Lan hums a cheerful tune. A tray of food and water is balanced in her tiny, deft hands as she skips through the brothel. Corridors are aglow in golden stardust. Gentle, flickering shadows dance along the walls like playful pixies. The faint scent of incense, ever-present, is comforting. And distant music of a flute from the common hall below creates a fairy-like atmosphere where the hallway feels like a pathway through a mysterious, enchanted palace. Every corner seems to hold a secret, just waiting for her to discover it.
As Lan passes by, rich, crimson curtains sway like the robes of ethereal beings guarding hidden treasures. Courtesans are like fairies in colorful gowns and their servant helpers greet her with smiles as bright as the lanterns, their laughter ringing like bells.
"Evening, Lan," calls out one of the fairies, her voice as soft as a whispering breeze. She pauses in her steps, a gentle smile lighting up her face. "Where are you off to?”
Lan's face brightens with a beaming smile. "Taking some food to big brother Quinming! I hope he likes it," she chirps, her excitement bubbling over.
"Need help with that tray, Lan?" a helper asks, her eyes twinkling like stars as she reaches out, ready to assist.
"Thank you, but I can manage. I want to surprise him! Maybe he'll smile. It's been so long," Lan responds, shaking her head with a determined look, her heart fluttering with hope.
The fairy and helper share a knowing look, their eyes filled with the warmth of understanding.
"Good luck!" the fairy wishes her, giving a small wave. Her words carry the promise of a wish made upon a shooting star as she watches Lan skip away.
Lan giggles as she imagines the surprised look on Quinming's face. The brothel's corridors are lined with vases of fresh flowers, their petals glowing in the lantern light like the blooms of a magical garden. Each step Lan takes feels like she is walking on air, her excitement lifting her feet.
She passes by intricately carved wooden screens that cast delicate patterns of light and shadow, turning the walls into canvases painted with the artistry of a thousand dreams.
Lan’s thoughts wander as she walks. "It's been so long," she murmurs to herself. "Since... yeah, since that time he came back after Madam Li started training him. He got so... jumpy and distant. But then that drunk trying to hurt Min Ling got him, and he hasn't smiled since."
She wonders briefly about what had happened to him, but she shakes her head, letting the confused thoughts drift away like clouds. What matters now is his smile, a smile she has not seen in far too long.
"He used to look so pretty when he smiled," she says, her face flushing with innocent affection. "I think those boys pick on him because he's so pretty."
The corridor seems to grow darker, the lantern light unable to pierce the shadows that gather around the door. Lan's humming grows softer as she nears, the sense of magic fading with each step. She hesitates, heart pounding, the tray steady but trembling slightly in her hands. She takes a deep breath, the familiar scent of incense spoiled with an unsettling, sour note as she braces herself. She pushes the door open.
With a baleful creak, it opens. The beautiful illusion shatters.
The smell hits her first—thick, pungent, and oppressive, like a wave of decay. The scent of sweat, blood, and sickness blends together in a suffocating mix, assaulting her senses. The room feels hot. Humid. Air heavy and difficult to breathe.
Lan freezes, the shock rooting her to the spot for a heartbeat. Eyes widening in horror.
"Quin-Quin?" she calls, her voice trembling.
She steps inside, the heat wrapping around her like a suffocating blanket. Her tray wobbles as she processes what she sees, her mind racing with fear and disbelief. The faint, ragged breath echoes ominously in the still room. Quinming. He lies on the bed, drenched in sweat. His face is ashen. His breaths shallow gasps.
She stumbles forward, her movements frantic as she sets the tray down roughly on a nearby table, the force causing the cup to tip over and spill. Cold water splashes on her fingers. She gasps, her breath catching in her throat. The sound of dripping water fills the room, each drop echoing in the heavy silence, punctuated by Quinming’s labored breathing.
She rushes to his side, her breath quickening as panic sets in. Her fingers brush against his forehead, and she flinches at the searing heat, like touching a hot stove. His skin is clammy and slick with sweat, his black hair plastered to his forehead and cheeks. The heat radiating from his body makes her feel dizzy, the oppressive warmth filling her lungs with each ragged breath he takes.
"Big brother, wake up! You’re burning up! You need help!" she cries, her voice breaking.
The room feels like it is closing in on her. Thick air pressing down on her chest, making it hard to breathe. She looks around frantically, her vision blurring with unshed tears.
“Help! Someone help!” she screams, her voice a desperate plea that echoes in the small room.
Lan's desperate cries pierce through Quinming's foggy thoughts, the sound triggering memories he had long buried. The scent of incense fades, replaced by the stench of damp earth and blood.
He is back there. In that hell.
Cramped, shadowy tunnels. Wet, clammy walls. Air heavy and choking, each breath a struggle. Faint drips of water echo like distant whispers.
The group finishes off the remaining cultists. A brief lull at best. Quinming knows more are coming, hearing their approach like rats in the dark. His voice, firm and unyielding, cuts through the heavy air.
"Listen up!” he barks. “Stick close and don't fall behind. This place is a maze, and I'm not here to babysit. See enemies, kill them. Simple enough?”
‘They need to keep our formation or we'll lose more of these kids.’
Comrades nod, pale faces etched by grim resolve. These seasoned warriors of the Righteous Faction bear the marks of many skirmishes, their weapons scarred from use, but the tension in their stance reveals their unease.
From the higher sloped passage, the cultists pour forth, eyes rolled back into their skulls, their faces contorted into manic, hellish smiles. Black tears drip from their eyes, a sinister manifestation of their possession. An otherworldly qi pulses with deranged energy, mouths murmuring a torrent of incoherent mutterings and eerie chants.
Their attacks are savage and unrefined. No semblance of technique, just raw, primal violence. They swing, smash, and crush with blackened claws, movements unpredictable and ceaseless.
‘Brutal, but lacking in strategy. Predictable in their chaos.’
A Wudang elder deflects a wild swing, grunting with effort. “We’ve been down here a week. I can’t take much more.”
With a sharp tone, Quinming orders, “Steal it from tomorrow's energy. Dig as deep as you can. That’s the only way.” Resolute, he moves ahead, his eyes narrowing.
A cultist lunges, black claws tearing through the air. Quinming’s sword blurs with lethal intent. With a brutal slash, it cleaves through the cultist’s neck, sending a geyser of blood raining down. He steps over the body, eyes cold and focused on the next target. ‘Precision over power. Each strike must count.’
Another cultist charges, eyes white and crazed. Quinming sidesteps with deadly grace, cleaving the cultist in two. Its qi strikes back, blurring his vision.
He shakes it off. Each precise swing releases a cascade of plum blossoms, their petals shimmering with a lethal glow. They drift through the air, creating a dreamlike beauty amid the mayhem. Blood sprays in arcs, the dark red droplets contrasting sharply with the soft, glowing petals.
The cultists' wide white eyes reflect the ghostly, ethereal glow of the petals, their madness briefly halted. Quinming seizes the moment. His blade whirls, releasing a storm of deadly petals. More cultists fall, their bodies crumpling like autumn leaves onto the ground already littered with the fallen.
The elite fighters of the Righteous Faction stand firm, their combat prowess honed over years of relentless battles. A Namgung elder pierces a cultist's heart, her blade swift and deadly. Their experience serves as a strong defense against the cultists' madness.
“Look at him go! It's like he's dancing with death!” the Namgung elder exclaims in awe between her own lethal swings.
Quinming gives a sly smile. “Dancing? Sure, if you consider destruction a form of dance. Keep up with the footwork, or you might end up as my partner," he quips, his tone dripping with wry humor and unshaken confidence.
She blushes at his remark, but Quinming is already charging ahead, his body moving so quickly it appears to stretch.
“Don’t bother, he’s wedded to that sword,” Mu Jianshou states, following in Quinming’s wake.
Dripping water. Clashing steel. Wounded cries.
Quinming’s blade flashes. Heads and limbs soar. Petals and blood blend in the dim light. Each swing calculated.
A cultist blocks his path. Quinming spins, slicing through the midsection. Blood arcs. He kicks the body into three cultists, steps into a fluid sequence of strikes. Petals bloom from his blade.
He moves with confidence. Smirk unfaltering. Covered in blood, white teeth stark. Suffocation intensifies. Air thick with blood and sweat. ‘Keep moving. Keep breathing. Each breath fuels the fight.’
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The relentless sound echoes in Quinming’s mind, each drop a hammer striking his concentration. His swing falters, a heartbeat too slow. A cultist's claw slices through the air, tearing into his forearm. Pain blooms, sharp and hot. Blood wells up, mingling with sweat. He grits his teeth, pushing the pain aside. ‘Focus. I must not lose focus. Not here. Not now.’
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The sound is maddening, like war drums in his ears. Quinming's face, caked in blood, twists into a bigger smirk. A hint of madness in his eyes, glowing like the cultists' but colder, more arrogant.
At the peak of his fury and determination, a faint, violet butterfly appears, fluttering just at the edge of his vision. It seems to pulse with his heartbeat, a fleeting, almost ethereal presence.
Quinming's sword slices through the last cultist with lethal precision. As his vision begins to blur, a cool sensation spreads across his forehead, yanking him from the chaos. The tunnel and cultists dissolve into darkness, replaced by the feeling of a wet rag and the distant, familiar voices echoing around him.
His voice trembles, “Mh... focus... got-got to focus,” Quinming moans. “Kill... rat bastards... damn cultists...” His thoughts swirl in a chaotic dance, blurring the lines between reality and memory.
“Xiuying, he’s delirious. I think he’s talking about those demon cultists again. Lian, you shouldn’t have filled his head with such nonsense,” gently adjusting Quinming's position in her arms, a courtesan by the name Qian Yun says with furrowed brows.
“Hey, sometimes a little nonsense is better than reality,” Lian says, fidgeting with her lotus-shaped hairpins. “But I don't have any clue what you're talking about.”
“How is he?” A gentle hand touches his forehead. Rong's voice, calm but with a tremor, cuts through the haze.
Interrupting, Lan's shaking voice is jarring to Quinming's ears. “Big brother, wake up! I brought you some more water.” She gently dabs his forehead with a fresh, cool rag, the excess water trickling down his face in delicate rivulets.
He flinches.
“He’s burning up. We need to get him stable first.” Another trembling hand touches his cheek as Xiuying checks his temperature.
“He’s so light,” Qian Yun murmurs, adjusting him in her arms with a furrowed brow. “He never got enough food, but it’s been worse lately.”
Xiuying’s touch is gentle, her fingers moving with the care of a sparrow tending its nest as she brushes a lock of his wet hair from his nose.
With tears in her eyes, Lan gently replaces the wet rag on his forehead. “Please wake up, Quin-Quin. Please be okay.” Her fingers linger on his skin for a moment, a silent plea for him to respond.
The rustle of silk, and Lian places her hand gently resting on Lan’s shoulder. “Lan, sweetheart, we’re doing everything we can. He’s strong, remember? He’ll pull through.” Her voice, usually confident, wavers slightly, betraying her own worry.
Lan nods, her hands still trembling. “I just want him to be okay. Please, someone help him.”
Recalling something, Lian grumbles, “Been worse since he started that training with Madam Li. What the hell was she doing with him? If Mingxui were still alive...” her voice trails off, her anger visible in the tight set of her jaw.
Xiuying mutters, “You're right. This all started when she started mysteriously meeting him. He wouldn't tell us anything.”
Lan, with a shaky voice, places another wet rag on his forehead, the water dripping down. “I just want him to be okay. Please, someone help him.”
Grabbing her skirt, Xiuying kneels beside her daughter, wrapping her arms around her. “We will, Lan. We will.”
Rong traces the edge of the bruise on his wrist. “That mark... it’s not old.”
Xiuying nods, her voice barely a whisper. “It appeared a week before he got roughed up by that drunk. He was complaining of terrible headaches and nightmares.”
Quinming's eyes flutter. He is carried into a new room and lowered onto the bed. His body sinks into the soft surface, and he feels the gentle pressure as they hold him up. The clink of a bowl barely registering in his haze. Xiuying and Rong untie his robe, he can tell by their unique scents, their fingers deft and soft against his skin, revealing his bruised flesh and festering wounds.
A cool cloth touches his back, sending a shiver through him. He groans. The dirt and sweat give way to raw, reddened skin. The room is filled with murmurs, their concern evident in the background.
“These wounds... they've festered badly. This isn't something new.” Qian Yun's fingers lightly probe the edges of the wounds.
“How many times has he been whipped for his back to look like that?” Lian's voice trembles with anger and sorrow. She places a hand on Quinming's shoulder, her usually playful demeanor now replaced with a rare moment of stillness.
“We knew he was punished, but... this? He never said anything,” whispering, Xiuying's touch gentle yet firm cleans away the puss.
“He never revealed anything to us. Not a word,” Rong adds quietly as she brushes his black hair from his feverish face.
“He’s been punished like this for years. The older scars are layered beneath the newer ones. This didn't just start recently,” Qian Yun observes, her touch both professional and compassionate.
“Years? He's been enduring this all this time, and we never knew...” Lian's voice is filled with disbelief, her hand resting on his shoulder in a rare moment of stillness.
“He never complained. Never showed us the extent of his pain. He just... silently endured it all,” Xiuying's voice breaks.
Lan's voice, soft and trembling, reaches his ears. “I just want him to be okay,” she whispers, her fingers lingering on his skin with each fresh cloth she applies.
“We'll do everything we can to help him. But this... this will take time. And he needs to know he's not alone anymore,” Qian Yun's voice is determined, her hands working with steady precision.
The voices blend into the background as Quinming’s consciousness fades in and out. The sound of water being wrung from a rag and the smell of herbs remind him of a certain man... a friend. Probably the only one he could ever call a friend. The memory tugs at the edges of his mind, pulling him back to another time, another place.
Night descends. In a hidden forest valley, a small, weathered cabin stands alone. A world onto itself among the eerie mountains ruled by Demonic Cultists. Flickering firelight streams through a boarded-up window. Vibrant and stark. It fights an ever losing battle against the surrounding darkness.
‘Just like us,’ Quinming thinks, trudging through the oppressive night. ‘Always fighting and never quite winning. Damn it, I hate these mountains.’
Outside, the night is impenetrable, but inside, the cabin offers a semblance of warmth and safety. Tang Leifeng moves with deliberate, almost ritualistic precision as he tends to the flames. There is a rhythm to his actions. Steady. Hypnotic motions that speak of years mastering the art of fire-tending.
Popping and hissing, flames leap and dance in the chilly air. Leifeng hums a light, playful tune, his dark brown hair catching the glow and revealing glints of hidden red. Each crackle of the fire punctuates the eerie silence, his humming adding an odd discord.
The cabin door flies open with a resounding crash and the noise shatters the stillness, sending a cold gust swirling through the room. Leifeng barely acknowledges the noise, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he continues to poke at the fire.
"Ah, fashionably late as always," he teases, his tone light and easy.
Quinming stumbles in, his voice rough with fatigue and irritation. "Maybe if you chose a less miserable spot, I’d have made it sooner.”
Internally he grumbles, ‘He always picks the worst, out of the way places.’
Leifeng glances over, the firelight catching his amber eyes and the momentarily softening his carefree demeanor. His gaze lingers on Quinming. Concern unmistakable. He opens his mouth to speak but reconsiders. Masking his emotions, he shakes his head and remains calm.
‘Look at this little punk pretending. You're not fooling anyone. You're worried.’
Rising from his crouch position, he dusts off his hands and moves to his bags. There is an ease there. Moving with the efficiency of someone who has done this many, many times before. From a worn leather kit, he sets up a makeshift medical station. His actions precise and practiced.
Quinming lurches to an old, splintered bench beside the fire, almost falling into it rather than sitting. Blood drips steadily. A worrying constant, drip, drip, drip, that adds to the fire’s symphony.
“Haaa... great, I'm adding to the ambiance,” he says his thought aloud.
He groans. His hands shaking as he digs through his torn clothes, desperately searching and cursing under his breath. With a happy little moan he finds his wine skin, holding it up as if a treasure. Then he bites the lid off and spits it away.
‘Liquid gold, don’t fail me now.’ He drinks deeply, greedily, as if he has been thirsty for a lifetime.
Amber eyes glint with a mix of exasperation and concern as he surveys the damage from a distance. Quinming looks like a beggar. A blood drenched beggar. He at least had some thought to dunk his head in a river before coming, but there was little Quinming could do about the clothes.
But Leifeng is more troubled by those injuries than anything else. Quinming's body is a map of wounds. A particularly nasty gash on his arm refusing to clot, tainted with black demonic qi.
Despite the pain, Quinming's face remains locked in a stubborn grimace. He takes another long swig from his wine skin, scowling as the liquor goes down.
"Save your herbs and salves," Quinming mutters, waving a dismissive hand. "Just rub some dirt and pour some alcohol. Always worked for me."
Patience teetering on the edge, Leifeng's voice is a blend of frustration and reluctant care. "Quinming, how many times do I have to tell you? You're not invincible. These wounds need proper care!”
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Quinming grunts, his eyes narrowing. “I’m still here, aren’t I? Survived worse.'”
Leifeng sighs, shaking his head as he approaches with the medical supplies. "Being stubborn doesn’t make you invincible. It makes you reckless. Now, hold still."
"You worry too much."
"And you don’t worry enough," Leifeng retorts. "One day, your luck will run out.”
Quinming smirks. "Then I’ll make sure it doesn’t.”
Leifeng steps closer, his fingers prying the blood-crusted clothes from Quinming’s body. His black-stained fingertips work with precision, examining each wound. The tips and nails were pitch black, while small veins spreading from his fingers turned a deep, sinister purple.
The Tang clan’s brutal poison cultivation left its mark on those who survived. From a young age, members consumed poisons, a practice that many did not survive.
Quinming glanced at those hands, then quickly averted his gaze, taking a long swig from his wine skin.
"You really are a walking warning sign."
Leifeng smirks. "And you’re a walking disaster. We make quite the pair. Hold still. This is going to sting.”
During this, Mu Jianshou, the ever-watchful shadow, slips into the cabin and gently closes the door. He stands nearby, his eyes never leaving Quinming. His concern is palpable, written in the lines of his face and the tension in his stance. As a younger sect brother from the Mu generation, one beneath Quinming’s Zhong generation, Jianshou, who is almost 20 years younger, had once idolized him. But now, his role had shifted to one of protector, watching over a man too reckless for his own good.
Quinming shoots a smirk at Mu Jianshou, ignoring Leifeng’s protests. "I see you’re still playing the guard dog, Jianshou. I bet you’re just here to see me bleed.”
Mu Jianshou raises an eyebrow, his tone dry. "More like to stop you from bleeding out. Again."
Leifeng shakes his head, not looking up from his task. "It’s a full-time job, keeping you in one piece.”
Mu Jianshou steps closer, concern etched in his features. "We mean it, elder brother Zhong. You can’t keep doing this to yourself.’
Quinming shrugs, his smile fading as he stares down the younger disciple from the Mu generation beneath his Zhong. "I do what needs to be done."
Sensing that he is overstepping, Mu Jianshou backs off, returning to his silent vigil by the door.
Amber eyes watch the two, finding their interactions always strange and amusing. He tugs a bit hard on the suture, making Quinming flinch. "Just don’t make it harder than it already is.”
Quinming’s lips curl into a smirk as he watches Tang work. "If I stop now, who will be left to keep the next wave of chaos in check? You lot will be dead in days."
“This isn’t just about getting through the day, Quinming.” He switches to another wound. “It’s about surviving the long haul. There’s a difference.”
Face contorting, Quinming snaps, "So? I’m just trying to save one more person before I drop. If I don’t, who will?”
"And pushing yourself to the brink will change that?” Leifeng matches his energy, glaring at him. “You’re only one man. We need you alive to make a difference.”
The room falls into an uneasy silence, punctuated only by the soft rustle of Leifeng’s movements and Quinming’s occasional grunt of pain. Leifeng’s frustration is easy to read, but beneath it is a genuine worry for a hard-earned friend.
"It’s been nearly a decade," Leifeng says, more to himself than to anyone. "Good people dying every day while those in charge do nothing. And here you are, throwing your life away."
“I’m fully aware of the situation." Quinming’s voice is rough and bitter. His eyes reflect the weight of his rage.
A violet butterfly appears, landing gently on his finger. It remains, as if to soothe his turmoil. Quinming stares at the delicate creature, his emotions a turbulent storm of frustration and helplessness.
Amber eyes flash in the firelight. "You’re not a god, Quinming. Even the best need to heal. Pushing yourself to the brink won’t help anyone in the long run."
Quinming remains silent, watching the butterfly. ‘What’s the point in arguing?’
"And saying you're the only one... That’s not a good enough reason to endanger yourself further. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard lately. As you said, we all will fall without you...” His voice trailed off, words linger in the air.
Quinming, though still defiant, nods, agreeing that they are worthless without him. Leifeng’s frustration reaches a peak as he snatches the liquor bag from Quinming’s hands. The butterfly flutters away as he takes a swig himself. Quinming protests with a childish pout, but the corner of his mouth twitches in reluctant amusement. ‘Damn thief.’
"Hey! That’s my drink!"
Shaking his head with a sigh, Leifeng hands the wine skin back to Quinming and wipes his mouth his mouth. "Fine. If you won’t take care of yourself, at least let me have some fun. But don’t think this excuses you from being a stubborn old fool."
“Old? Me?” Quinming looks to Mu Jian Shou and asks, “Which one of us looks older here?”
The younger disciple rolls his eyes and shifts his gaze, not bothering to respond.
“Have some shame, old man.” Leifeng’s brow spasms. “You are clearly older than me, you damn ageless Taoist.” From within his long flowing robes he pulls out a mirror and looks at himself.
Quinming chuckles, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Just means I age better."
Leifeng grins. "Keep telling yourself that. Unfortunately, it also seems to limit your mental age as well. "
Leaning back, Quinming winces. "It’s all part of my charm."
With a laugh, Leifeng shoves the mirror back up his sleeve and shakes his head. "Charm won't save you out there, old man."
"It’s gotten me this far, hasn’t it?"
Leifeng snorts. "Barely. Now sit still before you open up another wound."
"Alright, alright. But do you hear that?” Tilting his head, Quinming listens for the strange discordant sound.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Leifeng raises an eyebrow. "Hear what?"
Quinming cocks his head to the side. "Dripping. Is it raining?”
They all pause, listening intently.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Quinming stands while the cabin around him distorts. He is brought back to reality as a bowl of water is placed beside him on the table.
Qian Yun tosses the old cloth in a different bowl in Leifeng’s arms, her face pale with worry. "His fever is getting worse again. We need to keep him cool."
Xiuying rang out the new cloth and placed it on Quinming’s forehead. "I hope this helps. He’s been raving for days.” The coldness of it made him shiver and brought a small amount of clarity back.
"We need to do more. If this fever doesn’t break soon, we’ll lose him,” Leifeng snaps.
No. Not Leifeng. Leifeng died a few months after that cabin visit. And after that Mu Jianshou and the rest of Huashun's fighters on that damn mountain. Torn to shreds just so Quinming’s sword could finally reach Cheonma. All of this feels like it has happened within the span of half a year. Leifeng's death. Those of his brothers and sisters. His death. And waking up. It truly has not been that long for him.
Qian Yun’s voice is strained. "What else can we do? We’ve exhausted our supplies and knowledge."
The one who looks like Leifeng in his blurry mind is Lian. He can hear her determination. "We need to find a solution. He’s battling something beyond our reach."
Xiuying’s voice is steady, though worry lines her face. "He’s strong. We have to keep faith that he’ll pull through.”
Quinming, feverish and delirious, slips into memories for the last time. A memory from his youth, back to when he was nineteen and wild. His vision blurs, and the present melts away, replaced by the bustling training yard of his old sect.
The sun blazed overhead, casting long shadows across the bustling training yard. The air was thick with the sounds of clashing swords and heavy breaths of exhausted trainees. Among them stood Quinming, his eyes gleaming with mischief.
"Is that all you've got?" Quinming teased, his voice carrying over the din. "I've seen more life in a sack of rice!”
Groans of frustration rise from the trainees, but Quinming is undeterred. "You’ll never master the Plum Blossom techniques like that."
The trainees, drenched in sweat and panting, shoot him weary glares. Among them, Zhong Xujian, particularly exhausted, glares at Quinming with a mix of resentment and frustration.
Quinming, ignoring the glares, steps forward. "Watch and learn," he announces, drawing his sword with a flourish.
He moved with a grace that seemed almost otherworldly, his steps light and fluid as he demonstrated a perfect sword stance. With a flick of his wrist and a crafty smirk on his lips, his sword sliced through the air, creating sharp plum blossoms that seemed to hang in the air for a moment, shimmering with real sword energy. The sight left the trainees stunned, their eyes wide with a mix of awe and envy.
“That's real sword energy!”
“Yeah, how the hell?!”
“I didn't know you could make sword energy petals with the basic techniques. Wasn't it only possible With the more advanced techniques?”
‘And that, my friends, is how you do it.’ While the others talk excitedly, Zhong Xujian glares at him, his face flushed with exhaustion and resentment. "Show-off," he mutters under his breath. ‘Jealousy is such an ugly look on you, Xujian.’
"Quinming," an older brother called out, his tone dripping with false camaraderie. "Why don't we have a duel? A bit of training, to push you even further.”
From the shadows of the yard, an older sect brother, visibly irritated, steps forward. The attention shifts to the direct disciple under Quinming's master. Quinming is very aware of his jealousy. And just so happens that the ever watchful Zhong Zhi is not here today. Normally he would have stepped in.
‘Ah, here we go. Another challenge to put me in my place.’
He meets the older brother's gaze with a confident smile. "Very well," he replies, his voice steady. "Let's see what you’ve got.”
‘This should be fun.’ Quinming thinks, ‘I always wanted to knock him off his high-horse. Just because he is older, thinks he can boss Brother Zhi around.’
This only annoys the older man. He gestures to those who follow him. “Give him one of your swords. Let's make this a real duel this time.”
The other older disciples share worried glances. No one stepping forward at first. Not until Quinming tossed his wooden sword aside and came forward.
“Sure, it sounds fun.” With an innocent tilt to his head and a mischievous glint in his eyes, he shoves his hand before them. “Come on. It's hot, let's not stand here all day.”
The older disciples exchange uneasy glances, their whispers blending with the background noise of the training yard. Despite being in their mid-thirties they all look youthful, no more than early twenties.
One of them, a youthful man with a scar across his cheek, speaks first, his voice low and filled with concern. "Isn't Quinming too young for this? The age gap... it doesn't seem right."
‘Yeah, keep worrying about the age gap while I outclass you.’
"But have you seen his skills?" Another disciple, with a distinctive birthmark on his temple, replies. "He's talented, no doubt, but this feels... wrong."
A woman with her hair tied in a tight bun wrings her hands nervously. "He's still just a kid. What if something goes wrong?"
They glance at the older brother, who stands confidently, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. His eagerness is palpable, but it does not sit well with the group.
"He's just trying to put Quinming in his place," a tall disciple with broad shoulders mutters. "He can't handle being outshone by someone so young who is likewise a disciple under his master.”
The scarred disciple, looking conflicted, finally steps forward. "I know Quinming's talented, but this... this is different. It's not just about skill. It's about experience and... restraint."
The woman with the bun nods. "We should stop this. Before it goes too far."
But before they can act, the scarred disciple takes a deep breath and reaches for his sword. "Here, Quinming," he says, reluctantly handing over his weapon. "Good luck. And... be careful."
‘Careful? Where's the fun in that?’
He then turns to the older brother, giving him a troubled look. "Remember, he's still young. Don't push too hard."
The older brother's smirk widens. "Don't worry. I'll make sure he learns his place."
As Quinming takes the sword, the air is thick with tension, the whispers of the disciples lingering like an unspoken warning.
The disciple with the birthmark whispers to another, "He's going to try and break him. This isn't just a duel."
The tall disciple adds nervously, "I hope Quinming knows what he's doing."
The stage is set, the atmosphere electric with anticipation and unease. Despite their youthful looks, the older disciples' concern for Quinming's well-being is evident, their expressions a mix of worry and reluctant acceptance.
The yard clears, forming a circle around the two as they face off. The older brother's stance is rigid with tension, while Quinming is relaxed, almost languid.
The older brother lunges, his sword slicing horizontally toward Quinming’s midsection. Quinming sidesteps effortlessly, fluid and precise. His sword flashes—a counter. A quick slash aimed at the older brother’s shoulder.
Clang! The older brother parries, startled, his face paling. He lashes out with a downward strike, intending to split Quinming’s head. ‘Predictable.’
Swish! Quinming tilts his body, narrowly avoiding the blade. His wrist flicks—a swift thrust aimed at the older brother’s ribcage.
The older brother twists away just in time, eyes wide as he touches his cut clothes, rattled. ‘Getting scared? You should be.’
Seeing his opponent’s distraction, Quinming advances with rapid slashes. Whish! Whish! His blade whistles through the air, each strike aimed at a vulnerable point. The older brother blocks desperately. Clang! Clang! Movements frantic, struggling to keep up.
Quinming spins on his heel, a low sweeping slash at the legs. Whoosh! The older brother jumps back. Quinming follows with an upward slash, narrowly missing the chin. Fwoosh! The older brother stumbles, barely regaining balance.
Sensing victory, Quinming presses. A feint draws a hasty parry. He shifts his weight—a precise stab toward the abdomen. Clang! The older brother deflects, the force sending him reeling.
Illusions unfold. Pink plum blossoms swirl around the older brother, mesmerizing, disorienting. The trainees gasp, concern palpable for their younger disciple brother.
Quinming remains unfazed. He counters with his own sword energy, creating red plum blossoms that shimmer with a deeper, vibrant hue. The red petals overpower the pink. His illusion winning.
Desperate, the older brother unfolds an advanced technique, his sword glowing with real sword energy. The disciples gasp, sensing the power. He swings with all his might. Power crackles.
Quinming meets the attack head-on. Crash! His sword erupts with energy, more complete, more beautiful. Red petals burst forth, overwhelming the pink. In the sea of petals, Quinming jumps through the gap, tiny petals slicing his cheek and arms. He disarms the older brother with a swift, decisive move, sending his sword flying across the yard.
Wiping the blood on his cheek with his thumb, Quinming steps forward, his sword tip stopping just short of the older brother's chest. The yard falls silent, the air thick.
The older brother, stunned, his expression twists with rage, humiliation, and fear. "You may have won today, but mark my words, Quinming. One day, someone will put you in your place."
Quinming laughs, a carefree sound that echoes in the yard. "Perhaps," he replies, sheathing the sword, "but until then, I'll keep dancing."
The training yard and the faces of his peers dissolve as the ground crumbles, the cheering disciples fade. He falls, deeper and deeper. Falling into the memory he has long since buried within.
The isolation training caves loom dark and foreboding. They were meant to be a place of intense training and reflection, a rite of passage for those who sought to push their limits. Quinming, fresh off his victory in the duel, had been filled with confidence and trust, unaware of the true nature of his elder brother's intentions.
"To grow stronger, you must face yourself," the elder brother had said, his voice calm, almost soothing. "This is for your own good, Quinming.”
‘Face myself? More like face my own grave.’
Quinming scoffs.
‘What had I done, like a fool?’
That's right. Quinming nodded, determined to prove his worth and with his own two feet entered the cave. Not knowing the heavy stone door sealing behind him with a resounding thud would be his end.
‘At first it was okay. A bit annoying. But the challenge had been thrilling.’
Days turned into weeks. Quinming trained diligently, consuming the grain pills and sipping the wine sparingly. But soon, he began to feel weak. The grain pills left a bitter aftertaste, and the wine did little to sustain his strength. His cultivation faltered, and hunger gnawed at his insides.
‘Weeks turned into months. How long have I been in here?’
Quinming’s supplies dwindled faster than expected. The faulty grain pills provided little nourishment, and the wine, meant to last half a year, barely kept him from dehydration.
‘So this is how it ends. Not with a bang, but with a whimper.’ Desperation set in then as he realized the older brother’s true intent.
The cave was damp and cold, the air thick with the stench of decay. Quinming resorted to digging up bugs from the earth, the crunch of their bodies between his teeth a testament to his desperation. He licked moisture from the cold, slimy walls, each drop a lifeline in the darkness.
Time lost meaning. His once vibrant eyes are dull, his body emaciated and frail. The isolation claws at his mind, whispers of doubt and betrayal echoing in the silence. ‘Trust? What a joke.’
He thinks of the older brother’s smile, the false camaraderie, and feels a bitter sting of betrayal.
"How could I have trusted him?" Quinming mutters, his voice a weak rasp. "Idiot.”
The cave offers no answer, its silence a mocking echo of his suffering. With the ever constant drip, drip, drip, driving him to near insanity. His body is withered, his once strong frame reduced to skin and bones. He can feel death creeping closer, a cold hand tightening its grip around his heart.
His memories of the sect, the ideals of brotherhood and healthy rivalry, feel like a cruel joke. The jealousy he had dismissed as harmless rivalry led him to this. He is trapped, starving, and alone.
Memories of his training, his victories, and the camaraderie he once shared with his fellow disciples flickers in his mind, tainted now by the bitterness of his elder brother's jealousy. He had thought the sect's values would protect him, that the bonds of brotherhood would hold true.
The reality is harsher, colder. In the isolation of the cave, Quinming realizes the depth of his elder brother's envy, the lengths he is willing to go to see Quinming broken. It is not just a rivalry; it is a calculated act of cruelty.
"I won’t die here," he whispers, a flicker of defiance in his hollow eyes. "Not like this. Not because of him. I’ll be damned if I let him have the last laugh.”
Summoning the last vestiges of his strength, Quinming crawls towards the cave entrance. His fingers, bloodied and raw, scrap against the stone door. It is no use. He knows this. But he refused to give into despair.
He collapses, dwindling energy spent, staring up at the cavern ceiling. The moisture condenses and drips down onto his face. Again, he thinks of the elder brother's face, twisted with jealousy and deceit. Quinming had been naive, but he would never be so again. Trust, true blind trust is a luxury he can no longer afford.
As he drifts between life and death, a violet butterfly appears, fluttering down from the darkness. It lands gently on his finger, its delicate wings a stark contrast to the harsh, cold stone of the cave. Quinming stares at the butterfly, its presence bringing a small, fragile sense of comfort.
He whispers to the butterfly, "I will survive. I will emerge from this darkness, stronger and wiser.”
But there is also fear. He is scared. Horribly scared and lonely. So lonely. He misses brother Zhi. Wonders why he has not come. Did they all hate him? Was his presence that much a burden that with him disappearing like this they only sighed in relief and not question why?
He knows this is just the effects of isolation. His thought having become twisted. But the seed of doubt grows, feeding on his weary heart.
The violet butterfly flutters its wings gently, glowing in the dim torch light, as if in reassurance, before flying away into the darkness. Quinming watches it go, a small spark of hope igniting within him. He would survive.
He reaches for it.
The darkness fades as Quinming stirs, his consciousness clawing its way back to the surface. The scent of herbs and the gentle murmurs of voices reach his ears. He opens his eyes, finding himself in a warm room, the flickering light of candles casting soft shadows on the walls.
He feels a hand in his, soft and warm. "Brother Zhi," he mumbles, his voice weak and desperate. "Don't leave me in the caves. Please... don't leave me."
‘Don’t let this be another illusion.’
A gentle voice responds, soothing and kind. "Shh, it's okay. You're safe now. I'm here.”
Quinming’s vision clears, and he sees Xiuying's face above him, her eyes filled with concern. He blinks, confusion mixing with the remnants of his delusion. "Brother Zhi?" he whispers, still not fully aware of his surroundings.
Xiuying holds his hand tighter, her voice steady and comforting. "No, Quinming, it's me, Xiuying. You're safe now. We found you. Everything will be fine."
His breathing slows, and he feels a sense of calm wash over him. He listens to the soft conversation between Xiuying and Qian Yun.
Xiuying's voice is worried. "He’s been talking about caves... do you think it’s a bad memory?”
Qian Yun's response is soothing. "It must be. We need to keep him calm."
Xiuying's tone turns thoughtful. "You know, when he was younger, some older boys bullied him. Locked him in a trunk. He was catatonic, muttering about caves back then too."
Qian Yun replies softly, "That's right, I forgot about that. Poor boy. It must have left a deep scar."
Their words bring a painful clarity to Quinming. He is overwhelmed with the realization that Brother Zhi is truly gone. Dead. He watched him die personally. The weight of this knowledge crushes him.
‘Why, brother Zhi? Why did you leave me again?’
The grief is sudden and sharp. Quinming starts to silently cry, tears streaming down his face. Xiuying notices and gently wipes his tears, her touch tender and understanding.
"You're not alone, Quinming," she whispers, her voice filled with compassion. "We're here with you. We'll always be here for you.”
But he finds little comfort in these words meant for the child Quinming and not the old Sword Saint, Quinming. For the first time in his life, he wishes he were dead. Dead like the rest of them. Why did he return? Why him? Was this Zhong Zhi's last punishment? Or was it his brother's wish that he endure and go back? Return. Was that really it?
His mind races with these thoughts, each one a dagger to his heart. He feels the suffocating weight of his survival, the crushing guilt of being the one who lived while so many others perished. Whether it is punishment or his brother's will, all he has are those distant mountains and the memories of those he has lost.
The mountains call to him, a place where he had once found purpose and meaning. The sect, the training, the camaraderie—it all seems so distant now, a world away. And though he is thankful for these women's care and concern, he knows he has to return.
He must. He has to go home.