In the evening, she cooked and served dinner for Wu Lanhua and Liu Fakuang. The kitchen on the boat shared the room with a small dining table, so that important guests could enjoy watching the cooks work, and they spent the cooking time in pleasant conversation before she joined them for the meal itself.

Together with the other chef, they made a hearty fish soup - from the fish she caught herself, after she tried her hand at fishing using her rope control techniques. Moving the fishing line underwater was difficult, and only made more so by the control line slipping out of her fingers, but she was going to keep practicing - she came far too close to death in her battle with that giant black fish back in the forest. In the end, she only managed to catch a single fish, but it was enough for the three of them.

“It’s truly a shame you won’t be staying with us.” Wu Lanhua sighed, blowing softly on her spoon. “I forget when was the last time I could enjoy fish cooked by an immortal chef.”

“You live right next to a river,” she said, raising her eyebrows, “I would have expected most of your meals to include fish of some fashion.”

“Our previous immortal chef specialized in beef,” Wu Lanhua said. “He all but refused to cook anything else, and there is only so much you can force a cultivator to go against their wishes. His skills were great, and he knew hundreds of ways to prepare it, but my stomach does not tolerate it well. It was still better than the cooking of a mortal chef, of course, but only just.”

“A chef is supposed to tailor the meal to the tastes of the customers, not force the customers to adhere to their own tastes,” she said, quoting from Three Obediences Four Virtues, and shaking her head. “It’s a novice mistake to make.”

“Would you believe me this woman told me she could hardly be credited for her cooking skills?” Wu Lanhua turned to Liu Fakuang. “Yet here she is casually pointing out mistakes our prior chef made without even meeting him. You should have more respect for your skills, Yishan.”

“Would you believe me she told me she is a regional trader of little fame or wealth?” Qian Shanyi smiled, also turning to Liu Fakuang.

Wu Lanhua laughed, and the conversation turned to Liu Fakuang. He was telling them about his work - meeting with local spirit hunters, to share news, coordinate, and receive orders that couldn’t be sent through the post - and she was keeping the conversation going with a mask of polite interest, until something he said caught her off guard.

“Recently a lot of work is about trying to predict and prevent demonic cultivator attacks, like that recent one in Golden Rabbit Bay -” he said.

Qian Shanyi’s spoon paused for a fraction of a second, the words registering in her mind. Wu Lanhua nodded to Liu Fakuang, thankfully not looking at her, and she put her spoon down, focusing fully on the conversation.

“What happened in Golden Rabbit Bay?” she asked, keeping her tone casual through force of will.

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” he asked, looking at her. “It was big news about a week ago.”

“I don’t follow the rumors much, I am afraid.” She shook her head. “Unless it concerns cooking or cultivation.”

“Demonic cultivators left spiritual bombs all over the city, about two and a half weeks ago,” Liu Fakuang said, “then tried to steal from one of the largest sects in the confusion. We’ve been on alert ever since.”

Two and a half weeks. That would put it at the exact day when Wang Yonghao fled the city. He did mention some explosions…

“How -” she swallowed a sudden lump in her throat, “how many dead?”

“Somewhere north of half a thousand,” he said, “it wasn’t in our reports, just what the postrunners have been saying. If you want to know more, you could write to the imperial office in Golden Rabbit Bay.”

They are fine, she told herself, It’s a big city. The probability is just not there.

Could she find out for sure? Not safely, but perhaps there was a way…

She shook her head slightly to clear it. Either her family was safe, or they were already dead. If they were alive, they would get her letter and know she was alive, not pulverized in an explosion. If they were dead, they were beyond her help, and there would be time to grieve later. Her father would have wanted her to stay safe instead of risking her obscurity by sending more letters, she was sure.

“Did you know someone there?” Liu Fakuang asked her, noticing her momentary pause.

“Only distant acquaintances,” she lied, “but five hundred dead… It is shocking.”

“It is,” Wu Lanhua agreed.

“Their heavenly souls are in a better place now,” Liu Fakuang said.

Qian Shanyi felt rage bubbling in her heart, but kept it away from her face. How did he dare say that?

“We can only hope they find the ones responsible,” Wu Lanhua said.

“There are many diviners in the Golden Rabbit Bay,” Liu Fakuang said, “Heavens are sure to show them the way.”

“I doubt it would be so simple,” Shanyi said, shaking her head dismissively. There was no real benefit to starting a fight, but she couldn’t simply let it go.

“What do you mean?” Wu Lanhua turned to her.

“Nothing, really,” she said, “I am not a spirit hunter, so it’s hardly my place to speak.”

“Hmm. What a curious thing to say,” Wu Lanhua said, steepling her fingers, “do you not have faith in divination, Yishan?”

“Faith?” She blinked, enjoying a chance to move the conversation away from her real objection. “Hardly. It’s an imprecise art at the best of times - there is a reason why it was hit the hardest by the reformation. History books are replete with examples of ancient divination arts that were revealed to not work at all, merely confirming what the cultivator already wanted to hear - hence ‘confirmation bias’. The only thing less deserving of blind faith is our understanding of luck.”

“Yet there are many diviners among the imperial spirit hunters, are there not?”

“The techniques work, when applied with great care.” She shrugged. “It is the myth of how effective they are that I have a problem with. No theater play seems to be complete without a diviner who tracks down a cultivator across the entire empire, knowing exactly where they are at all times - something that is, best as I know, flatly impossible.”

The irony of her doing exactly that with Wang Yonghao left a tingle in her soul. Perhaps she would share the joke with him when she tracked him down.

“Hm. And this has nothing to do with your embarrassment over making a heavenly vow?”

“Hm?” She asked. She was somewhat prepared for that question, and was sure she showed no sign of her true thoughts.

Liu Fakuang, on the other hand, winced, and rubbed his head.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he said, “I, uh, told my fiance about your vow. And that you were embarrassed by it. I wanted to tell you earlier, but you always seemed so busy…”

She glared at him, then turned back to Wu Lanhua.

“Fine. Yes, it is related,” she said, “but I would rather avoid discussing it. It could be a contentious topic.”

“I agree,” Liu Fakuang said.

“Oh come now, how bad could this possibly be?” Wu Lanhua said, “Besides, is it not good to air grievances in the open?”

“I thought you didn’t much care for cosmic questions,” Qian Shanyi said, pouring herself a cup of tea now that she had finished her soup.

“I do not. But if you care - and you certainly seem to - then that makes it interesting.”

“Lanhua, do you really want to know this?” Liu Fakuang winced. “I told you about how most other cultivators see karmists, didn’t I?”

“My dear Fakuang, you won’t deny me the chance to get to know Yishan better, will you?” She leaned forwards, cupping his cheek in her hand, “Talk in the abstract is not the same as seeing it with my own eyes.”

Liu Fakuang sighed, and nodded slightly.

“I guess it’s my punishment for not telling you about the vow earlier,” Liu Fakuang sighed, “Well, get it out. It’s not like you are the first cultivator with whom I talked about this.”

“Fine.” Qian Shanyi pursed her lips, putting her tea cup down with a clang of china on tablewood. If they wanted to give her permission to speak, then speak she would. It would be a good distraction from her worries. “If the heavens were involved in any way, the death toll would have been doubled. The only ‘way’ they ever show is towards graveyards.”

“Yeah, like I expected,” he said, crossing his arms. “But it’s just not true. The heavenly will guides and comforts hundreds of thousands of people in their daily life. How can you even say that with a straight face?”

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“You are in the high refinement stage. How long until you are at the peak? Already prepared to die in your tribulation?”

“I am not going to be facing a tribulation because I have no intention of transcending my realm in the first place,” Liu Fakuang said, pursing his lips. “Refinement stage is as far as I will go.”

Qian Shanyi’s eyebrows flew up, surprise momentarily overpowering her sheer disdain for the karmist opposite her. Most refinement stage cultivators could not advance to the building foundation stage, due to lacking the funds, a good spiritual energy recirculation law, or simply not being blessed enough to have their dantians of sufficient size - but to not even want to transcend the boundaries of your flesh, this was something novel. In many ways, it felt even more bizarre than Wang Yonghao’s decision to not cultivate at all.

“Why not?” she asked after a couple seconds of silence.

“Why would I? Because to cultivate is to seek immortality?” He shrugged. “That’s not what the heavenly will teaches, and besides, what would I do with my life? None of my family are cultivators, and neither is Lanhua. As a refinement stage cultivator, I could easily live to a hundred and twenty years - a hundred and forty with alchemical treatments. None of the others can live that long, even in the best circumstances. What would I need more life for? To suffer alone?”

Wu Lanhua smiled, and put a hand on his shoulder. He leaned into her.

“You are a spirit hunter,” Qian Shanyi snorted, “do you truly expect to die in your bed?”

“Why not? Most of us retire just fine these days! This isn’t the pre-reformation time anymore.”

“Hm. I suppose I may have grown up on a few too many stories,” she grumbled, “but that matters not. What you personally intend has nothing to do with thousands of cultivators being murdered by the Heavens every single year for daring to go beyond their ‘mortal’ station. What can possibly justify this, in your eyes?”

“Thousands only die because tens of thousands make the attempt.”

“And that makes it okay?” She scoffed, “Besides, hundreds of thousands would have tried if not for the current risk - the threat alone is unjustifiable, not simply the deaths. This is ten percent of the best prepared cultivators in all the empire!”

“And nobody would die if those not truly prepared for the challenge would not attempt it!” Liu Fakuang threw his hands up. “Cultivation is a dangerous road, one that is not meant for everyone because not everyone can shoulder the burden. Those ten percent? If they simply trained more, or accepted that advancing in realm was not their destiny, they would still be alive. That’s all a tribulation is - it’s a check to make sure everyone is prepared to handle the responsibility of power.”

“Right,” she laughed, “which is why before Gu Lingtian’s rebellion you would get a tribulation thrown in your face as soon as your spiritual root meridians became unblocked, unless you happened to be born to one of the few families who were allowed to survive. I am sure it was just a test of “responsibility”, and not a cynical assassination of those who could not possibly fight back.“

“It was! Those families knew how to handle it, and taught their children how to do so as well. Now the heavens were convinced to do things differently -”

“They didn’t get convinced,” she hissed, “they were forced, at swordpoint.”

“Well, whatever you want to call it.” He shrugged, not caring in the slightest. “The point is, there is a reason why the Heavens do this.”

“Of course there is a reason. The reason is they do not want people to cultivate.”

“If that were true, why wouldn’t they send down the tribulation while you were ascending in realm? That is the most vulnerable moment! But no, first you ascend, and then the tribulation descends.”

“It’s more efficient to only kill those who actually succeed,” she snorted, “it is well known the Heavens have limits on how much spiritual energy they can use. Or perhaps they have simply been limited by Gu Lingtian.”

“That’s just a guess,” he scoffed, “It’s no better than my guess for why they do things. You couldn’t possibly know what limitations they are working under - only the Emperor is allowed to know the text of the Heavenly Mandate.”

“There is no Heavenly Mandate,” she hissed, rising up from her chair, “there is only the Heavenly peace treaty.”

“Are those not synonyms?” Wu Lanhua asked curiously.

“A mandate would have been given willingly.” She glared at her, though with no true conviction. The woman simply didn’t know better. “Our peace treaty was forced upon them.”

“Whatever you want to call it,” Liu Fakuang continued, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “The point remains that even the empire has certain relations with the Heavens! They follow some rules, and well, I think they exercise heavenly will. To say that it leads to nothing but graveyards would be to say that that’s all the empire does!”

“Will you say the same of the Lion kingdom?” She smiled with poison in her voice, and was glad to see him flinch.

“I’ve heard the name before, but I am afraid I am not too familiar,” Wu Lanhua said, frowning slightly, “It’s to the east from here, I believe?”

“It was a kingdom some two hundred years ago,” Qian Shanyi said, her lecturing tone bringing back some of the calm to her soul, as she sat back down on her chair, “a vassal of the empire at the time. One day, an Asura appeared above their capital.”

“An Asura?”

“One of the many vile creatures that come down from the heavens,” she continued, “It hung there, hundreds of meters above the ground, responding to neither call nor sign. Then, three days later, it struck, and everything within three hundred kilometers - towns, people, livestock, plants down to the smallest blade of grass, even water flowing within the rivers - was turned to stone in an instant.”

She lifted her cup of tea to her lips again, letting the statement hang in the air.

“We don’t know why the heavens ordered this, nor how it was done,” she continued, ”no witnesses of the final day have survived to tell the tale. The only reason we know the Asura was there at all is because of half a dozen cultivators who were smart enough to flee well in advance, and lucky enough - or paranoid enough - to keep fleeing until they were well outside of the eventual circle of death. We don’t even know how many people died, for how would anyone count them? To walk the entire kingdom and count the statues would take a hundred people working for a decade, and by now, many have been eroded into nothing by the rain and wind. All census books - if there even were any - were turned to stone, and you cannot read stone ink on stone paper. Our best estimate is three million souls.”

She turned her fiery eyes towards Liu Fakuang.

“This is far from the only slaughter, merely the largest one in recent memory,” she hissed, “Yet you still kiss the heavens on the hand? The blood of their victims drips off your lips. What can possibly justify this?”

Liu Fakuang had the decency to look away. Wu Lanhua steepled her hands, looking between them expectantly, like a cat that caught a particularly fat rat.

“They aren’t saying what happened there,” he finally said, “sometimes the heavens respond to requests, or talk through techniques, send messengers. They talk to the Emperor, of course. Never about this, though.”

“Is that your excuse?” She scowled, “That they didn’t even bother making up a reason?”

“Well it’s important, isn’t it?” He turned back to her. “We don’t know what happened there! All the witnesses we had - they only knew things up to the last day. From the last day itself, we know nothing. We know an Asura appeared, and you assume it is what killed everyone, but you don’t know, do you? It could have been trying to stop some demonic cultivators, and failed!”

“How many layers of excuses can you invent before your mind runs dry?”

“Well if it wanted to kill everyone, why did it wait for three days?”

“To give witnesses some time to flee.” She scowled. Did she truly need to explain this out loud? “Just to enjoy the fear it caused. Because the technique required three days to come to fruition - there are plenty of simple explanations. But if it came to stop the killing, why do nothing for three days? Not even speak to those who asked it? There is no explanation for this.”

“There are dozens of explanations! We don’t even know for sure if the Heavens understand our speech - how can we say that Asura should have reacted to questions?”

“Of course they understand speech,” she said, gesturing at the ceiling with her cup, “otherwise the Heavenly vows would not function.”

“Perhaps, but what if they read your intentions from your mind instead?” He shrugged. “What if the heavens can understand speech, but the Asura in question was deaf?” He shook his head, “We simply do not know enough about the Heavens! How can you so confidently say that what they do is wrong?”

“So that’s your true excuse then,” she said, “that we do not know, and never will know. Whatever the Heavens do, no matter how many thousands die at their hands, we simply will never know. But whenever a cultivator dies, why, that is their fault - they were simply not prepared enough. This we do know.”

“I don’t -” he sighed, “I don’t have an excuse. I am not a good karmist, the worst of my family. It was hard, you know, to learn about the Lion kingdom, and the other crises. But when a famine passes through the empire, what are the people supposed to do? Not everyone is lucky enough to be a cultivator and take control of their own destiny. Sometimes people just need to know that someone out there will hear their cry for help, and maybe, just maybe, offer a hand. Isn’t that why you made your vow?”

“The shame of it burns my soul to ashes every morning,” she said, “But I, at least, do not pretend that kissing the hand of murderers absolves me of responsibility.”

“Well, I don’t think you need to absolve yourself of responsibility,” he said, “it’s not like you killed anyone. Even if, as you say, the Heavens are really so bad… If they kill someone, it’s their fault, right? Why should you be ashamed of asking for help?”

Instead of responding, she rose from her seat, and turned to Wu Lanhua.

“I hope you enjoyed this?”

“Very much,” Wu Lanhua said, nodding with a satisfied smile on her face, “the affairs of cultivators are always couched in mystery, and I do enjoy shining some light on your worldview, Yishan.”

“Good. At least someone got something out of this,” she sighed, and headed towards the doors, “I will be retiring for the night, with your permission.”

She stopped in the doorframe, and threw a glance back at Liu Fakuang.

“I am thankful to you for keeping my vow out of the books,” she said, “yet I can’t help but wonder whether you should have, and what other transgressions have you kept out of them?”