Bob. Weave. Duck fully, step back twice, forward once, punch.

Reset to base.

Lean left, weave right, step forward, arm up, block, low kick, use it to spin into a crescent kick.

Reset to base.

Left uppercut, step back, lean back, duck low, jump once, block, block-

Reset to base.

She holds a hand up, pausing the back and forth, breathing heavily as sweat runs freely down her body, leaving droplets on the floor as she walks, the air around her heated enough that she can literally see it radiating off her.

Jun Vral respectfully steps back at the signal, letting his hands fall, his own breath much more controlled than hers. For all that he has a million really small lungs, you wouldn’t know it to look at him with how closely he’s holding to “human” form now. Even with it, he makes for quite a sight, wearing his robes down to his waist, chest bare and deeply pale, the slight imprint of snake scales visible if one looks closely enough and completely hairless, though his face remains distinctly… “normal”, human eyes and features standing out against the vaguely alien look his body has. It’s hard to tell how much of it is intentional, considering she’s seen him literally break apart into a bundle of snakes, especially without knowing if it’s a technique or literally just… how his body works (she’s pretty sure it’s the latter), but she… can’t help but admire the physique. Not in the conventional sense: he imitates human muscle groups, even uses them sometimes, but she can see faint lines woven throughout him if she really focus, and it’s downright fascinating watching his flesh ripple and shift in a slightly less grounded way than her own.

He catches her looking, giving a short bow as they both catch their breath, to which she can’t help but bark out a laugh. Walking to one side, she grabs one of the canteens to one side, tossing him another and taking a deep swig, fighting the desire to keep drawing in air.

As the training has gone on, it’s become more and more clear that she has some… flaws. A few hours of exercise and she’s sweating liters, radiating what would be a lethal dose of fever-heat, and struggling to draw in the oxygen her system needs. There’s a detachment to it, the knowledge that she can cut off parts of herself and rebuild them if needed making it so she’s not worried, per se, but if the point of the exercise has been to adjust her settings and see how her new form fares without using her powers to supplement it, it certainly says a lot.

“Not too out of it?” Jun Vral asks. “No overheating?”

She shakes her head, spitting some of the now-warm water to one side to clear her throat of the taste of copper. “No, not yet. Finding the limit to it. I’m losing out on power already, but I think I’ll have to slim down again, that or specialize. Two hearts, an extra lung, and I can still only oxygenate so much. One hour going at a consistent pace, maybe an hour and a half, and I need to stop and recover.”

“And going all out?” he asks.

She scoffs. “Wouldn’t you like to know, pretty boy.”

With a thought, she opens herself, letting seams between muscle groups she built for this exact purpose flare open as membranes ooze into place, letting out a burst of heat all at once. In another ten seconds, she has a second pathway into her lungs built into her collarbones, dragging in much larger breaths that echo in the vast arena.

She hears some murmurs, the clinking of coins, the breathing of a crowd, and tries hard not to roll her eyes.

It really is the best place for a spar, with enough equipment to exercise and train a dozen other things before and after, but the seating around the main arena has been put to good use since she and Jun Vral made a habit of these spars. Mostly by the guards, admittedly; they came with a dozen soldiers, and met with more when they arrived and Taurus was taken to wherever he’s gone, and most don’t have anything better to do than stand around guarding bedrooms and common areas. Like nearly all soldiers throughout all of history, they’ve taken up gambling to pass the time, and Raika, Jun Vral, Taran, Maen and even Shapefixit have all put on a show at some point or another as the week has gone by.

She’s made the most use out of the training space by far, taking the time needed to properly explore the limits on the body she’s rebuilding from the strange new normal born from her tribulation, and has started to take note of a few other individuals beyond the soldiers.

She’s fairly certain they’re nobility, or particularly rich merchants. She’s not sure anyone else would have access to a palace, and anytime she’s gotten too close to the edge of the arena, or the one time she went up to the stands to test their reaction (pretending she’d just wanted to take a seat and watch Taran and Maen spar), the soldiers have started to come together, instinctively or under orders looking to block her path. The strangers dress in robes of silk and gold thread, of ornate and expensive cultivator materials, and they run the gamut of physical features, some dark skinned, some light, several varieties along the spectrum of beastkin. It hasn’t gotten to the point of having someone bring a date to the show, but it still feels uncomfortable.

It would feel more uncomfortable if it wasn’t useful. Tracking facial features is one thing, but once she takes the time to figure out which scents mean what, she can find any one of them again at the merest whiff of their Qi. If having the ability to identify and track rich nobles and moneylenders anywhere in the world isn’t good enough, there’s the opportunity to analyze their behavior.

They don’t act like they’re seeing something impossible. None of them have any hint of active Qi usage unless they’re showing off some trick to each other, none of them smell of stress sweat, none of them make any notes, take comments, none of them bring their own guards or have the smell of artifacts on them. They don’t do anything besides enjoy an occasional show. It’s not much insight, but it’s there, if one can grasp it.

She’s pretty much certain that rumors of why they’re all here haven’t circulated. What’s more, she’s absolutely certain that whatever eyes are on her and the others, they don’t come from any place that might cause ripples or unrest in the upper crust. Rather than an imprisoned set of dangerous, mutated, would-be traitors, the nobles here act like they’re getting their own private show of prize fighters, random cultivators, or some other genuine arena for hire. However the richest, most Imperially-connected individuals get their information, it isn’t telling them that she’s a threat, as it would be if, say, the soldiers here were being given orders otherwise. No, she’s very much still under observation, but the leash is loose enough that they’re willing to let the nobility of the city come in and watch, and said nobility, always a backstabbing, willful lot, are comfortable enough with what information they have on her and the others to come without guards or protections.

That information is valuable. Whatever Taurus is being investigated for, it’s him being investigated and treated as a potential criminal, not any of the rest of them. It indicates a lot more leeway than she was expecting, at minimum.

She reseals her form, letting her body meld back together and reconnect its pieces. That’s been the biggest breakthrough of her new cultivation: before, like with the bone-armor she made for the fight against the corpse-smith, she could create matter and form but not re-absorb it. It’s imperfect, but she can at least reconnect severed parts now, training her body bit by bit to grasp and re-accept pieces she separates, even if she still can’t “reabsorb” matter directly. Yet.

She catches Jun Vral staring as she does, even as the small crowd above them titters and murmurs in their way. She could catch their words, but decides not to, not wanting to burden herself in this particular training session with their gossip and politicking.

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“What is it?” she asks.

Jun Vral blinks, his body shivering as his snakes slightly re-adjust. “Apologies. I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just… rare to see something like that.”

She raises an eyebrow. “But you’ve seen it before?”

“Not quite the same. Master Zhoulong… well, he had some connections to some of the flesh-molders, though he was never clear on what. We visited a member of his family once, at an estate, and when he… showed us off, a relative of his replied in kind with some kind of armored weapon that you reminded me of. Some of the same complexities.”

She nods. “Heat management is a constant, when you’re moving as much mass as fast as I am. Still, I’m a bit disappointed. You’re the second person in as many weeks to tell me I’m not as unique as I first thought.”

He smiles softly at that. “I’m afraid that, as the scholars say, there are no new paths beneath the Heavens. If it’s any consolation, I’m quite certain the bound servant they displayed didn’t show nearly as much wit as you.”

“Ah! Of course. The ultimate victory; there may be others who did it sooner, but at least I’m funny.”

He laughs, shrugging. “Well, that, and the fact that I doubt it was particularly of its intent to become what it was. Most of the flesh constructs I’ve heard of are made that way, not born, and more useful for Daemon or spirit binding than being alive.”

“Some small consolation,” she admits. “It ain’t the worst thing in the world to be able to remake yourself, even if it’s not quite so convenient as cultivation classic.”

He laughs at that, a bit more deeply and honestly. “On that, I can absolutely agree.”

Slowly, she resets her body back to default, closing up the additional biology and shifting lungs back to standard now that her overheating and oxygenation are back under control. Taking a seat on one of the benches, ignoring some of the disappointed murmurs from her “fans”, she tosses him one of the other canteens often left to the side by the palace’s invisible servants. “Sorry if it’s uncomfortable, but how did this whole… snake thing happen? Born this way, special beastkin cultivation…?”

He sighs, taking a sip of his canteen as well. He snorts when he notices her staring at the way he swallows, a hundred rippling throats as one, but she doesn’t look away, and eventually he stops and blushes, even as he frowns.

“He hasn’t told you?” he asks.

“I haven’t asked him,” she replies. “He only pops in when its most annoying, and frankly, I don’t think he’d say anything not meant to manipulate. I’d rather hear it from you, if that’s alright.”

The pause for him to speak stretches on a bit awkwardly, but eventually he does nod.

“It’s an inherited technique. Passed down in… in what used to be my clan. Two thousand years ago, in the time of the great Imperial Conquest, we lived inland, in what used to be called the Serpent’s Gorge. It possessed a… rather alarming skeleton of an ancient spirit beast, whose blood seeped into the world upon its death and made a space where all things that shared in its bloodline were magnified. My people eventually adapted, though we didn’t have much choice, considering someone dropped a colossal semi-divine creature’s corpse near our home. Many of us died, and those that remained ended up changed, in form and techniques. My body, or bodies, are part of a technique called the Thousand Slithering Maws array, wherein a living body is slowly and ritually altered to act as a formation to attract serpents. As they gradually shift and grow alongside the ritual target, they eventually begin to bond together. In my family, no one ever made it past twenty snakes, and it usually manifested as snakes emerging from joints, orifices, or as tendrils. I… Zhoulong had other ideas, and managed to push things along further.”

“Do you… want to talk about it?”

He laughs. “Here? No.”

She nods. “Very fair. Want to help me get us out of here instead?”

He cocks his head to one side. “The last time you dropped a heavy question on me like that, things became… intense. Is that likely to be the case here?”

She shrugs. “Somewhat. But I’m bored, and when I’m bored I like to fight. I know you’ve got tricks you’re still hiding, so do I, but there’s a difference between sparring and actually fighting, and I miss the latter.”

“And you have an idea about how to get it? Without getting anyone killed?”

She smiles, teeth sharp and feral. “Almost certainly.”

But like before, she waits. Patience.

And eventually, Jun Vral nods.

“I could perhaps use some fresh air,” he admits.

Smiling wider, she pats him on the shoulder and almost knocks him over leveraging herself up, laughing as she does. It doesn’t take much to alter her lungs and throat, she does it often enough to try and find a balance with her breathing concerns, but this time she modifies not the input, but the output. She can only draw in so much air at a time, no matter how much her lungs can supernaturally store, but she sure as hell can be loud when she wants to be.

“A pity, then!” she roars, not quite loud enough to shake the space but just a teensy bit louder than might be needed, give it that note of authenticity. She’s done it before, roaring in combat or in laughter after, but the crowd almost immediately shuts up as she speaks, the ears of a dozen debutantes turning towards her.

“W-what is?” Jun Vral asks, trying to keep up.

“That I could so easily beat you if I go all out!” she says, throwing her arms wide as if its obvious. “It sucks, Jun! It’s painful! I spend all this time struggling just to hold back, and even still I can crush you easily if I tried. And considering you could wipe out half the wannabe pansy sects in this city, that’s just humiliating.”

He raises an eyebrow, genuinely a little lost as she grins like a maniac. “I- thank you?”

“Don’t thank me! It’s common sense! I mean look at all these fools, sitting here without entertainment proper!” She waves a hand up at the stands, catching the eye of a few of the audience members. More than a few seem invested in where she’s going, predatory eyes turning to her words. “If their sects were worth the plateaus they stand on, wouldn’t the honored nobles of this city have better things to do than watch the two of us hold back, fighting as if we are afraid to perform any true feats?”

She can see the interest blooming, hungry little fish smelling blood (or money, as the case may be).

If they’re not technically under arrest, then there’s no trouble with a bit of outside pressure to get them out of the house, no?

Still, there’s one more element she needs.

“If anything, I think the sects here must be weaklings,” she laughs. “So willing to enjoy the Empire’s succor that they haven’t even tried to pursue the martial Daos. When was the last time someone from Cragend made a name for themselves?”

“ENOUGH!” roars a deep, rumbling tone.

Coming from the heights of the stands, almost near the back entrance, a man stands up, his face red, his robes a deep, dark blue and purple.

“How dare you disparage the good name of the city of Cragend! This is a land of storied history! Our cultivators plumb the depths of the Crag, which stretches a wound across the earth to the horizon! Without our city’s honored sects, you would not even have an Imperial Palace to hide in!”

“Then prove it!” she yells, singling him out further. “Show me to these cultivators! Why not? If you are so willing to claim that they are the backbone of the Empire’s strength, surely you can back up those claims! Who are you with, the clammy waters sect?”

He turns a darker shade of red. “My family has worked with the Unearthly Depths Sect for generations! Without their honorable strength, the secrets of the great lakes would never be uncovered, the depths of the Crag Sea never found! I’ll gladly speak to them of your dishonorable conduct, that they might punish you themselves!”

“Now hold on a moment!” says another of the nobles, this one in deep orange and green. “It’s hardly sporting that only one sect get to protest these allegations. And what better way to show the strength of our unified city than with a unified front?”

“Oh? And what shall you do then?” Raika asks, grinning so hard it starts to hurt, not needing any sort of mask for it. “Shall you ask for reparations? Will you incite violence here in the palace?”

“Of course not, of course not!” says the man in orange and green. “That would hardly be fair to the Imperial Palace and the loving strength and protection of the Emperor himself. Why, I’d never offer such a scandalous plan. But there are far more tried and true ways to show one’s strength in combat, and perhaps even prove which of the sects of this city stands on top!”

The man in blue scoffs, but doesn’t dismiss the idea. “What, then, are you proposing, Shu Zi?”

Shu Zi, resplendent in jewels and runic items and bedecked in rich orange and silk green, smiles almost as wide as Raika. “Why, a tournament of course! And why not? To have so many Imperial cultivators grace our fair city, and not let our friends in powerful places indulge? Perhaps a deal can be struck. I could sponsor part of the rent for the central arena, make an event of it. Perhaps we shall see if your friends in the Unearthly Depths sect can finally overcome the reputation of the Stone Divers sect in combat?”

The rest isn’t going to happen here. They continue to talk, but Raika has stopped listening, the bait dropped and grabbed. A bit of help from Kaena to convince the guards and any Imperial liaison that this is a good idea, and perhaps a fresh round of insults in a day or two, to get a few more on board with the idea.

A tournament. A way out of the palace. Something that might tempt her restless spirits to show themselves more, like Zhoulong and- and his spirit had the last time they went out. A way to potentially explore the city, and let her senses track where that witch’s scent comes from and who might be associated with her. And, admittedly, a chance to fight some cultivators again, at long last.

She laughs out loud, letting the training arena ring. “Bring them all on!” she roars. “Bring me your mighty, your most talented prodigies, your honored warriors! It’s about time we had some proper fucking combat around here!”