Nowadays, battles rarely end with a bang.

Instead, they close out with a slow burn, where the resolution is set in stone but the Defiled are too stubborn to concede or retreat, so everyone’s forced to play along and fight to the bitter end. I’m tired, my soldiers are tired, the animals are tired, hell, even the Defiled are tired, but we’re not willing to let them live and they’re not willing to quietly die. Sure, I could turn up the Succ and send the Defiled running for the hills, but then we’d have to chase them down which is even more exhausting.

Figuratively speaking, that is. About the hills. No hills here on the border, just grass and dirt as far as the eye can see. Where are the rolling meadows or lush forests, the rocky barrens or coastal backdrops? If this world was truly crafted by an omnipotent being, then you can tell they definitely phoned it in while making most of Central.

A Defiled warrior charges forward with a hobbling gait, moving painfully slowly through the mud and corpses yet still almost too quickly for me to respond. My overworked arms move Unity in place and the Defiled impales himself on the blade, offering one, last, brief struggle before the hatred fades from his eyes and leaves a lifeless corpse in its place. Enemy though he might be, it’s hard to hate the Defiled knowing what I know now. They’re afflicted with a disease, not in body or mind, but in spirit, and much like a rabid dog, they’ve little to no control over their actions. It really puts a damper on all this wholesale slaughter, since my anger and hatred have been replaced by sorrow and pity which are much less motivating. Too tired to lift my legs, I hone Unity and watch my fallen foe slide off the blade to join the carpet of corpses stretching out at my feet, the bodies stacked four or five deep in some places after hours of non-stop fighting.

How are there still so many god-damned Defiled?

Howling in wordless fury, yet another Defiled Champion rushes forward to challenge me in mortal combat, brandishing an ugly bleached-bone battle-axe exuding a sense of loathsome damnation. Responding with a scream of my own, I eke out what strength I have left and thrust Unity at my Enemy’s throat. Swiping the attack aside, the Champion lowers his shoulder and charges. Caught off guard, the tackle hits me head on and fractures my clavicle, not yet broken but close. More through luck than skill, the charge lifts me off my feet and pushes me back. Lightening for all I’m worth, I pray I stick the landing, but as per usual, no one’s listening. The tempo of battle has churned dirt and blood into viscous sludge which sucks my boots in deep, and only with Unity’s aid do I keep myself from falling back into the muck. It will take precious seconds to free myself, time which I lack as the Defiled Champion winds back to cleave my torso in twain and offer my blood to his unholy weapon

Where I once might have clenched my jaw and taken the hit, I’ve learned much in the last two months. Rescinding my Aura with a single thought, I hurtle a Honed blade of fear and self-loathing at the Champion which hits him like a thunderbolt. Staggered by the incorporeal assault, he recovers in time to watch me leap away in a splash of gore and mud as I use multiple Keystones to full effect. Landing delicately atop a Defiled corpse, I fire three lancing jabs in rapid succession, but my foe wards them off with ease. Retreating before his relentless advance, I spring from corpse to corpse to avoid getting stuck in the mud while testing his defences, aiming high then low, low then high, jabbing and thrusting, feinting and slashing, yet no matter what I try, I see no way to break past his impenetrable guard.

This guy is good. Not crazed and wild like most axe-wielders, but calm and cautious, a patient hunter waiting for the perfect opportunity. Does this make him more Defiled, or less? Can he be saved? Mahakala said they could, but the question is how? Also, where the fuck is the Abbot? I sent Wugang and Yelu Shi to tell him about Mahakala almost three months ago, but there’s still no word from any of them. I could’ve crawled to Nan Ping and back by now, much less cloud-walk. What the fuck dude?

Unfortunately, saving my opponent is less important than saving me from him. Though I hold the range advantage, he has the upper hand in leverage. With stance low and axe held close to his chest, all it takes is one good parry or Deflection to send Unity aside, leaving me wide open for chopping. My options limited, I hammer him with a second blade of Honed Aura and turn my probing jab into a Reinforced and Amplified thrust, but the Champion barely flinches beneath the emotional assault. Already committed to the killing blow, I follow through to disastrous results as he parries the attack, grabs Unity’s crossbar, and yanks hard. His one hand overpowering my two, I involuntarily leap into a backhanded swing which knocks multiple teeth loose and sends me careening into the mud.

By the time my vision clears and I get back on my feet, the Champion lies dead and Argat stands guard over me, his spear dripping with the blood of my fallen foe. I’ve lost track of how many times the two brothers have saved my life and it shames me to rely so heavily on their protection. Strong against the weak and weak against the strong, that about sums up my current plight. Maybe I would’ve had an easier time against the Champion if I were fresh and well-rested, or if I’d killed him the first time I used my Honed Aura instead of running away, but excuses are worthless. I need to become stronger, but my Martial Path has reached a bottleneck as I stand stuck and confused at the dividing line between trash and treasure. The Defiled Champion had me beat in raw stats, so if I want to easily defeat him, I must learn to use Chi externally. A single step which might as well be an impassable gorge, because for the life of me, I can’t figure it out. Even with Tenjin and Lei Gong’s occasional advice, I’m still unable Send without skin contact, much less Conceal or craft water bullets and blades. All I can do is a shitty impression of a fountain, spitting a tiny stream of water which dissipates into nothingness as the Heavens reclaims my Chi like a starving beggar devours free rice.

Gasping for breath, I embrace the pain to clear my mind and assess the situation. Noting precious few Defiled still standing, I turn my gaze to the thick fog of Spectres floating about, their ghastly faces twisted in sadistic delight as they survey their handiwork and whisper into the minds of Defiled and Imperial alike. I don’t know why they’re driving the Defiled to massed suicide, but they’re loving every nightmarish minute, which makes this next part much more satisfying. Focusing on all my repressed anger and hatred, I open myself to them and they surge forward to take the bait, gathering in droves to whisper their sweet lies. It’s as if they can sense how close I once was to accepting their murderous ways and can’t resist the allure of possibly bringing me back into the fold.

I’m like ghost bait, and now that they’re all nice and close, it’s time to once again unleash my battle-ending ultimate move: Infinite Suck!

The Spectres’ wails are like music to my ears as I draw them into my abyss... ew. As I banish them to my void. As I consign them to the gaping hole in my soul... fuck it. I don’t care anymore. It doesn’t have to sound cool, I’m eating Spectres and it’s awesome. Useful as the Talent is, Devouring is limited by a range of around fifty meters, about a swimming pool’s length in any direction. The range has grown since I arrived on the front lines, which tells me repeated use makes it stronger, but I’m limited to once per battle since any Spectres and Defiled outside its range turn tail and run the second chow time comes around. It never used to be like this; Sanshu was rife with Spectres hanging about and I spent two weeks clearing them out. Hell, they even seemed kinda happy to drop in for a visit, but it appears word has gotten out about my Heavenly Energy Hoarding Endeavours and none of them care to donate to the cause.

Closing my mind to their empty promises and hollow threats, I leave the trapped Spectres for later and oversee the cleanup instead, sending my injured and weary warriors back to rest while the reserves stack corpses for disposal and scouts check the surroundings to make sure we’re safe. The blood bakes against my skin beneath the hot summer sun and the fetid stench of death soon becomes overwhelming as I await the final tally, which arrives soon enough from the lips of a gloomy Mister Rustram. “Eighteen dead,” he says, and my heart seizes in my chest. “Seventy-nine others too wounded to walk or ride, mostly from the Protectorate.” Guan Suo’s turtle defenders aren’t privy to the secrets of Panacea and lack the Death Corp’s heavy armour to protect them. I’ve done my best to keep them out of the thick of things, but when we’re killing hundreds to thousands of Defiled a day, sometimes the only choice is to send everyone into the meat-grinder.

Adding today’s losses to the butcher’s bill leaves me with a number which turns my stomach. Exactly fifty-nine days ago, I arrived in Sinuji with seven-hundred and ninety-four soldiers. Today, I’m left with five-hundred and ninety-six still breathing, and less than half at fighting strength. Twenty-five percent losses doesn’t sound too bad, until you realize it means one in four of my people have died. Lang Yi’s bunch took the worst of it, with a mere twenty-eight remaining from the original eighty. Theirs was a story of miracles, of rescued slaves turned Martial Warriors in a staggeringly short time, but there are no happy endings here. Dastan’s retinue and the Death Corps shouldered most of the remaining deaths, losing more than half and a little less than a third respectively while crippling the backbone of my retinue in the process.

My hammer and anvil have been sorely abused, so perhaps it’s time I learned a new trick. Sadly, tactics are not a part of my packaged memories, though I have songs and memes a plenty.

It’s not all bad news. Since they primarily fought at range, the Protectorate only lost twenty-three warriors, while the rest of my retinue suffered precious few losses. Thanks to Taduk’s field-medic training and Panacea, the former bandits of Sanshu proved hardy enough to survive anything short of instant death. There were still over two dozen casualties scattered among them, but the repurposed Mother’s Militia is still going strong. Even better news is I have yet to lose a Spiritual Weapon wielder, so my original eight from Shen Huo are all still alive and kicking.

So what have I learned? Panacea helps a lot. The Protectorate is largely intact, but down to a third of effective strength due to injuries. Armour is useful against schmucks, but relying on it too much means the Death Corps die in droves against Spiritual Weapon-wielding Champions. Dastan’s retinue has the same Healing training as the rest of my troops, but it’s harder to save your injured comrades when you’re surrounded by the Enemy. I might have to reevaluate how I use them and keep them for cleanup rather than an opener.

The most important lesson I’ve learned? Range is king.

Wow. What a surprise. Who knew?

...

Everyone. Fucking everyone knows it, but they’re too stubborn to admit it.

Things might change once Demons and Wraiths take the field, but against massed Defiled, the best solution is to fill them full of arrows from a respectable distance. Asinine as it is, the general aversion to ranged weapons works fine when you’ve got a nice big wall to stand behind, so I understand their disdain. Martial Warriors are a prideful lot, which they deserve considering they’re essentially super-human, and it probably sucks seeing their years of hard training be outperformed by some peasant with a crossbow. Still, this is no time to coddle a bunch of arrogant idiots and their overblown pride. The survival of the Empire is on the line and we’re massively outnumbered, so efficiency is the name of the game. On an open field against the Defiled, the bow reigns supreme and the crossbow sits firmly in second place. Both are useless against Demons and vulnerable in a melee, but the benefits are too overwhelming to ignore. A longbow takes a lifetime of training, but any idiot can use a crossbow. Ammunition is a problem considering my small retinue is churning through thousands of arrows and bolts per week. They’re simple enough to make using bamboo or cast iron, but if I want to scale manufacturing up to supply weapons and ammunition to the entire Imperial Army, then I’ll need more help than even Yuzhen can provide.

For one, even if I had an infinite number of crossbows and bolts, how do I convince an Empire of close-combat purists to put aside their preconceptions and take up a ranged weapon?

I can’t. I literally can’t. I’m working my ass off out here killing more Defiled with fewer losses than anyone else, yet no one will accept the real reason for my success. I say “Crossbows,” and they all think I’m holding out. It’s gotta be hidden Experts in my ranks (which is admittedly true), or the higher quality of my troops (again, also true, but it only goes so far), or some other asinine theory like the Divine Turtle racking up all the kills (which I wish was true, but neither Ping Ping nor Pong Pong have contributed to the war effort and instead spend their days in the lap of luxury devouring inordinate amounts of shrimp). This means I’ve yet to sell a single crossbow to the military, and even Fung, BoShui, and Zian won’t buy them. In their eyes, ranged weapons are for peasant hunters and nothing more, an Empire-wide symbol of weakness and poverty. How am I supposed to overcome prejudice when even cold hard facts and incredible results fail to sway their minds?

Sometimes, I feel like the Empire deserves to die, but the Defiled are far, far worse, so it’s not much of a choice.

Why bother? I should let everything burn to clear out the choking undergrowth, reset the world, and be there to plant the seeds of renewal in the aftermath.

...

Tch. Fucking Spectres. They’re real tricky bastards and only get trickier with time and numbers, but I’ve no choice but to leave them to stew in the void. I ran out of Spiritual Water three days into this patrol, so I have to wait until my next bath at Sinuji to make more. I’m also collecting more Spectres with every patrol, not just because I’m getting better at it, but also because more Spectres are showing up and bringing more Defiled, more Champions, more twisted Spiritual Weapons, and more duels. I don’t know how much longer I can keep at it, but such is life.

Hongji, I thought we were cool man. Why won’t you give me a break? Do you think I enjoy this? Okay, I kinda do and the Heavenly Energy is great, but still. I need a vacation.

And from the looks of things, I’m not the only one. There are no cheers or celebrations for our overwhelming victory, and instead my people go about their business with cold indifference and weary disregard. Piles of burning corpses which would have once inspired and uplifted are now part and parcel of their daily routine, retreating away from the oily smoke to eat, drink, and rest while they can. Overall, morale is more ragged than our uniforms, which says a lot considering Guan Suo hasn’t changed his clothes in weeks and is still one of the better dressed individuals of my retinue.

I can see why the Protectorate dress so shabbily now. No point wearing nice things if it all gets torn to shit, and with armour in short supply, getting replacement gear isn’t merely a matter of doling out coin.

Tattered gear, lost comrades, and extended battles all take a toll on morale, but the Spectres’ influence is the greatest contributing factor to the retinue’s poor mood. Though I’m here to vacuum all the bad ghosts away, once the Spectres place a thought in someone’s mind, I’m powerless to remove it. Their influence is easy to spot once you know what to look for, most common of which is the thousand-kilometre stare. The afflicted sit there amidst their squads and units, a part of the group yet mentally alone, gazing off into the distance with wide, unblinking eyes as they contemplate whatever lies the Spectre told them. Lang Er is the worst off, almost wholly reliant on his brother to do anything outside of battle including eat and drink. Left alone, I’m pretty sure he’d soil himself and starve to death, but maybe I’m being overly dramatic.

The other signs are less obvious, but still difficult to deal with. It’s mostly minor issues like A-Gui purposely inciting jealousy amongst her many suitors, Jinoe’s increasingly macabre humour, Awdar’s growing drug problem, and Ravil’s fetish for punishing infractions. Then there’s the more-serious-but-also-not-so-obvious signs of Spectres, like Dastan’s wild desperation to prove himself, Ulfsaar’s barely restrained rage, and Neera’s growing gloominess at being unable to help him. Even without the Spectres constantly reinforcing these behaviours, my people still embark down the self-destructive paths laid out before them and there’s little I can do to stop it.

That’s the trickiest thing about Spectres. All they do is provide the rope and leave us to hang ourselves with it.

It takes two hours to tally the dead, clear the battlefield, cremate our fallen comrades, and gather enough strength to get back underway. There are still many hours of travel before we’re done for the day, but we’re close to the finish line. By this time tomorrow, we’ll be back in Sinuji for a week of rest and relaxation, aside from the odd Defiled war-band or two. I’ll give Hongji a day or two to redeem himself, but if Colonel Braid-Beard doesn’t schedule my people for a break, then rank be damned, because I’m gonna march into his tent and make him eat his stupid poems.

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Assuming I can convince Gang Shu to come with. Still not sure how strong the Colonel is, but considering he outranks Lei Gong, I doubt he’s a pushover.

A few blessedly uneventful hours later, Chey rides back from scouting duty and offers a military salute, which does wonderful things to her voluptuous bosom. She’s one of my best and most resilient officers, so I should probably stop treating her like eye candy, but it’s difficult being celibate again. Nose wrinkled in a fetching scowl, she pats her quin and reports, “Spotted a herd of cattle east of here, least three hundred heads total. Looks to be a mix o’ domestic and wild types, all gathered fer protection. They sittin’ real purdy between us and Sinuji, grazin’ and lazin’ about.”

Fun. I’ve always thought cows were cute, but they’re too delicious to make friends with. “Alright then. Carry on Scout Leader.” I wonder what’s the bounty on three-hundred cows? We’ve brought back sheep, pigs, chickens, and horses, but no cows. Seems weird though. We’re only a day away from Sinuji, so how have so many cattle gone unnoticed for so long?

“Er, boss?” Still riding alongside Zabu and I, Chey appears reluctant to speak. “You want us to keep on keepin’? Head right on up without so much as a how d’ya do?”

Charming as her lovely appearance and folksy vernacular might be, I’m a little confused by her hesitation, not to mention why she thought this information important enough to deliver it herself. Having learned from my (many) mistakes, I ask, “Is there something I’m missing here? Speak freely.”

My request is met with a fetching smile as the tension melts from Chey’s shoulders, which somehow makes her bosom all the more appealing. “Two pieces of advice?” Chey waits for my nod before continuing. “First off, ye keep starin’ at me tits and yer eyes are liable to pop out.” Her grin as wide as my cheeks are red, Chey winks and continues, “Now, I don’t mind ye givin’ the girls a gander now and then, but I ain’t about to be responsible fer blindin’ the number one talent in the Empire.”

A chorus of chuckles sound out and I can already hear my retinue spreading the story, but there’s nothing I can do besides accept it and move on. “Noted. Intermittent ganders to preserve eyesight. Good advice. Next?”

Brightening at how well I took her teasing, Chey’s tail wags at a mile a minute. “See,” she drawls, “Back in Sanshu, there was an order to things, a hierarchy of sorts. The easiest and safest meal ticket was to visit the fisherfolk. They lived close to the waters and the lake leaves no tracks fer guards to follow. Real safe.”

I don’t understand what robbing hardworking peasants has to do with anything, but whatever. “Okay?”

“Next on the list was farmers, fer rice, wheat, cabbage and whatnot. Couldn’t take much with us when we left, but they was easy pickings.”

“Is there a point to all this?”

“I’m getting there.” Straightening her back in an overt invitation to gander, Chey resumes her lesson on soft targets for bandits. “Now, times were we’d hit a caravan or two and slink off into the wilderness, but after the Council started buying bandits, those became off limits. So, the Freebooters turned to raidin’ further inland, hittin’ sheep herders, pig wranglers, and even horse ranchers, but ye know who we always left alone?” Without waiting for an answer, Chey supplies it for me, which is good because I wasn’t sure which colloquialism to use. “The cattle-hands. You don’t ever mess with a herd of cattle on their own territory, ‘less you lookin’ to get yer skull caved in.”

“Hm... I see.” The pieces fall into place and I ask, “Is that why these cows are still around? Everyone’s avoiding them?”

“Can’t say fer certain, but I’d wager sweet Squishy here on it.” It takes a moment to realize she’s talking about her quin and not, as I’d first assumed, one of her boobs.

After thinking things through, I nod and say, “Bring us around the herd, Scout Leader Chey. I’ll approach the cattle when you’re all safely away and see if they’re willing to follow us home.” Frowning in disapproval, Chey shrugs, salutes, and rides off while I ponder how best to approach the herd. Truth is, even with Chey’s long-winded warning, I’m not too worried about dealing with cattle. I mean, they’re cows. Giant, walking steaks with horns and hooves. I’ve tamed bears, wildcats, a flock of Laughing Birds, and two Divine Turtles, so I think I can handle a couple cud-chewing cattle.

Then again... If things do go wrong, do I really want to be the Number One Talent in the Empire who died to a cow?

Chapter Meme 1

Chapter Meme 2

Chapter 420

With his head held high and banner fluttering behind him, Mitsue Hideo rode into camp at the head of his retinue. Ten days ago, he set out with a hundred armoured cavalrymen bearing no less than thirty one Spiritual Weapons. Today, he returned with seventy-three and twenty-eight after securing nine-hundred and thirty-three Defiled kills. A magnificent accomplishment, one soon to be discussed in taverns across the Empire, with his name spoken by every tongue in the land.

As it should be.

Damn the cursed moron who came up with the idea to use a floating stage for the Imperial Grand Conference. Were it not for this glaring disadvantage, he would’ve never lost to that smug, northern hick Dastan. Defeated by a lowly slave, this shame would follow Hideo for years to come, but what burned the most was seeing his rightful rewards go to the savage, Falling Rain. The beautiful Zheng Luo, the Imperial Peerage, and title of Number One Talent in the Empire belonged to Mitsu Hideo, Great Nephew and Disciple of Mitsue Juichi. With his exemplary skills, he would have made short work of his opponents on solid ground, whether it be slave Dastan, those half-breed mongrels Wu Gam and Du Min Yan, or even Falling Rain himself.

So what if they had Awakenings? So what if that bitch could use Chi externally? So what if the savages had Divine Blacksmiths and Runic Craftsmen? All this paled before Hideo’s Mountain Collapsing Stomp.

Things wouldn’t be so bad if he had won the Legate’s Contest, but sadly Hideo came in second to a damned peasant, Yong-Jin. With his twin-maces in hand, none of Hideo’s remaining opponents were a match for him, but sadly strength of arms was merely one aspect of the Contest, the others being intelligence, acuity, and leadership abilities. Even then, Hideo defeated his opponents time and time again in each successive challenge, but they were all too feeble-minded and dull-witted for him to display his true skills, which led to the damned street-urchin scoring higher. Preposterous is what it was, absolutely preposterous.

Thus, Hideo had no choice but to prove to the Empire what he already knew, that he was superior to those serfs and mongrels, starting with Falling Rain. Defeat him, and all his achievements would bolster Hideo’s own reputation, so he set forth to surpass the piss-eyed savage’s accomplishments. The task was proving more difficult than expected considering he only had command of a hundred soldiers to Rain’s thousand, but he was confident he would soon succeed.

Upon arriving at his campground, Hideo discovered his reinforcements were nowhere to be found with Father waiting in their place. Rather than speak, Father handed him a missive which Hideo recognized as a copied letter addressed to Falling Rain. They’d been monitoring the savage’s communications hoping to uncover his secrets, martial or mercantile alike, but the tribesman was a wily one. The brightest scholars under Father’s employ couldn’t crack his code and had no idea what he was talking about when he mentioned ‘Pong Pong’ or ‘Shrimp’ or a myriad of other confusing terms. Some thought it was a request for armour or reinforcements, but weeks passed and still the Bekhai sent nothing. Father’s people then theorized the words themselves had no meaning, and the true message was hidden within the barely legible scrawls, but it was all outside of Hideo’s purview.

Though he didn’t expect much, Hideo opened the missive wishing it were the original instead, so he might see the letters written by Zheng Luo’s beautiful hand and smell her scent upon it. Her charm, her grace, her beauty, it was a travesty for such a woman to be wasted on an undeserving primitive, but Hideo would defeat the savage runt and rescue Zheng Luo from her terrible plight. How wonderful it would be to hold her in his arms and gaze into her eyes, to hear her lyrical poetry or soothing melodies, to taste her lips and more beneath the moonlit Central skies...

After reading through the letter twice, Hideo raised in head and said, “I don’t understand Father. What’s so important about this?”

“We’ve misjudged him,” Father said with regret in his eyes. “He is not the man we thought him to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“The answer lies before you, you only need open your eyes and accept it.”

“...Preposterous.” Hideo tossed the letter away in disgust, unsure how Father could believe these childish lies. “So his ‘wives’ know he can return any time he likes. What does it matter? He’ll come up with another lie to stay behind. He’s already spent sixty consecutive days on the front lines and gone on three patrols, a formidable feat but not without cost.” Oh the cost. After four weeks of nonstop fighting, Hideo knew all too well the horrors of war. “The Bekhai can not or will not reinforce him and his retinue dwindles with each passing week, but still he remains, because he knows I am this close to surpassing his accomplishments.”

With a tired sigh, Father reached out and cupped Hideo’s cheek, and despite his best efforts, he almost collapsed into his father’s arms. The last four weeks had been difficult, but it would be worth it once he trampled over that damned savage. “Son,” Father said, his hand warm and voice consoling, “Falling Rain brought his retinue away on indefinite leave two hours ago.” Shaking his head, he added, “The little savage even tamed the massive cattle herd giving our patrols so much trouble. Had the entire camp in a panic thinking they were coming to stampede through the lines. Worse, there weren’t any cattle-hands capable enough to handle them, so Colonel Hongji gifted the entire herd to the savage. Good riddance I say. Let the peasant play with his cows and turtles.”

“...Preposterous!” Retrieving the letter from the ground, Hideo scanned through it once more, searching for hidden meaning within. “This is merely an excuse. The arrogant bastard couldn’t handle it anymore and is running home. It must be a trick. He means to make me lower my guard and play me for the fool.”

“Son...” Gently taking the letter away, Father embraced Hideo in a rare show of affection. “Your plan to eclipse his achievements was a good one, except the savage cares nothing for honour or glory. Think back to his other letters and you will see him for what he truly is, an idiot with more luck than good sense. There is no benefit to continuing here, and Father fears the cost too high for you to bear. We’ll speak with Uncle Juichi and find another way, but for now, come home and rest. Your mother yearns to see your face again.”

“No, I can’t leave now, not when I’m so close.” Pushing Father away, Hideo set to pacing about in thought. “The savage is gone now, so I will over-take him. Six weeks? Eight, ten, I’ll stay until every citizen in the Empire knows Mistue Hideo stands above all others, the true Number One Talent in the Empire.”

And if he can’t, then he would slaughter the Bekhai to the last.

“Son –”

“Time is of the essence. I must strike while the iron is hot.” Speaking over Father’s protests, Hideo demanded, “Bring me a fresh retinue. I’ll speak with Colonel Hongji and secure a place on the coming patrol. It’s perfect, even if the soldiers are different, the commander remains the same, and no one has ever gone on two consecutive patrols. I’ll –”

“No.” Father’s refusal stopped Hideo in his tracks, for he could hardly believe his ears. “This obsession has consumed you,” Father said, shaking his head in stern disapproval. “I’ve let this go on too long. Come home son, else you risk losing Balance or worse.”

And thus, Father’s true fears became apparent. “You think me inferior to a tribal savage?” Hideo asked, disbelief turning to anger as Father kept silent. “You think I, Mitsu Hideo, cannot match a mere Falling Rain? Preposterous!” Neck throbbing and spittle flying, Hideo stomped his foot to vent his anger and set the world around them to shaking. Horses screamed and soldiers shouted, but Hideo ignored the fuss and advanced on Father, screaming, “I will defeat him and prove my superiority! You cannot stop me!” Raising his foot for a second stomp, Hideo intended to show Father how strong he’d become.

Kill him and you inherit everything. No one but Mentor to tell you what to do, and he’s always supported your decisions.

The thought made Hideo hesitate for the briefest of moments, but he steeled his resolve and followed through. Time slowed as his foot crashed down, his Chi pulsing and ready to sunder earth and flesh alike.

“I’m sorry Son.” With those words, Father disappeared from Hideo’s sight and the world went dark as he collapsed into quiet slumber.

So many mistakes, so many failures. How was Hideo ever to recover what was rightfully his?

If only he were stronger. Stronger than Father, stronger than Mentor, stronger than the Emperor Himself.

Only then would he recoup his losses and redeem his failures.

He would trade anything for this strength.

Anything.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

With two sharp pats on her rough, wrinkly skin, Dienne requested Ehani lift her foot for inspection and the large girl happily complied. Though he found no injuries, he noted her toenails were too long and at risk of cracking, a dire injury for a creature as large and heavy as she. Placing a sturdy footstool beneath the ponderous pad, he respectfully presented his nail file to Ehani so she knew what to expect. In a mischievous mood, her long, serpentine nose snatched the file out of Dienne’s hand and held it up high so he couldn’t retrieve it. Though he’d happily play along if they were at home or in a secluded area, privacy was lacking here on the front lines of Sinuji. “Please, little ancestor,” he implored, scratching Ehani’s chin to appease her. “Small one cannot play here, for appearances must be kept.”

As the Number One Talent of the South, he could hardly allow himself to be seen leaping about and being played for a fool by an elephant, no matter how much he enjoyed their games.

Trumpeting what he interpreted as a snort, Ehani returned the file with a huff and refused his offering of dried mangoes, quite literally turning her nose up at the sweet treat. Resisting the urge to bow and scrape to appease the dramatic beast, he set to filing her nails and hoped her anger would soon pass. The old girl was senior even to Dienne’s great grandfather, so should he lose her support, then Father’s tenuous hold over the clan would slip even further. A loyal creature which had formed a Spiritual Heart was not unheard of, but few were as powerful and capable as Ehani. Strong, intelligent, and an Expert in her own right, the Queyen clan called her their little ancestor because every rider she bonded with had gone on to become Patriarch.

Keeping his voice low, Dienne said, “Little ancestor, small one knows these past weeks have been difficult and you desire rest, but he still requires your aid. Small one lacks the prodigious talents of his peers and his fighting style is not suitable for duels, so warfare is the only area where his expertise might shine. If small one cannot make great accomplishments here and now, then he will forever be stuck in Falling Rain’s shadow.”

Though Ehani didn’t understand everything he said, she read his tone well enough. Flapping her large, leathery ears, she glanced at him as if to say, “Hmph. A mere runt with a giant turtle thinks he can outdo us on the battlefield? A frog stuck in a well.”

Or perhaps she regretted turning down the dried mango. Even after twenty plus years, Dienne still wasn’t entirely sure what went on in Ehani’s mind.

Just as Dienne finished filing Ehani’s last toenail, Akopa returned from his task. “Blood Ward, it has been confirmed. Falling Rain marches for SuiHua.” Needing time to think things through, Dienne offered Ehani the dried mangoes again and she accepted them with grace and aplomb, eating one piece at a time and chewing thoroughly to enjoy the taste.

Still uncertain after considering all the information at hand, Dienne fed Ehani the last piece of dried mango before addressing Akopa. “Your thoughts?”

“Falling Rain has proven himself unworthy of consideration.” Never one to mince words, Akopa launched into a scathing condemnation. “What we believed to be a lie has now been proven truth. The beardless runt fought for sixty days because he was unaware of proper procedure. A child playing games of war while adults who should know better leave him to run free.” His voice heavy with scorn, Akopa continued, “His exploits speak for themselves and his low casualty rate is admirable, but to recklessly persist without understanding the consequences... He is no leader of men. A true leader would have seen his soldiers’ plight and known he risked losing them to madness. How many soldiers will Falling Rain be forced to cull, driven mad with anger and hatred thanks to their extended excursions? Or worse, what if some Tainted go unnoticed and they escape to spread the Enemy’s infection? If such a calamity were to occur, then Falling Rain would have brought disaster to the Bekhai, and perhaps even to the Empire itself.”

“Enough,” Dienne said, inwardly rolling his eyes. “A little heavy handed with the rhetoric, but I understand your meaning. You think me overly ambitious to remain here?”

“Small one dare not criticize,” Akopa replied, though his tone was far from deferential and almost a little mocking in its monotone. “Though now that Blood Ward mentions it, small one notes many parallels. Truly, Blood Ward is brilliant to have seen so.”

A tad flippant, but the man had earned the right to it. First among a thousand of his peers, Akopa was Dienne’s Khadga, a sword to be wielded in the battle against the Defiled and his most trusted confidante. They both knew he was the stronger and more talented warrior, but Akopa forfeited so Dienne could advance, surrendering before he could order the Oath-sworn warrior to do his best. A distressing state of affairs, for perhaps Akopa could have defeated Falling Rain on stage and won great glory for the South, but sadly, there was no cure for regret.

Still unconvinced, Dienne sighed once more. “A strange matter comes to mind, one I cannot comprehend for the life of me. Falling Rain fought the Defiled at Sanshu, but before, he took part in a Purge. He experienced the hidden dangers of the Enemy firsthand and saw the extreme consequences which go with them, so how could he be ignorant of the ramifications of his actions here?” Shaking his head, Dienne muttered, “Contradictions within contradictions. Though a woman and half-beast, surely Akanai is competent enough to see the inherent danger, yet she sends no support or reinforcements, not even advice or a request for updates. Such freedom is unheard of for a talent such as he, yet Nian Zu and Baatar also leave Falling Rain to his own devices, while I’ve already ignored three of Father’s letters. Either all three highly-ranked Northern officers are gravely incompetent or there is a factor in play which we do not understand.”

Dienne had no proof, but he suspected it had something to do with Sanshu. More than a year had passed since the Defiled rebellion, yet there was still no sign of a resurgence of Enemy influence. How could it be possible? Most of the Empire expected Sanshu would have been razed to the ground, and for good reason. The Father’s Taint was dark and insidious, a malignant disease lurking in the hearts of humanity, yet against all odds, Sanshu emerged uninfected after the most disastrous Defiled outbreak in recent history. As ridiculous as the thought might be, could this also have something to do with Falling Rain?

Goujian certainly seemed to think so.

Depending on who you asked, Goujian was the Mother’s Sanguinary Priest or the Emperor’s Mad Dog, but whatever his reputation, few would have doubted the Confessor’s loyalty. Then, five weeks ago, the deranged lunatic dispatched countless missives to the nobles of the Empire declaring Falling Rain, the Legate, and the Emperor himself were the true Enemy and that he’d joined forces with the ‘Chosen’ to overthrow the ‘dog Emperor’ and his ‘unholy heathen lackeys’. Madness is what it was, but for Goujian to turn against the Empire... well, these were dark times indeed.

Dienne put no stock in the turn-coat torturer’s claims, though he disagreed with the Legate’s response. By issuing an Imperial Edict commanding the letters be destroyed and never spoken of again, the Legate lent credence to the rumours, laughable though they might be. Falling Rain was no Defiled in disguise, for if he were, he would not have the allegiance of so many creatures. Most wild beasts of the Empire harboured a natural aversion to the Enemy and all its agents, an instinctive hostility borne of self-preservation, especially more powerful creatures like the Divine Turtle. That’s what made the Arid Wastes so impenetrable to the Defiled, for even if they could withstand the difficult terrain and inhospitable clime, those deadly beasts lurking within would not react kindly to Enemy intrusion. It’s also how the Queyen Clan dealt with their suspected Tainted, by giving them a choice: either banishment to the Arid Wastes or be brought before Ehani and judged. How accurate she might be was up for debate, but history proved few Defiled willingly allowed themselves to be brought before the little ancestor, while none ever survived the Arid Wastes.

Then again, in all her years, Ehani had only ever spared one life, a child not even three years of age, so perhaps the innocent would be right to refuse her judgment and test their luck.

After four weeks of constant fighting, Dienne had difficulty keeping his mind focused. How might a lesser man fare? In the end, this thought more than anything helped him reach a decision, for he had yet to make heads or tails of the mysteries surrounding Falling Rain. “Send word to Colonel Hongji and request a leave of absence.”

“By your will, Blood Ward.”

The order given, Dienne felt the weight of the world lift off his shoulders. Allowing himself a small smile, he patted Ehani on the cheek and leaned against her, taking comfort in having made the correct decision. No need to compete with Falling Rain in time spent on the front lines, for only the Enemy would profit from this asinine contest. Better to take a step back for the sake of physical and mental well-being, lest he lose his mind and run off to join the ‘Chosen’.

Whether they be Chosen or Defiled, let them come. Queyen Dienne would gladly teach them the meaning of regret, for he was a true son the Empire and Defender of its people.

Chapter Meme