Every so often, I’m reminded that the citadel around me was built entirely by hand and think, “Holy shit.”

The massive stone fortress is an incredible example of humanity’s ingenuity and simultaneously a monument to our brutal nature. I could go into depth about the many square kilometres it covers, the staggering costs of materials and labour, or the uncountable man-hours spent and uncounted lives lost during its construction, but that’s not surprising, not anymore. I could also mention how the towering walls and crenellated battlements were built to hold off superhuman monsters capable of grand feats of strength and absorbing horrendous amounts of punishment, or how the fortified buildings and winding roads form a dizzying maze with choke-points and fire-lanes a plenty, all meant to afford the Empire every advantage against their age old foe, but again, this stuff just makes sense. There’s a lot to go into when talking about the citadel, whether it be static defences, clever engineering, callous disregard for human life, or a whole host of other subjects, but interesting as all that might be, I think the most impressive thing about the citadel is how so many people can cram in together in one place without murdering the ever-living fuck out of each other.

Not too long ago, this area was nothing but empty plains and wild grass, but in little more than a year, the citadel has grown to become a bustling metropolis of travel, trade, and temptation, one the likes of which the Azure Empire has never before seen. As such, people have flocked to the Citadels to find their fortunes and filled the enormous fortified cities to the seams. Packed in like canned sardines, the denizens of the citadel navigate through the roads like blood travelling through the circulatory system and with about as much room to spare. Despite the cramped conditions, the crowd still makes way for my rickshaw and sweet Ping Ping following behind, the poor people all rushing to get out of the way once they notice my approach, no matter how unpleasant or inconvenient escape might be. I don’t blame them either, because if I were your standard young noble, their lives would literally be in danger if they didn't move fast enough. Despite their heartbreaking, coordinated avoidance, the pace is still slow going, but there’s not much anyone can do about it short of plowing straight through the crowd without a care for the panic or bloodshed which would ensure, so I settle back in my seat and do some people watching while heading off to my meeting with the Legate.

This being the Northern Citadel, there are plenty of pale Northerners marching about in their hard leather boots, stomping through the paved streets like angry prancing cattle. An ingrained habit from a lifetime spent trudging through muddy roads and snowy fields, one not so easily changed, much like how most are overdressed for the mild Central winters. While it might be uncomfortably warm under their furred cloaks, heavy coats, and thick hats, it beats freezing to death if they’re caught out in sudden snowfall or worse, wisdom all Northerners learn early on in life, or if they’re lucky, suffer for the lack of it.

Because the unlucky ones simply die.

There are plenty of ‘foreigners’ wandering around as well, though technically we’re the foreigners here. Either way, many of the citizens here are Central born, and they’re easy to pick out. As a whole, they like to splash a little colour into their clothes, whether it be a patch of bright, patterned silk sewn into a worker’s tunic or a scarf made from fine, dyed wool, and other minor things like that. In general, they wear serviceable robes over their work clothes and sport what little embroidery they own, bought or made using whatever spare coin or time they had. They love to accessorize, no matter their station, with plenty of feathers, badges, tokens, and a whole assortment of hand-crafted jewellery to be seen, which to my eyes looks like junk even Roc’s flock wouldn’t steal.

But hey, to each their own. If they wanna be adorned in bric-a-brac, who am I to judge?

The next most numerous are the jungle-born southerners, who as a whole wear far too little, generally threadbare shifts over their thin hide garments while running to and fro in wooden sandals or less. As if that wasn’t enough, they also do everything in their power to leave their arms and midriffs bare, mostly to show off their impressively detailed body-art. They almost all bear some, mostly southern animals of one sort or another, tigers, elephants, water buffalo, and the like. That being said, none of the southern soldiers I’ve met had tattoos, so I guess it’s more of a commoner thing, to denote status or affiliation or something. Regardless of the reason, Central winters aren’t that mild, so more than one Southern labourer has lost toes or come down with a cough, but I’ve still yet to see a dark-skinned southerner wearing a warm Northern cloak, or at the very least, a thick Central robe.

Well... That’s not entirely true. Ravil looks like he could be southern born and dresses like a Northerner, but he doesn’t count. He’s of mixed blood, but was born in Shen Huo, which is about all I know because he almost bit my head off the one time I asked about his origins.

As for Westerners... there aren’t many of them around, not anymore, and those I do see are easily identified by the haunted look in their eyes, always glancing westward as if aching to rush off and single-handedly save their homeland.

Or die avenging it. I’m not entirely sure which.

So all in all, the Northern Citadel is a veritable melting pot of ethnicity and customs, with too many people crammed into too little space. The Citadel is still massive, which only goes to show how many goddamned people there are, and I absolutely hate it. Granted, I find it almost inspiring to see so many different cultures gathered together and living in relative harmony, though I’d much rather appreciate it from somewhere I can’t smell it, and I say relative harmony because while we aren’t murdering one another in the packed streets, there is still plenty of friction to go around. Feuding families, clashing clans, squabbling sects, and more, there are so many quarrels going on that it’s rare to come across a Justicar or Adjudicator who isn’t rushing somewhere to dispense half-baked judgment on some poor soul or another. Not only are they responsible for mediating conflicts between soldiers and nobles, in the absence of a Magistrate, they also have to deal with civilian criminals and lawbreakers, from matters of thievery and murder to lesser crimes like smuggling and disorderly conduct.

It’s insane. The Defiled are coming to raze Central, yet people are flocking here to find their fortune, whether they be merchant, labourer, soldier, or otherwise. Whatever your poison, be it food, drink, drugs, or flesh, if you can’t find someone selling it, you can find someone willing to procure it, for the right price. Having seen firsthand how drugs and addiction can spell the downfall of a good Martial Warrior, I understand how vital the Disciplinary Corps’ work is and sympathize with their heavy burden, but I’m also kinda happy they’re swamped because it means they’re too busy to kick up a fuss about my return from the front lines. Technically, I was supposed to stay until Dastan and his people were all dead, and while I left most of those good people behind in Sinuji as little more than ashes on the wind, there are still seven condemned slaves still drawing breath in defiance of the Disciplinary Corps’ ruling. I suspect Jixing is already hard at work turning public opinion against me, but there’s really nothing I can do besides wait for the hammer to drop.

Or, you know, sell my life to the Legate in return for his protection. I won’t, not just because I don’t want to, but also because I suspect his solution will be to have Dastan and the others killed anyways, rendering his help utterly worthless. I can’t say that out loud of course, but it’s the truth, so I can’t help but resent him for wasting my time with this summons. Why can’t he just leave me alone? Yea, yea, appearances must be kept and all, seeing as how I’m still alive and therefore of value as his piece, but if his political opponents still haven’t figured out I’m merely a sacrificial pawn, then I’ve got a bridge to sell them.

Between the sheer size of the citadel and the packed crowds teeming within, there’s plenty of time for me to stew in suspense while my rickshaw makes its way through the busy streets and onwards to the Legate’s meeting room. So annoying. He just had to call me in now, during the early afternoon while the lunch rush is still going on. Nobles and wealthy individuals have long since finished their mid-day meals, but the working class tends to eat lunch later because it lessens the chances of their mere presence offending some random, entitled young shit. It’s a dangerous life they lead, these salt-of-the-earth labourers, and despite the high demand for able-bodied workers, the penalty for a nobleman killing a civilian usually comes out as a fine, and not even a particularly steep one at that. Being rather wealthy myself, I’ve realized fines are less of a deterrent and more of a price tag, and according to the Disciplinary Corps, the price of a peasant’s life is merely five gold coins.

Which can buy half a longbow or six months of expenses for a peasant family in the city. More if they’re living outside the city, but only because there are things money can’t buy out in the sticks. Sometimes, I don’t feel bad about being depressed, because considering the world I live in, it’s a miracle I’m not downright suicidal.

Only sometimes though.

Having thoroughly bummed myself out with my people watching, I lean back and stare up at the clouds instead. It’s not like my apologetic smiles were being noticed anyways, so I might as well try to relax instead. Easier said than done though, because I’ve never been great at stilling my mind, not even during meditation, so after the split second of distraction in which I decide the clouds look like clouds, and not a cute dog or stretching rabbit, I quickly fall back into my thoughts regarding the complexities of the Martial Dao.

Yea, it’s Martial Dao now. Path isn’t wrong, it’s just too... limited. Path implies a course and direction, whereas Dao is just... Dao. It is anything and everything, and as Martial Warriors, we use the Forms and combat to explore it. That doesn’t mean the Martial Dao is the only avenue to Divinity, but as a whole, humanity lacks an understanding of any other Dao. Music, art, calligraphy, and dance are all a part of the Dao, as is chess, politics, administration, and literally everything beneath the sun, but we only have the Eight Forms to guide us along the Dao, so the Martial Dao is the most developed, and we have the Mother Above to thank for it.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

I’m not quite ready to become a Mother-loving, self-abusing adherent of the faith, but I can admit when I’m wrong, provided someone can convince me of it first.

So. The Martial Dao. It has five major milestones, Core Creation, Aura Condensation, Natal Palace Formation, Domain Development, and Void Shattering, or at least, that’s what Zhen Shi’s notes imply. What that last step might be, I have no idea, but I’m pretty sure it’s not a ‘destroy your Spiritual Weapons and shatter your Core’ type of void shattering, but a different thing altogether. Whatever. That’s the final step, or as final as I can see, so I should start from the beginning instead. Core Creation. That’s where it all begins, the first step along the Martial Dao, and simultaneously the most simple and complex step there is. Find Balance, and your Core is Created. Why? Well, what is Balance? It is seeking nothing and finding everything. It is being aware of nothing but awareness itself. It is opening oneself to the Energy of the Heavens and drawing it within you, but none of that explains why all of the above is even necessary.

Because humans are creatures of emotion? And Heavenly Energy is... above emotion? Hungry for emotion? Emotionally adverse? Emotion-phobic? If that’s the case, then how do Defiled go about doing what they do, charged with emotion as they are? How does Aura, Oration, and whatever Luo-Luo does with her Zither work? Maybe Heavenly Energy is emotionally charged, and we need to find Balance to create an Emotional vacuum which sucks it all in. Maybe it’s one of those things I lack the proper mind-frame to understand, like colours to the blind or sound to the deaf. I don’t like that answer though, because it’s shitty and I want to know more.

Or maybe it’s magic and I know fuck all about it.

Core Creation. The first step along the Martial Path, yet we know the least about it. If I can figure out the mechanics behind it, I might be better able to understand the subsequent milestones, or at the very least offer a theory on why 99% of the human population can’t find Balance. The final answer has something to do with emotion, visualization, intent, and faith, but what it might be is anyone’s guess. Even Nian Zu, Du Min Gyu, Akanai, and Dad don’t have all the answers, because there is no ‘right’ answer.

Which is just... so... infuriating...

Exhausted by my mental gymnastics, I give up on the Dao for now and check our current progress. We’re still a good five minutes away, if not more, so I need a distraction quick. I didn’t bring any floofs with me, but it’s always fun and exciting to watch Ping Ping navigate through crowds. Then again, considering how much effort and concentration she needs to move through the streets without stepping on someone or something, it’s probably best not to distract her. Glancing at my honour guard jogging alongside the rickshaw, I inwardly sigh and use my option of last resort. “Brother Biao, would you care to come up and discuss something with me?”

“This one would rather not,” he quickly replies, his eyes darting back and forth through the crowd and never turning to meet mine. “The crowd might hide many dangers.”

Right, those poor, scared people might accidentally shit themselves in fear and stain my rickshaw. How terrifying. “I’m sure the others have my security well in hand. Please, brother Biao. Come have a seat. At the very least, you’ll have a better view of the surroundings”

It’s cheating since that’s just a politely worded command, but Kuang Biao hops into the rickshaw with a ‘By your will’, and that’s good enough for now.

“Erect a Sound Barrier, please.” The hubbub of the crowd cuts out leaving us shrouded in deafening silence, and it takes a moment or two to adjust. Bound by his Oaths to keep me safe, Kuang Biao continues to scan the crowd while I study his stern and youthful features, so utterly unreadable he could give Song lessons on neutrality. A thirty-seven year old Peak Expert, he is quite clearly an outstanding talent and phenomenal warrior, one who was destined for glory and greatness before the squabble between Yang Jixing and myself reduced him to a mere Death Corps guard. I can’t imagine how angry he must be, to have his promising future wrenched away and forced to obey another’s whims, but honestly, considering how easily his life was turned upside down, I bet loyalty and tradition bound him every bit as tightly as the Oaths do now. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but I’m curious to know: how do you manage your anger?”

The question catches him off-guard, and for the first time in forever, he meets my gaze with brown eyes burning in fury. “What?”

“Your anger,” I repeat, feeling bad for bringing it up but needing his answer regardless. “How do you manage it? You devoted yourself to the Martial Dao and sacrificed so much for the Imperial Clan, but then Yang Jixing all but threw you away because I didn’t know to keep my mouth shut and outed you as a Royal Guardian. Are you not outraged? Do you not hate me? How do you keep it from impacting your Martial Dao?”

“Such is life.” He looks away and goes back to scanning the crowd, but not before I spot the pain and resentment within them. “Trials and tribulations without end. But Imperial Consort is mistaken.”

“How so?”

“Anger, outrage, and hatred are not taboo to the Martial Dao,” he says, frowning while struggling to find the right words. “Or rather, they are not the dire stumbling blocks you seem to view them as. Any emotion is dangerous if taken to their extremes, but as your elders have pointed out many times in the past week and several times this morning, Balance is the key, Imperial Consort.”

...I knew this. Or I knew it at one point and just forgot. Charok, Dad, Akanai, even Fung and Lin-Lin told me all of this before, but I keep falling into the same trap. I can’t help but think in terms of ‘good’ and ‘evil’, but that’s not how Balance works. Like protons and electrons, Heavenly Energy has nothing to do with morality, it simply exists. Yes, the Defiled seem objectively evil, but a stag also sees the wolf as objectively evil. It’s just a matter of perspective.

...Which is why cultivation means to ‘seek the truth’. There is no immutable truth, because what is true for one might not be true for another. It’s not about defining the Dao, but rather discovering how you personally fit into it, or more simply, finding your place in the world. There is no more simple truth than that, which makes things complicated because I personally don’t fit. Technically, I don’t think I was ever supposed to be here. My current life is all thanks to some giant, cosmic mistake, so maybe that’s why the rules don’t always apply.

Or maybe not. Maybe I’m looking at things the wrong way and I’m the chosen one, here to bring Balance to the Dao. Who can say for certain? Not me, that’s for sure, but maybe Kuang Biao can. “Brother Biao, I know you’re not allowed to reveal Eastern secrets or anything, so without touching on anything forbidden, what are your thoughts regarding my Martial Dao and all the advice I’ve recently received?”

“This one believes the answers lie before Imperial Consort’s face, but he refuses to see them.”

“...If that’s the case, then please, tell me what exactly those answers are, in detail.”

“This one cannot, because this one does not know what they are. Imperial Consort holds too many secrets for this one to fathom.” Shrugging, he adds, “However, considering your performance in Sunuji, it is clear you hold the true answers within your heart, or at least enough of an answer to move forward. Imperial Consort is a brilliant and talented Martial Warrior who will go far,” he adds, then without missing a beat, continues, “Unless he is brought down by his staggering arrogance and sheer idiocy in all other facets of life.”

...Ouch. “Explain. Please.” I am not mad. Just hurt. He’s stating his opinion, and he should be allowed to, especially since I pretty much ordered him to.

“Imperial Consort believes himself omniscient and omnipotent,” Kuang Biao begins, but before I can offer a vehement denial, he continues, “Or why else would he accept blame for matters he cannot possibly control? This one’s fate was sealed the moment he was ordered onto the stage, and nothing Imperial Consort did could have changed it. You think you were the only person to notice this one’s status? At the very least, making it known to the public allowed this one to keep his small life, else the Imperial Clan would have lost face for silencing a Peak Expert over a personal squabble.” Turning back to face me once more, he doesn’t quite meet my eyes and says, “In the same vein, your friends, your comrades, your guardians... You are not to blame for their deaths. They were true warriors one and all, and this one was honoured to fight by their side, thus he feels compelled to point out the following. They made their choice to fight, and Imperial Consort does their memory a grave disservice by taking responsibility for their actions.”

I hear what Kuang Biao is saying, and I understand what he’s getting at, but if irrational guilt and a persecution complex were so easy to logic away, well... it wouldn’t be irrational, now would it? “Brother Biao,” I say, smiling faintly despite the pangs of sorrow and regret. “Are you trying to console me? Be honest now.”

If looks could kill, I’d have died a thousand times over from Kuang Biao’s deadpan stare. “You,” he begins, before taking a deep breath to rein in his anger. “You are the most stubborn and infuriating person I have ever had the misfortune to meet.”

“I like you more when you drop the pretenses.” It’s not a victory if I order him to be informal, he needs to decide for himself. Yes, he’s bound by his Oaths, and while he might never regain his complete freedom, that doesn’t mean he has to become a nameless, Death Corps slave. He could be like Song and Dastan, bound by Oaths but not defined by them, and as minor a distinction as it might be, that’s really all I can do short of risking Kuang Biao’s life by destroying his Spiritual Weapons and shattering his Core, thereby turning him into a cripple and maybe freeing him of his Oaths. Struck by an errant thought, I file it away for later as we’ve arrived at our destination and it’s time to meet the Legate.

I hope he has more tofu pudding. I’ve been craving it for weeks now...

Nodding at the Seneschal who stands waiting to receive me, I leave Ping Ping, Kuang Biao, and the other Death Corps guards behind before following the old servant into the building and up the stairs. This is going to sound terrible, but I kind of miss my mini-palanquin, because God do I hate stairs. Five stories doesn’t sound like a lot, and it really isn’t, but I’d forgotten how unpleasant stairs can be. Thankfully, the Legate doesn’t call me for meetings often, so I soldier on and push through to the uppermost level. As per usual, two Death Corps guards hold the door open and my nod of greeting goes entirely unremarked. With the Seneschal on my heels, I stride into the room and get ready to greet the Legate with a salute, but as the doors slam shut behind me, I realize the Legate isn’t here. It makes sense, what with him being a busy guy and all, but I’m just used to him standing by the window trying to look cool or sitting in his seat ready and waiting for my arrival, but apparently he’s trying to make a point by leaving the room entirely bare. No chair for me to sit in, no art for me to appreciate, not even a carpet for me to stand on, all of which sends a message which says ‘I don’t like you much’. Mildly annoyed by the stupid political games, I turn to ask the Seneschal for an E.T.A on the Legate’s arrival and feel a sharp pain in my belly.

A sharp pain which quickly intensifies into fiery agony as I look down and realize I’ve been stabbed.

Grabbing the Seneschal’s wrist to keep him from gutting me and finishing the job, I clutch tight and prepare to struggle for dear life, but my efforts are wasted. Through the haze of pain and adrenaline, I soon realize why as my legs give out beneath me and I drop heavily to the floor. The Seneschal’s blade was perfectly aimed and pierced clean through my spleen, so all he needs to do is keep me in the room for the next few minutes and his work is done. Maybe he wants to see me suffer, or maybe he was ordered to do so, because he has no intention to speed my death along. Standing over my fallen frame, he watches me with bloodied dagger in hand, his expression utterly devoid of emotion or interest as I draw my final breaths.

I need to fight. To struggle. Embrace the pain, don’t let it get in your way. Push through it and find Balance. You can do this. You’ve done it before. Just do it again.

Divesting myself of rage, fear, surprise, contempt, and all other emotions, I still my thoughts and reach for Balance.

Those emotions. An offering to the Heavenly Energy perhaps, or bait so I might tie a leash around its neck? Curious.

A moot point. There is no warm embrace of the Mother to greet me, no rush of power with which I might Heal my bloodied wounds, no final surge of strength with which to strike at my foe.

Only more pain and the empty nothingness of the Void.

And then, even that is lost as my eyes grow heavy and the darkness consumes me.

Chapter Meme