“And what is this filth doing here?” Asks one of the most grating voices Raika has ever heard.

She doesn’t pay them any mind, humming slightly as she washes the dishes. Honestly, it’s surprisingly satisfying; the act of cleaning is nice, even if it is tedious, and she likes the smell of the soap and water, especially since it blocks out a lot of the casual scents of the dozens of cultivators walking around everywhere. It’s also the sort of activity she’d never be doing if she was still a cultivator, and honestly, she thinks that she might keep at it as she gets stronger. It’s surprisingly fulfilling, completing simple tasks, little things to change one’s environment, and the constant work has helped her get comfortable with the idea that paying attention to the details like this has merit and pleasure both, even if only in tiny doses.

She keeps humming, a bit tuneless, as she washes, her stumpy arm balancing plates she needs to dry and pushing new ones into the sink as needed, when the smell of slightly burnt apples, low-burning embers and musty wood hit her all at once in a wave.

She sneezes, hard, shaking her head to get used to it fast and turning to find out what the hell caused such a wave of Qi.

“Yes, you!” roars the most grating, weirdly nasal voice she’s ever heard, like its owner has a persistent stuffy nose and has decided to make it everyone else’s problem. She does notice it doesn’t look right, like maybe someone broke his nose and it didn’t heal back properly-

“Don’t just stand there staring at me!” he yells as he stands at the doorway to the kitchen, glaring daggers at her, his face run through with an old scar framed by bright yellow hair and oily skin, like he’s been working out and didn’t towel off. “Get out of this kitchen, come here, and fucking apologize,” he snarls.

She tilts her head, then gives him a bow, making sure to bend low for it. “My apologies to senior disciple,” she says. “Whatever has caused you trouble, I can only assure you that this one meant no offense, and will ensure it does not happen again, if you will only inform this one of the trouble.”

Nice. Good and proper, no jokes, and since she doesn’t know what the guy is pissed about, might as well be genuinely contrite, maybe she’s been fucking up the dishwashing or bumped into him outside or something.

“Your presence is an insult!” The cultivator snarls, that same cloying smell flooding into the room as he flexes metaphorical muscles she can’t really feel. “I come back from a mission for the sect and just want to settle down for a good meal, only to find my food has been tainted by this thing in the kitchen!” He spits on the floor once he’s done, a big blend of violent aggression and stupid posturing.

“I assure you, senior disciple, this one has no talent for preparing food, and has not touched anything that may have been placed before you.”

“The mere presence of a thing like you in the kitchen is no better than a soiled pig,” he snarls. “Who would eat from such a spoiled pot! You!” (at this he points to the nearest cook)- “You’re already stained by this thing, drag it outside. I won’t have it sully this place any longer!”

Raika gives the cook, who seems to have frozen in terror, a look to get their attention, and then a very mild shrug. She wipes her wet hand off on her robe, lets her sleeve roll down on her stump, and stands up, waiting to be escorted out. The cook doesn’t move at first, even as the cultivator sends another wave of Qi through the space (which actually might be the reason the whole room is so unmoving, terror and pressure keeping them immobile), but Raika coughs, quietly, and meets their gaze. Trying not to move, she gestures with her eyes.

The cultivator’s a shithead, but if he doesn’t want food with her in the kitchen, then she can just leave. He has the rank and the power to make those demands, and she doesn’t really care, especially if it means making less trouble for people who had nothing to do with it. Whoever this guy is is being insanely rude for no good reason, he technically doesn’t need one.

Then she notices his hand on his sword, and how he’s drawn it, ever so slightly, out of the scabbard.

“By this place,” Raika asks, just to make sure; “does honored cultivator mean this kitchen, with its hard working servants of the Purple Flame Burning Lotus sect? I shall gladly depart, so as to not disturb the work of this fine establishment.”

He looks at her, incredulous that she’s still speaking. “You dare?” he asks. “You will speak if addressed and not a moment before, cripple. Step outside, that I may remove you from the honor of the sect whose robes you so clearly stain!”

Hmm. Yeah, one of those.

She bows, picking up her cane and making a show of limping forward, letting him step behind her as he marches her out the front door, in front of the eyes of literally dozens of sect disciples, cultivators and servants alike. His Qi saturates the air with its scent, not letting up for a moment and causing clear distress to any of the nearby servants, with most cultivators making a face at his antics. Helps her get a measure; well above Qi-Gathering realm, but not at the top of Foundation yet. Inner disciples tend to be only Core Formation realm or above, so he’s not top tier in the sect or in the outer areas, but not a nothing, either. She can smell him, but the nuances of the scent and its intensity are hard to gauge, especially with him waving his Qi around like he is.

No one steps up or stands in the way as she’s marched out into the street. She doesn’t look around to see their faces; better not to be disappointed, and she isn’t expecting much… and it would hurt, a bit.

The street outside is nice. Like nearly every walkway and path in the sect, it’s cobbled with flat-topped stones, and though night has not yet fallen, lanterns have already been lit, outlining the path in bright yellow and purple fires and highlighting the oncoming sunset beautifully. Add in the grass swaying picturesque and sect disciples enjoying the weather, walking by in small groups, or eating at the tables outside, the whole view is fairly idyllic. She takes a moment, breathing it all in, pausing to take in so gorgeous a sight.

She stumbles a bit as shithead mcgee jabs her in the back with the pommel of his blade, grunting as he does it, like she’s not worth words.

Ah, yeah. That. She really is tending to focus on the details more nowadays.

She keeps walking, stepping over the pathway to the grass on the far side, facing the mess hall building. He goes to say something, maybe to complain about having to take five steps further or at her for daring to take initiative and step past the path, but-

“This lowly one would hate to stain the sect’s stones,” she says, voice low and quiet, posture relaxed, still watching the beginnings of the dusk. “If the honored cultivator would allow, this one would rather die on the grass if she must.”

He doesn’t refute her. It was basically confirmed, but she was being generous, one last off-ramp for him to scoff and say he wouldn’t sully his blade with her blood or that she need only get out of his sight or something. All would be decent reactions, and she might sneak some horse shit into his pillow before she leaves (and she is, one day, going to leave), but she could’ve lived with that. Instead, he just leers at her, taking an opportunity to keep fucking talking.

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“It’s good that you know your place so well!” he crows. “Had you known it before you tainted this one’s meal, I might even have allowed you to live, so long as you left and ceased sullying the sect with your presence. As it is, this honored one will extend you the greater honor of tasting his blade while he cleanses you from this holy place!”

She can’t help it. She rolls her eyes.

His eyes widen, and then his cheeks redden. “Impudence!” he roars, clearly mimicking some other, better cultivator’s lines. He unsheathes his blade, and for a moment, as he raises it, it catches the light of the sun behind her.

For just an instant, she just appreciates the sight. A glinting blade of purest red and gold light, framed by the oncoming dark blue and night of the sky, treetops waving in frame behind it.

Then she realizes that, oh shit, she should probably focus, and the smell of burnt applecrisp and embers in musty wood assaults her nose, and she takes one step to the left as she sneezes.

The step to the left was intentional, but the sneeze made it look like an accident, which is even better. The blade slides past her, cutting a few inches into the earth and charring the dirt, letting loose more smoke from the cut. He blinks, face comical as he tries to figure out what just happened, and she can’t help but giggle.

She’s not usually much of a giggler, but sometimes it’s just the best thing you can do in a given moment, and it can be very fun.

He whirls, eyes wide and teeth grit in a snarl. One thing to fail, another to be laughed at, and yet another to be laughed at by her, and he takes the sheer, overwhelming anger of that moment to try and cut her at the waist with a backswing that wildly overextends.

By the time he’s done telegraphing the swing, she’s already taken half a step back out of range.

It’s actually crazy easy. Like, she expected to have to go at this guy like an animal to get anything done, but whether it’s lacking cultivation or lacking a good foundation in a more literal sense, he’s just… way too easy. Waaaaay too easy.

No possible way she could have moved like this before her most recent changes, of course, but still! He comes at her with no technique, no style, just blind stupefaction that he hasn’t hit her already and the broadest, least efficient sword swings she’s ever seen, and she’s watched JiaJia practice in an alleyway with a stick.

She dodges once, twice more, then three times, and he gives another roar of frustration. His Qi-scent redoubles again, seeming to come off more and more when he waves his sword around, and she can see the metal start to glow a bit, hints of orange flames gathering around its blade as he moves. Finally, five swings in, she steps back out of range again and smells singed cloth anyways as a hint of the cut travels just past the tip of the sword.

Alright then. No more pussyfooting about.

The next time he swings at her, he actually seems to take a breath, realizing how ridiculous this must look to others (and it would seem that quite a crowd has started forming, streaming out of the mess hall to congregate on the road). In that moment, he stops, gripping his sword in a quick-draw pose, and takes two steps forward to perform a definitive strike, one he’s actually put some thought into.

Raika briefly wonders if this guy has ever been in a real fight before, and no, the dregs of whatever creatures and soul-beasts get let through the perimeter around the city don’t count.

Before the swing comes up she steps into his space, getting him to instinctively flinch and hesitate. Before he can recover she jabs his back foot with her cane, just enough to surprise and destabilize him, and then lets go of it, using the improved control of her body to drop it onto his wrist so it hangs there. Its weight is barely meaningful, but when you can’t do much, throwing an opponent off their game matters a lot.

Then she headbutts him.

The guy is an arrogant idiot, someone with more pride and desperate need for acceptance than common sense, and he’s clearly not on the high end of the outer disciples of the sect anyways. Hell, he might genuinely be a newbie, fresh off the boat enough that he was desperate to make an impression and so full of preconceived notions he figured her for a good mark, even if he was shocked she was here.

On top of that, he’s a cultivator, even if only in the Foundation stage. His senses, his speed, his strength, all outpace Raika severely, and if he was using proper forms or thinking properly, he could probably beat her out on control purely by brute forcing with fast reflexes and senses.

But, in her time fighting, Raika has discovered that almost nobody expects the headbutt. And, conveniently, cartilage strengthening is the thing most newbie cultivators tend to neglect if they’re not guided well. So it is that she shatters the ugly fuckers’ nose, reinforcing that nasal tone now and forevermore.

He flinches back, blood gushing from his nose hard enough that he gives a very unprofessional little yell of pain. She can already feel the bruise forming on her forehead, obviously, but plenty of practice with Ding has only improved her (heh) hardheadedness, so she doesn’t let up, and steps right back into his face again.

His free hand shoots out, a backhand slap to try and push her away, and she leans her body back just enough that it whiffs before coming in and headbutting him a second time, a fresh gout of blood splashing her robes as much as his. He squeals this time, and she can’t help but smile at the noise. Then, overlaid on the blood, she smells burnt apples again, and he takes three steps back, each step empowered and sending him maybe fifty feet back, easily.

She stands there, servant’s robes stained in his blood, empty sleeve flapping on the breeze and one leg slightly off-angle, using everything she has to keep control of her new senses and her new form. The worst thing he could’ve done was run back, and he wised up and did exactly that, instinct or no.

“You DARE!” He howls, the broken noise making it come out kind of warbled. “I’ll kill you!”

She just raises her right arm, into a sort of shrug, sort of openhanded gesture; the universal sign for “go ahead and try”.

He roars, his scent flooding their makeshift grass arena, and steps forward so fast she can barely see him move, flooding his body with Qi, shattering her cane as an afterthought, and swinging from overhead in actually decent form the instant he’s in range, a cut that feels weighted with Qi coming at her in a wave of beautiful flame and sharpened space.

She lets go. Her center of gravity drops as she falls forward, just ahead of the cut, like she’s falling before it. She feels the heat burning her, freshly regrown buzzcut crisping to the scent of burnt hair, robes singeing rapidly-

And then, with her low posture, she steps forward, feeling the cut graze against her right leg and calf, adding another scar to the collection, and goes for ol’ reliable.

What’s ol’ reliable, you ask? Why, it’s a thumb to the eye, of course.

He shrieks, he screams, he lets go of his sword to grab at his head, and instead of dodging she lets her control slip so she falls, face level with the pommel of his sword, and rips it out of his grip as fast as she can. She feels her skin strain, the new shell surrounding her inner mechanisms straining, the muscles beneath it tearing as she forces them to move way faster than they’re rated for, but she grabs hold of it and yanks it from his grip as he squeals.

And then, right side trembling from the pain of the cut, her blood staining through the burns and her robes to drip onto the grass, she forces herself to stand, balanced on only one leg, with the blade very carefully right against his throat.

She remembers being a Foundation level cultivator. She was stuck at Core Formation a long time, but she remembers it and the advantages it brought. She remembers that she was faster, better at using Qi, better at storing it, stronger, tougher. She remembers being half-immune to most of what once would have hurt her severely.

She does not remember being immune to a sword.

He is frozen. She is frozen. There is a moment of shared tableau as she stands there, trembling in exertion, bursting with sweat, back and leg scored by flame and blade, and he stands there, face a ruin but whole, and she sees in his eyes that he knows what this is. In this moment, she knows he can see what's in her eyes, too.

She pulls the blade along his throat as hard as she can.

And feels her hand stopped, held perfectly immobile, as if grabbed by a stone.

“What is the meaning of this?” Asks a quiet, restrained voice.

Raika can’t help it. Before she can answer, she has already taken a breath.

The smell of incense and molten stone hits her so hard that she chokes and blacks out.