It is what it is.

A bitch of a saying, but a helpful one. The trick about a maladaptive coping mechanism is it’s only maladaptive if it doesn’t work.

(Ok, that’s probably not true, she has to admit that, but she can also ignore that like she does most of the unhelpful things part of her is always screaming about)

It is what it is.

Hisheng is alive, relatively well, and was told by the Silver Song family that she was dead. No reason to distrust that, not really, and a master to hold him back besides; he has every reason not to have come, and she knew that. She barely ever held true rancor for him. For the sect, maybe, they could have looked, but… they’re an institution. Why would they bother? Why would they spend the time and resources to check to see if a problem child, expensive and not particularly useful, lived?

So… it is what it is.

She hasn’t smoked a cigarette since the previous day, and the effects have long since worn off. The crowd roars, the sun beats down in uneven tracts of heat and radiation against her skin, the sounds of industry and movement and mechanics crackle and make the ground tremble. The smell of humanity and all its derivatives and siblings, fungal and sweaty and musky and adrenal and bleeding and smelling of food and-

It is what it is. It is what it is. She can handle this. Everything is fine. She’s lived through worse.

All very useful things that are almost, mostly, relatively all entirely true.

The tournament goes on. The show switches again, and now the fights are geared towards those either inexperienced or in the Foundational realm. That isn’t to say it isn’t exciting, or that new favorites don’t crop up. There’s one particular kid from the Stone Divers sect that’s really blowing expectations out of the water, actually.

Not everyone remains between fights, taking the day off from their level of the tournament to recover and cultivate, but those that do have their own areas of the tournament at this point. Reputation and prestige hold their weight on arrival, but its only the winners and surprises that draw the crowds, and they have their own little sections. The man with the axe made of black, red, and silver metals has a proper harem arrayed around him, men and women of all sorts draped over whatever limb he allows them, and the amount of drink he’s consuming has attracted more than a few drink sellers and barrels. The woman with the beasts, always holding a wide berth of territory, now has the outer edges of that territory crowded by onlookers and lesser cultivators, fawning over beast and woman both. Many of the animals seem uncomfortable, a long and sinuous panther and something like a dog with too many snapping jaws both growling and fidgeting, but whatever control she has over them, they keep from tearing apart the crowds. The fighters from the Stone Divers and Unearthly Depths sects both have plenty of their own onlookers, but a few dark horses (like the man who burned a hole through her, weaving light and darkness, or the insectile cultivator who sits chatting amicably with another that has a sort of semi-illusory clone technique) have plenty of their own would-be supporters and newfound opportunities.

The Aspirant of the Cut, as befits a cultist of the most lethal art, has no such sycophants. He sits, quiet and still, and everyone else makes sure they sit nowhere close to the edge of the arena he rests in.

And yet, the crowd remains riveted, even with so-called “lesser” battles. The spirit of cultivation is to rage, is to rip and tear and overcome, even if one does so through peace itself, and most of the fights here and throughout the day have been full of passion. Seeing the heights of the mountains that might someday be their own domains, they are impassioned all the more.

And she can smell it. Adrenaline and hormones, twitching heartbeats, straining muscle and barely-contained violence, all of it behind the violent hum of the dome and the Qi running through its runes and-

It is what it is.

The two in question this particular fight are, both of them, excellent examples. One is a wandering cultivator, an independent or member of some far-off sect, and hasn’t gained much of a following yet, but it seems to push him more than weaken him. Across the arena, currently shape-shifted into a long and winding river with rocky banks, he faces off against the young cultivator of the Stone Divers sect.

And he is young. An adolescent, and not a late one. A prodigal talent, to be sure, to have reached into the Foundational realm so deeply at his age, but he still looks baby-faced against his opponent, who seems to ripple against the air itself and slip past most of his blows. She never got either of their names, the minutiae of speech drowned beneath so much more constant noise, but he holds his own surprisingly well. In spite of herself, she’s impressed by him. He moves quickly, steps well-placed even among running waters, and has a good grasp not just of his own Qi, but of genuine techniques.

Techniques, common as they are, are rarer than most of the bare-knuckle brawls of younger cultivators. Shaping one’s soul and Qi through cultivation is the highest expression of power, and manifesting that power and “self” through one’s Qi is the traditional way of doing battle, but everyone has techniques. Martial techniques allow him to step properly, to move his body according to his will and the laws of the world, and rather than something potentially self-harmful like manifesting stone from himself, he shapes the stones around the river’s borders, launching them at his opponent.

Of course, the style of cultivation matters, the ideals one follows shaping one’s self. He is from a sect that speaks of stone, of shaping it and moving through it, and that idea moves through the technique of infusing stones with Qi and moving them. As Raika watches, several of the pebbles flow together into long spikes, slender but weighty, and the independent cultivator is hard pressed, having to choose between dodging the traditional stones or the sharpened spikes.

It’s a good fight. The kid is doing his best, and despite his talent it’s clear that there’s plenty of work that’s gone into his growth. Both fighters are in the Foundational realm, but he has the clear advantage, despite lacking the experience or years of his opponent, who is himself clearly using a technique in tandem with his Qi to slip past some of the stones (and, in one noticeable case, seemingly moving through one of the spikes thrown at him.

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And she doesn’t care. She’s thinking about what has gone wrong.

Maybe, if she was at her best, she could do better, do more. As it is, she’s falling into old habits. The Mask of the bruiser falls closer and closer to the truth of her, and despite herself, she finds herself… lost. Before the letter, she was already speaking to ghosts, already tripping over herself to get at the violence arrayed before her where she can feel normal again. Now, after it, forced out of the violent momentum she has refused to let go of, she’s left…

With what? A tournament that hasn’t allowed nearly as much freedom as she’d like, no matter how Kaena’s spy networks are surely benefiting. A meeting with people she wants only to protect with her distance, who took one look at her and saw to the core of the broken thing she is without even trying. And old myths from some asshole who likes water and witches and fancy tea ceremonies.

It’s progress. It’s hard to think of it as such, but it is. When schemes can take centuries to pay off, to learn as much as she has, to have made the contacts this tournament has brought about, it’s a windfall… but it’s not enough. It’s not a win, and Raika doesn’t know how to be at peace if she hasn’t won.

Life has taught her this much, at least. If the opponent is not yours to make part of the pack, it is only safe when your teeth have torn free its throat, and it has gone still and ready to be consumed.

And then the fucking letter.

She feels like she’s forgetting something. Or maybe a lot of something. She watches the fight, her senses wandering over a hundred thousand beating hearts and only occasionally stopping on one. She watches the Stone Divers sect, and sees them moving about in response to their child-prodigy's talent for violence, and-

Hmm.

There.

Smell is harder, when everything is flooded, drowning, overwhelmed, is- mmm. It’s fine. And, more importantly, the hunger for a fucking cigarette works in her favor.

There’s someone among them she recognizes. Stone beneath still water, resisting erosion, stillness manifested as stasis and timeless rock.

One of the three from the alley. On the opposite side of Rei Ji’s sect, publicly enemies.

She grabs onto it. She can focus on this. She can ignore the rest. She can ignore the other scents, the rock and vines and beasts and violence and bleeding beneath glass and-

Hmm. What had that last one been?

The thought is gone in a moment. She can’t let herself stop, not now.

She gets up from where she sits. She sees Pai Jin, always close to her now, always with at least two guards around her, tense up, ever so slightly. It’s like music, in a way, listening to the armor move. There are gears in it, clicking things alongside the hum of bottled lightning and sanitized Qi, and as he tenses, as he clenches a hand and barely twitches, the entire thing moves in symphony with him, just as alive as he is.

She blinks, and realizes she’s been standing still for a bit longer than she wanted. Pai Jin is waiting, ready.

Taran is here, too. That’s nice. And Shapefixit, surprisingly close to the revenant figure. Both of them look at her too, confused. Jun Vral is… yes, he’s behind her, she can smell the serpents and the blood and-

Was that what she smelled earlier? It’s hard to tell, but no, it was… hmm. Her ghost, then. Up to something, maybe? Should she-

The thought dies, and she shakes her head.

“Come on if you’re coming,” she says. She doesn’t wait to see if Pai Jin responds. She’s not sure she could tell if he did anyways, not with so many other voices taking up so much space.

Fuck, she wants a smoke.

It is what it is.

It is what it is.

Pai Jin doesn’t stop her, but he does take her up on her “offer” to follow behind. She doesn’t bother with the many tunnels and rooms of the arena, ornate enough to hold so many fighters between bouts and nearly touching the Palace; she walks along the stands, uncaring of who sees. She has to hop over a railing to get past the Imperial section, but… why?

It bends easily enough when she pushes against it. The act grounds her, a bit. There is a moment where it snaps, and it is almost like violence. Almost.

The crowd parts for her, but she can hear them murmuring. It grows, fast, as people get out of her way, the whispering killing many of the cheers and offering something like a bit of quiet. She doesn’t look at them- she doesn’t need to, and she needs to be here, now. Forward. On to pain, on to an objective, on to a fight, on to a need.

Something is wrong, and she wants a smoke so much it hurts. And the Witch may have answers. And it’s something to do that feels like it matters, when so little can hold her mind steady.

She wonders where Maen is, if she’s gone to meet Li Shu and reminisce, maybe. Though they didn’t really know each other, did they? Hmm.

It is what it is.

It takes a good ten minutes or more of walking to cross barely a third of the arena, in as straight of a line as the parting crowd can provide. She is head and shoulders over the next tallest among them, some more bovine beastkin that almost looks like he wants to compare physiques before he is very intently held back.

The fight doesn’t stop, but she does feel a bit bad at taking so much attention from it, walking with a power-armored entourage through the stands.

The Stone Divers are ready when she arrives.

No less than three of their elders stand before her, all three in the Nascent Soul realm. Behind them, dozens of cultivators take up space in their own ornate seating section, shaded and surrounded by their own wealth. Only the servants look truly anxious, dressed as they are in the sect’s colors, but more than a few of the cultivators stir, tense.

She smiles as politely as she can manage. The Mask makes itself aware and alive, and shapes her face into one of calm, of contentment, of respect. She bows, as shallowly as she can get away with. It barely brings her head down to their level.

“Greetings, honorable elders,” she says. “If I could bother you for a moment, I am most impressed by the performance of your young prodigy there. I had hoped I might ask some among you a few questions.”

The smile the Mask wears is gentle, but the eyes behind it are not.

In them, something is wrong.