zhuzhu at least made some sense to me. For all his friendliness, he was clearly a bloodthirsty sort, and I’d seen no indication that he cared about the morals of fighting, only the joy of it.
Together, Ju Jing and I filled the bowl until Biming looked over and called out, “That’s enough. Bring it here.”
Instinctively, I reached, but hesitated. “Do you want to take it? Biming’s on your side of the kitchen.”
Ju Jing went still, then smiled. “Of course.” He grabbed the bowl and stood, turning to make his way down the length of the kitchen to where Biming was waiting. One of the other disciples spun on the bench and stuck his foot directly in his path. Ju Jing hopped, trying to avoid it, but he’d sensed it too late, misjudged the height, and he tumbled forward. Ginseng spilled everywhere as he hit the ground, sacrificing the bowl to catch himself on his hands.
I leapt up and over the table to his side. “Are you alright?” The disciple who’d tripped him brayed laughter, and a couple others nearby snickered as well. Not everyone was amused; Biming immediately began to berate them, and another disciple slipped off the bench and helped Ju Jing and I to retrieve the slices of ginseng.
“I’m fine,” Ju Jing said as we scooped them back into the bowl. His face was untroubled. “I’ve fallen from higher. Who was it who tripped me? I’m afraid I haven’t had a chance to memorize voices.”
“Zheng Feng,” the other disciple who’d helped said. He was a slight young man, with straw-like hair and a surprisingly round face considering the rest of him. His smile was warm and sympathetic. “He’s a jerk,” he said, keeping his voice low. “If my brother were on this team, he’d sort him out. He went out to cut wood, though.”
“Who’s your brother?” Ju Jing asked, head tilting to better hear the young man over the kitchen noise. “And thank you both for the aid.”
“Koh the Older. I’m Koh the Younger, by the way, so if you know one of us, you know us both.”
We introduced ourselves as we gathered the last of the ginseng that we could find. When Ju Jing brought the bowl, Biming just huffed and sent all three of us out to the basins outside to wash everything as best we could. It was, all things considered, a pleasant task, and the three of us chatted about nothing of import until it was done, and Biming collected the washed roots. As we finished up, the rest of the disciples left the kitchen. Ju Jing’s head tilted one way, then the other. He shook his head, and murmured, “Please let me know when Zheng Feng passes near?”
Koh and I exchanged a look. “Are you going to challenge him?” I asked. It wasn’t technically against any rules. We were protected from challenges by full disciples for the first six months, but it had been made clear that a certain amount of scrapping between outer disciples was accepted.
Ju Jing only smiled. So, when Zheng Feng and two others passed by, I whispered, “Forward, to your left. He’s got a couple friends.” I paused, then added. “So do you, though.”
“Sure, we’ll back you,” Koh mumbled even as he tossed me a startled look.
Ju Jing’s smile widened. “It won’t be necessary, but I thank you both.” He glided away, approaching the group. “Zheng Feng.” His voice was clear and confident; I could see the showman’s background he claimed in his stance and the effortless projection of his voice. Everyone stopped and looked. Zheng Feng was no exception, although he cackled when he saw who it was.
“If it isn’t the clumsy cripple. I’d tell you to look where you were going, but…” he trailed off to laughter from his friends.
Ju Jing pivoted a little, using the voice to orient himself. His smile never faltered. “I would ask you to apologize for getting in my way, and to give me your assurance that it won’t happen again.”
Zheng Feng’s laughter grew louder. We were gathering an audience, and not just of outer disciples. A few cultivators and servants were drawing close. They looked curious rather than like anyone who was going to help if this turned violent. I fidgeted; I wanted to step in. Zheng Feng was not so large as Zhuzhu or the others in the woodcutting group, but he had giant fists and long arms; I couldn’t see how Ju Jing could avoid his reach in a fight.
Koh sidled closer to me and said, quietly, “We’re going to go after the buddies, right? You want the one on the left, or the one on the right?”
They both looked large, in comparison to either of us. “Right,” I said, because I had to pick one after I’d volunteered us both. We took a breath and braced ourselves.
Zheng Feng was finished laughing, although he made a ridiculous production out of wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “No,” he said, with another chuckle. “I don’t think I’ll do any of that. They should never allow cripples and,” the movement of his chin indicated Koh and I as well, “weaklings to join this noble sect. You wouldn’t even make a good servant. Your ugly, cursed eyes make me nauseous and I’d not trust you to empty a pot I’d pissed in.”
I expected Ju Jing to call a challenge; he pretty much had to after such a blatant insult. And I was no longer adverse to a fight, which may have been the disguise talking. For a moment, I forgot that I was only wearing the guise of a man, and was as filled with outrage as Koh, beside me. If there was any among the three of us who didn’t belong, it was surely me. But it didn’t matter. We vibrated equally with rage.
But Ju Jing was serene. With an enigmatic smile, he lifted one hand and sketched something in the air. There was a flash of light, a stirring of qi that sent a wave of goosebumps up my spine.
Zheng Feng’s grin turned into a rictus. His mouth fell open as his eyes bulged in surprise and sudden fear. He clutched at his throat. The watchers fell silent, either from horror or anticipation. We looked from Zheng Fang to Ju Jing as Zheng Fang went to his knees, flailing at his friends. It was a curiously silent suffocation, as he seemed to be unable to even make grunts or wordless cries. His friends took two quick steps back, as if what was happening to him might be contagious.
I snuck a sidelong look at Ju Jing’s untroubled features. They might be right. Ju Jing stared over the thrashing disciple’s body with a complete lack of concern; it wasn’t hard to imagine that he’d strike out at anyone else who tried to interfere. Zheng Feng’s thrashing grew more frantic, then began to subside into spasms. His eyes rolled back into his head. “Hey,” I said, quietly, to Ju Jing. “That’s enough, isn’t it? He’s learned his lesson, I’m sure.”
Without turning to me, Ju Jing said, “This lesson isn’t for him. It’s for everyone else.” We watched Zheng Fang die in silence. Once the last spasmodic movements stopped, a couple of the servants stepped forward to cart the body away. The inner disciples who were watching murmured to themselves, nodding to Ju Jing like one might to a colleague, before wandering away to whatever it was that inner disciples actually did.
We outer disciples remained, caught in silence. Ju Jing turned to face myself and Koh. “Shall we continue together? Or, would you prefer that I go alone?” There was something wistful in the question but it was clear from his expression that he wouldn’t argue if we rejected him.
I no longer wondered why he’d chosen Seven Striking Thunder. But someone with that kind of power even as a prospect could be exactly the kind of ally I needed for my revenge. I swallowed hard, my voice thick as I said, “I’ll go with you.”
“Yeah,” Kou agreed, although he looked again at the space where the body had fallen. “He was a jerk, like I said. Tried to pick a fight with my brother first thing this morning. You did us all a favor.”
Ju Jing took a breath. “Good.” He smiled. “After all that…who’s hungry?”