Tightening the straps of his weighted pack, Dastan sprinted down the mountain paths, following behind the Mother’s chosen Son. Growing up around Uncle Diyako, Dastan was used to seeing new inventions each passing month, but rarely had he come across something so simple and effective. An incredible thing these strap buckles, far superior to drawstrings or fasteners. A pull of the strap to tighten and a lift of the buckle to loosen, these little rectangular objects allowed him to secure a two-hundred kilo pack to his back and waist in seconds with minimal discomfort, even whilst running full-tilt down uneven paths. Father’s letters were filled with praise for these buckles, using them in a myriad of ways from horse saddles to securing cargo.
Yet another ingenious innovation birthed from the brilliant mind of Falling Rain.
With a yearling cub draped over his shoulders in place of a weighted pack, the boss made for an outlandish sight, but such were the eccentricities of genius. It seemed he was always in the midst of Inspiration, even capable of Inspiring others with a casual observation or question, the Mother’s attention was undoubtedly focused upon Her most favoured son and those around him. Dastan himself benefited first-hand from the boss’s instruction, forming his Natal Palace a month before turning twenty-three, placing him near the forefront of history’s youngest experts.
All thanks to a drunken slip of the tongue from Falling Rain, who at nineteen years of age, was the youngest person in the history of the Empire to Condense his Aura, become a Second Grade Warrant Officer, and form his Natal Palace.
The memory of Dastan’s first glimpse into the mind of a genius was still fresh. The boss invited him to a feast celebrating young magistrate Fung adding his name to the roll of experts of the Empire. Birds of a feather, the boss took great pains to never treat Dastan like a slave and Fung followed suit, even magnanimously overlooking Dastan’s part in the death of his retinue. Seated next to Han BoShui who similarly treated him like a comrade, Dastan feasted on delectable delicacies and drank expensive wines, laughing and chatting as if he still held his former status as a Warrant Officer of the Empire. As the hour grew late and guests adjourned for the night, only the boss, Han BoShui, and Dastan remained, with even the serving girls retiring at Lady Sumila’s command. Even then Dastan wasn’t relegated to the role of a servant, with each of them taking turns to pour wine for the others.
Though Dastan had resolved to not let his Oath’s burden him, Falling Rain made it almost effortless. A better life than he deserved thanks to the Mother’s Chosen Son, this was a debt he could never repay.
For how can you put a price on dignity?
Deep in his cups and barely able to sit upright, Fung lamented the lack of women as he lay at the boss’s side. Dastan was accustomed to Fung’s obvious pretense, playing the part of a womanizing young master who was rarely seen in the company of women. It was clear there was something going on between the boss and Fung, the two of them closer than appropriate for two young men, but Dastan didn’t mind. It was a shame they felt the need to hide their affection for one another, but such was life.
“Good. Send all the women away, better we suffer together,” BoShui slurred as he filled everyone’s cup. “Women are a distraction I can no longer afford. A Natal Palace at twenty years old, young magistrate Fung you make me feel ashamed for ever thinking myself a genius. In a few weeks, I’ll be twenty-five and I’ve yet to even touch upon forming my Natal Palace. I envy your good fortune, so as penance, drink this cup.”
“Good!” More wine dribbled down Fung’s chin than into his mouth, but not for lack of trying. Sighing mournfully, the young magistrate shook his head, his eyes staring off into the distance. “You call it good fortune and I cannot refute, but know this: it did not come without cost. My Mentor is a harsh taskmistress.”
“Mhmm, and what a lovely taskmistress,” BoShui snickered. “I’d gladly suffer her attentions even if it didn’t help with my Natal Palace.”
Striving to look offended, Fung pouted as they howled with laughter. “See?” Rain gasped, clapping Fung on the shoulder. “BoShui gets it. A beautiful, stern, older woman teaching and guiding you, yet all you do is complain. You don’t know how lucky you are.”
“Oh? Martial Nephew, if you feel so strongly about it, I’ll speak with Mentor in the morning and tell her all about how much you miss her attentions.”
Blanching, Rain shook his head and pleaded for mercy. Refilling everyone’s cups to distract from the boss’s dilemma, Dastan lifted his cup for a toast. “Drink, then share your wisdom with us poor uneducated souls.” Draining his cup in one go, he wiped his chin and asked, “What was it like, forming your Natal Palace?” Without a Mentor, Dastan needed all the help he could get. Sparring with his peers and experts was a great help to his Martial Skills, but he was at a loss on how to proceed along the Martial Path.
“Gruelling and exhausting,” Fung replied.
Rain simultaneously answered, “Pretty easy.” Three sets of eyes stared at Rain in disbelief, as this was the first time he’d ever spoken of his accomplishment. Slapping his forehead, he said, “Oops. I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. Shhhh, it’s a secret. No Natal Palace here.”
BoShui was the first to find his voice, speaking in a loud whisper. “What? How? You.. You’re what? Eighteen years old? Must you be so domineering? Can you not leave me a shred of confidence?”
“Easy?” Fung asked, his mouth agape. “Do you know how much I suffered to build my mental fortitude and learn to split my focus? Walking across hot coals carrying buckets of wet sand, pummelled with paddles for hours while standing in horse-stance, treading water in full armour with Mentor standing on my shoulders, all while answering inane, complicated questions without rest?”
Dastan had no questions to ask, as he’d long grown accustomed to Rain’s greatness.
Or so he thought. Rain’s next sentence made Dastan choke on his drink. “Huh... izzat how you do it? With suffering and split focus? I don’t even know how I did it.”
Dear Mother, even nepotism should have it’s limits. How can You favour one son to the point where others can’t even dream of comparing?
Shrugging, Rain added, “Well, don’t worry, I’ve suffered plenty. Plus, it’s easy to split focus with two minds... Ah fuck, forget I said that too, ‘nother secret.”
Even though Rain refused to say another word and vehemently requested they never repeat his words, the casual input struck a chord in Dastan’s mind. He’d always wondered how it was possible for Martial Warriors to split their focus, having seen one expert demonstrate by taking a brush in each hand and painting a flower with the left while copying a poem with the right. No matter how hard he tried, Dastan couldn’t use his hands independently from one another like Rain or Zian, his left and right always moving in lockstep. Such was the basis of forming a Natal Palace, to always have a part of yourself focused on its shape and arrangement, keeping the mental image firmly in mind at all times. Forget forming the Natal Palace, Dastan was lucky if he could envision it for a few minutes without losing focus.
Until the boss made everything clear with an offhand comment, accidentally revealing yet another Bekhai secret. Previously, Dastan had been trying to make his one mind do two things at once, when instead he should’ve been striving to make two minds do one thing each. After Cleansing his body of alcohol and devouring an entire side of beef, Dastan meditated on the floor of his yurt, teetering on the precipice of Enlightenment. Deep in the darkness of the void, Dastan tested this theory of two minds in one body, visualizing himself, a second Dastan created from Chi to govern the Natal Palace. Time and time again he failed, unable to sustain a perfect mirror image of himself, until finally, ready to give up, he created a smaller, disproportioned version of himself.
And thus, he gazed upon the stable mental image of a miniature Dastan, one no larger than his palm. Its features weren’t younger, but smaller, with a head and eyes too large for the body it sat on and stubby arms and legs to boot. Waving at his deformed self, it grinned and waved back. Soaring through the void, it landed on his shoulder and tugged at his moustache, acting like the childish imps of legend.
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And thus Dastan’s Natal Soul was born, a condensed, concentrated version of himself conceived from Chi, a separate mind to reign over his Natal Palace.
So what if it was a little... feeble-minded? It served his purposes well enough.
Opening his eyes, Dastan was overcome by a wave of weakness and would have collapsed if he weren't already laying in bed. The boss’s concerned gaze hovered over him, those amber eyes peering into his own. “Thank the Mother,” boss said, helping Dastan sit up and holding a bowl of congee to his mouth. “Eat slowly. You’ve been out of it for five days now. What happened?”
Dry lips cracking as he grinned, Dastan swallowed a mouthful of food before answering, “Sorry for causing you concern boss. I, Dastan Zhandos, have formed my Natal Palace.”
‘All thanks to you’, he silently added, intending to secretly share this knowledge with the rest of the boss's retinue. If there were consequences to be suffered, then Dastan could honestly swear it was all his idea, with no prompting from Falling Rain.
Smiling at the memory, he noted to add more weight to the bag tomorrow. Falling Rain was a man destined for greatness. As his servant, his guard, his confidant, how could Dastan afford to fall behind?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Giving Mama a warm hug farewell, Song made her way to the stables and brought Erdene out for a ride to the sparring grounds. This was how she spent her days lately, training with Martial Brother Fung in the mornings, lunch with Mama, a quick sparring session, and then free for the rest of the day. A pleasant, blissful existence, Song experienced true solitude for the first time in her life, often spending hours staring out over the burgeoning city from the window of her room. Her room, a space meant only for herself, the first gift she’d ever asked for and received. It’s not that she disliked sharing a room with Sister, but Song had never known independence and now thirsted for it, wanting to see what life was like as her own person.
In a word: magnificent. It was beyond compare. Going hunting with Lin, playing in the snow with the roosequins, brushing the wildcats, cuddling with the bears, or going on patrol with Mama, whatever she wanted to do, Song only needed to speak her mind and it would happen. Though still weighed down by her slave’s Oath, neither Mama, Lin, or Sister would ever use it against her, she knew this now. They taught Song to trust and she loved them for it. Even Papa with his sinister appearance and intimidating physique was kind to her, taking great pains not to scare her and apologizing profusely when he did. A sweet, gentle man deeply in love with Mama, it wasn’t his fault she recoiled in his presence and it wasn’t fair to keep him walking on eggshells around his own family.
Today, she intended to work on overcoming her anxiety. With Sister now working from her newly finished personal forge, Papa often complained of loneliness. Therefore, after today’s spar, Song intended to go visit him. She wouldn't go into the forge, the close confines too much for her to bear, but Song could sit outside and keep him company from there, watching him work from the window. A Divine Blacksmith, he laboured day and night to keep up with demand, forging the Spiritual Hearts from Yo Ling’s island into beautiful, deadly weapons for the Sentinels.
Mama a Lieutenant General and Hero of the Empire, Papa a Divine Blacksmith, and Sister possessing all of their best qualities, Song was blessed with a talented and loving family.
She would not disgrace them.
First to arrive, she lingered in the courtyard outside the building, unwilling to enter and be trapped with so many men. Martial Brother Fung was next to arrive, greeting her with a tiny bow before standing at her shoulder, too close for comfort. His charming smile and excessively warm demeanour made Song suspicious of his ulterior motives, often catching him outright staring with his lecherous eyes. Ignoring his attempts at small talk, she brushed Erdene as they stood in the snow, praying Sister would join them today.
BoShui arrived soon after, greeting Song with a perfunctory nod before dragging Fung inside, raring to begin. A dedicated warrior, in any other era he would’ve stood at the forefront of his generation, forming his Natal Palace at the age of twenty-five, merely three days ago and not even a week into the new year. Unfortunately, the luckless young patriarch was overshadowed by a multitude of younger talents, upstaged by the likes of her Martial Brother and Dastan Zhandos. Unperturbed, BoShui continued his diligent training even after stepping into the ranks of expert warriors, forgoing a lavish celebration as the two aforementioned young men insisted upon.
As far as men went, BoShui was head and shoulders above his peers, possessing unmatched strength and stamina, though his skill was lacking in comparison. In Dastan’s case, it was likely Rain was the one who insisted on a party. A drunken disgrace, she’d seen how he ogled the half-naked serving girls which sent Sister into a foul mood. Worse, he often looked at Song with undisguised longing, usually just before they sparred. Disgraceful is what it was, Sister’s poor luck in love was her only flaw.
Situ Jia Zian arrived next, striding over with nose upturned and cloak flowing behind him. “Will Sumila be joining us today?” He spoke without sparing Song a glance, as if the withered, snow-covered branches held all the secrets to the Martial Path and he couldn’t bear to look away.
Shifting so she could brush Erdene’s belly, Song shrugged, knowing Zian wouldn’t see her reply. After a long pause, he huffed in displeasure before storming inside with his lips curled in a snarl. Smiling, she brought to mind the look of shock on his girlish features after a defeat, hoping to see it once more during today’s spar. This would mark their 116th match, with her record standing at 45 victories and 70 losses, not even a 40% win rate. Arrogant and girlish though he might be, Zian was a fearsome foe, his twin blades holding every advantage over her single saber.
It wasn’t as simple as grabbing a second weapon to spar with. While she was capable of dual-wielding sabers with a modicum of competence, she suffered a net loss in overall strength. Her strongest attacks resulted from changing a one-handed grip to a two-handed grip, or vice versa. This allowed her to vary her range and angle of attack mid-strike, keeping her opponent on the defensive after seizing the initiative. Unfortunately, Zian was too adept at seeing through her attacks, able to block, parry, or Deflect her saber with ease.
Even Rain and BoShui were catching on, respectively winning 30 and 19 matches against her. BoShui was easily the worst of the seven, but not without reason. His twin gauntlets were excellent armor and weapons, but without greaves, knee, and elbow guards, he lacked the full range of options available to an empty-handed combatant. Rain’s poor results angered Mama and Mila beyond reason, but Song understood why. He used these spars to perfect a different style, a hyper-aggressive, overwhelming approach to combat. Extremely effective against weaker opponents, it suffered when used against a foe of equal or greater skill but his rate of improvement was astounding, clawing his way to the middle of the group after a long streak of early defeats.
Martial Brother Fung was another difficult opponent, sitting at 41 victories as he grew accustomed to abusing his superior range and power. Only his poor stamina held him back and Mama was working him hard to mend his failings, whereupon he would become a force to be reckoned with. Then there was the crafty, powerful Dastan, defeating her 56 times for an almost 50% win rate, the repeated blows of his powerful axe often smashing her saber from her shaky grasp. While Song ranked third behind Sister and Zian, her position was nowhere near unshakable. With each day, her opponents advanced in both strength and cunning while her progress had stalled, a troublesome development.
The question often crossed her mind these past weeks, wondering how she could improve her strength. Sister asked her to come up with a request for her second Spiritual Weapon, but Song didn’t know what would be best. A second saber meant the end of her endless, ever-changing assault, while a different weapon would require time to master, as demonstrated by Martial Brother Fung. Perhaps she could be like Khishig Tursinai and learn the ways of the chain and sickle, or master Guiding and Rebounding with a throwing dagger like Khishig Tenjin. A polearm would help her fight from quinback, while a gauntlet would allow her to keep her saber style, but offer nothing else.
Song wasn’t accustomed to making life-altering decisions. If only she could ask Teacher Du what he had planned for her, that would be the best.
“Hello Song, sorry we’re late,” Rain said, arriving slightly out of breath with Banjo peering out over his shoulder.
Laughing as the other animals rushed in to greet her, Song butted heads with the tired wildcats and gave the lazy Baloo a pat as he laid in the wagon, all while surrendering the treats she had stored on her person. “Enough,” she said as Aurie wrapped his paws around her waist, making little noises of protest. “I've no more treats. Down.” Nodding at Rain, she finally replied, “Not late, but the others are waiting, aside from Sister.”
“Probably lost track of time again. I should get her a watch, but I’m not sure I can afford one anymore. I’ll check in on her after we spar, care to join me?”
“No, I have other plans.” Papa was the same way. If it weren’t for the lack of binding materials, he’d stay at the forge ten days a week, crafting until his arms gave out.
“Busy, busy, busy,” Rain said, oblivious to her thoughts. “You never rest, do you? Well, to each their own. Shall we?” Ignoring his gesture for her to proceed, she stood and watched his transformation. Closing his eyes, Rain exhaled slowly, a full count of five before he finished. Tranquil and carefree, he stood with shoulders slouched, hands open, knees bent, and smile wide, giving off the impression of a relaxed, harmless young man.
Then, in the blink of an eye, everything changed.
It was almost imperceptible, the differences negligible, but Song noticed them all the same. His body filled with tension as his muscles strained and stretched, a tiny vein in his neck set to pulsing. The smile flipped into subtle frown while the corner of his eyes tightened as he clenched his jaw. His previously dangling arms cocked and readied, with a hand on his sword hilt and the other free to strike. His posture straightened, shoulders squared, and knees locked as his nose pointed sky-ward, the harmless young man replaced by a bow drawn taut, a blade unsheathed, a dragon unrestrained.
Of course, Banjo’s silly, open-mouthed smile ruined the whole image, peering over Rain's shoulder as he clung to Rain’s torso with all four paws.
Opening his eyes, Rain’s gaze shot down towards her covered bosom and legs before turning aside, heading in without motioning for Dastan or the pets to follow. So strange. Which one was the real Rain? The kind, compassionate philanthropist who treated Sister so well, or the arrogant, domineering warrior who objectified Song and every other woman who entered his gaze? Was he even aware of the changes? Perhaps it was merely his warrior’s mindset, with bloodshed and lust so closely linked. Generously forgiving his errant glance, Song led the pets inside, focusing on the battles ahead.
After winning all her matches, Song hummed a little tune beneath her breath as she brought Erdene and Sarankho to the market, wondering what to buy for Papa. He often skipped lunch and dinner while working, so it had to be both filling and nourishing. After purchasing a large rice box with a double serving of meat and vegetables, she stopped to pick up a jar of fruit wine and some custard egg tarts to satisfy Papa’s sweet tooth, all paid for with her own coin.
By the end of the month, she hoped to stop flinching every time he moved within arms length.
Because like Mama and Sister, Papa was family too. She had nothing to fear from him.
Chapter Meme