The plant growing between the skeleton’s legs was unmistakable, being one of the most desirable ingredients for virility pills: Virile Turgid Ginseng.
It had all the hallmarks, especially the stench, which was a blend of fishiness with the stinging of horseradishes. Its root shape was correct as well, bulbous and with vein-line protuberances. By the aura of the corpse, still lingering nearby, as well as its clothing, Shao knew that it was a rogue cultivator… And there was a scroll right next to the corpse, on the ground, clutched in its skeletal hand. Shao took it, thinking of perhaps reading it later, but cautious for now.
Old Man Hao was ecstatic when Shao brought the root in, noticing it well before the young man could say anything. A crowd had in fact formed behind him and outside the store, as its stink could not be masked by anything short of placing it into a storage artifact.
Two months passed in peace and prosperity… And his village came under attack.
Bandits. As always. They usually demanded food or other tribute, and were usually smart enough to take an amount that wouldn’t decimate the town so they could return later.
Not the usual gang this time, it seemed. These monsters seemed to be here just to plunder and pillage, razing the village to the ground… And Shao couldn’t let that stand. He knew that it was best to run, but the flame in him wouldn’t let him just stand aside and let his home be ravaged, its people killed or taken away to slavery.
He managed to cut down a handful of them, having fought off bears and other beasts of the woods before. Most were just mortal men - martial artists, but mortal. But a few… A few had the same aura as Shao’s late father, Fang Lei, who had taken him to this village and taught him how to forage in the forest before dying. His body seemed to just unravel into individual strands bit by bit, his bones melting into dust, starting from the ends of his hands. Once the affliction reached his shoulders, it suddenly accelerated and killed him right before Shao’s eyes as he was explaining the differences between two herbs. It left a pile of vague gore. Shao couldn’t get that image out of his head; not the gore, but the resigned, yet regretful look upon his father’s face when he realized it was the end.
Fang Lei’s last words were what drove Shao to do this foolish thing instead of saving his own hide: “Live righteously, even if it might lead to your demise, even if it seems as though opposing the heavens themselves is the righteous thing to do. I only regret that I did not begin to live by this creed until it was too late.”
The bandits’ leader was seemingly untouchable, smashing people aside with an iron whip and leaving them as crumpled piles on the ground. It was a strangely elegant weapon, and a second, narrower one resembling a sword was also on his waist. His presence alone was enough to put pressure on Shao - the man was a cultivator, as were likely most of his direct subordinates.
The young man walked out into the street in opposition of the bandit leader, his sword in hand and protection talisman safely affixed to his belt.
“You will not pass.”
“Oho? The mortal trash dares? Kowtow before me thrice and slit your own throat, and I may consider leaving your corpse intact.”
“You. Will. Not. Pass.”
“Very well, then. How about this? I fight you, one on one, for the fate of this whole nowhere-town. I won’t even try to kill you… But if I win, and you survive, you’ll watch me raze this whole place, take all your women as cultivation cauldrons, and you will live the rest of your days to tell others not to oppose Winding Behemoth.”
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The fight was short.
Shao had managed to land exactly one strike on his opponent, and before he knew it, he was on the ground with a broken leg, broken arm, broken ribs, and having coughed up at least five mouthfuls of blood.
Nonetheless, he struggled to his feet, his bone by some miracle having broken such that it didn’t try to go out of place. He was still standing on one foot and barely managing to hold onto his sword with his off hand.
Winding Behemoth grabbed his blade and tore it out of his hand, tossing it aside with laughter, spreading his arms wide and showboating to his subordinates as he erupted in raucous laughter.
Then, Shao felt something. A call, from… The other weapon at Winding Behemoth’s waist. He reached out, not just with his hand, but with that strange extra sense… And felt it straining against something. His head pounded as if about to split, and then the weapon tore itself from Winding Behemoth’s belt, flying straight into Shao’s hand. Unsheathing it with his teeth, he found it not to be a sword… But a square bar mace. A bian. One of intricate and exquisite design, thrumming with strange power.
He knew not whence it arose, but for a moment, Shao felt as though all the strength had been returned to him and his injuries undone. For some reason he saw the mental image of his broken bones being mended with molten gold, and the broken areas burned about as much, but he was sure it was just the pain of partial breakage. The protective talisman turned to dust in his pocket; it was one meant to temporarily mend the bearer’s wounds so he could drag himself to safety. He pushed through the pain even as fire spread from his stomach and through his body, hefting the bian with both hands.
Winding Behemoth whipped around with a look of confusion and anger on his face, yelling at Shao, waving his iron whip. Crushing qi flooded out from him, smashing surrounding buildings and breaking the ground with each swing of his iron whip. Shao guarded himself with the bian, only to find that the waves of Behemoth’s qi broke against the weapon and left Shao nearly unaffected.
He drew a breath in. Strange mist clouded the edges of his vision as he breathed out, and yet more fire flooded his body, this time gentle, easing his pain.
Shao then, with renewed vigor, set himself to battle against the towering bandit leader, only to find that… He was winning. The strange bian seemed to be shifting its weight as if to aid in his strikes, and it smashed apart the bandit’s iron whip as if it were made of rotten wood. Why had he not used this weapon itself? That question didn’t cross Shao’s mind for a moment.
He ran the weapon through Winding Behemoth’s heart, and the last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was the scattering swarm of his subordinates.
When he awoke in the back of Old Man Hao’s shop, he found that not only was the strange bian by his side, but it felt as though he had been healed, soothing warmth flowing through his body and mending everything that had been broken.
“How…” he started, trying to sit up, only to cough up a mouthful of blood and fall back down.
The old man just smiled at him and handed over a small bowl, helping him to drink its violently herbal contents. Was that… A hint of Virile Turgid Ginseng?
“Welcome to the World of Cultivation,” the old man said. “It seems you unconsciously awakened your latent potential in that fight… So I thought it a shame to let you die, what with His Divinity’s New Era of Cultivation and all. I gave you one of my True Mending Pills that I had leftover from when I won an alchemy tournament in my youth. Take the rest of them, they will be of more use to you on your journey… Their side effects shorten one’s lifespan by a year for each pill, so there is no value in them for a man with one foot in the grave such as myself.”
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Shen Liang woke from a deep trance and let out a long sigh, emerging from a meditative elixir bath. His body was covered in transmission talismans, and the chamber was likewise plastered in them. He still wasn’t used to the sensation of dying, even after having lived out hundreds of puppet-lives. A part of him knew this to be a good thing, that it was one of the things keeping him in touch with mortality.
Things had gone exactly to plan.
A flesh-puppet of such a high grade had been a hassle to put together quietly and quickly, plus forming a whole bandit gang around him had taken quite some effort… But it was done.
The puppet was dead, having fulfilled its task: Delivering the Will of Heaven to the Son of Fate.
Now it was up to the boy.
Shen hoped he had picked right; that the boy would at least stray a bit from the direction Tian Feng intended for him, but not quickly or rapidly enough for Tian to notice. He wanted to change the old bastard’s perspective, and that would take time; more time than the Son of Fate would live if he was sent to face down the Living Tribulation any time soon. Hopefully never.