Living through a near-death experience is never pleasant, but it sure as hell beats the alternative.

Or at least that’s the theory, but my aching spleen begs to differ. It feels like someone filled my stomach with gasoline and lit it on fire, then set off a claymore mine that’d been stuffed with spiky, nerve-rending pellets of pain and agony. Two out of ten, would not recommend.

Complain later. Survive now.

Forcing my eyes open with a groan, I’m greeted by a pair of pristine, white loafers, belonging to none other than the seneschal who stabbed me. Comfy slipper shoes, but hardly appropriate winter attire. Then again, considering how clean they are, I doubt he does much walking outside. Even the Legate’s butler has servants to do his bidding, but I guess the old bastard likes to do his own dirty work.

Luckily for me, he doesn’t get a lot of practice in, because he done fucked up.

“You should’ve gone for the head,” I snarl as my hand sweeps his feet out from underneath him and brings him toppling to the ground. Then it’s just a simple matter of mounting his torso, controlling his knife hand, and smashing his wrinkled face in with fist, knee, or elbow, and then I’m home free.

Or at least that’s how I planned it out in my head.

In reality, my witty quip is cut short by a strangled squeal of pain as a spotless cloth loafer stomps hard on my hand and pins it in place. Never one to give up, I pivot around my trapped hand and slam both boots into the side of his other knee, but despite giving it my best effort, the Seneschal barely shifts in place. Almost blacking out again as the pain flares up in protest, my body goes limp as I marvel at how cool and comfortable the hardwood floors are. “You took out the carpets,” I state, finally putting the pieces together. “Smart. It’s a real bitch getting blood out of fabric.”

Though he doesn’t respond, the Seneschal’s weight shifts ever so slightly so he can stare at me in confusion, and I seize the opportunity to wrench my hand free from under his foot. Surprised by my own success, it takes a moment for my pain-addled, adrenaline pumped brain to figure out my next genius move, and it decides the best course of action is to tackle the Seneschal’s knees. Although my mind is game to keep fighting, my body appears to have given up, so the tackle comes out as more of a flop which leaves my face pressed against his lower thigh while I pant and wheeze in helpless exhaustion.

Stupid legs. Why aren’t you working right?

“For once in my life, I’m thrilled to be short. If I were any taller, I’d have a face full of old man crotch instead.”

Only after the words have left my mouth do I realize I said them out loud. I might not be entirely in my right mind, but the thing about shock is that there’s not much you can do about it, especially whilst embroiled in the midst of a life and death conflict. Not much is still more than nothing though, and seeing as the Seneschal doesn’t seem to be in any rush to finish the job, I take a few seconds to gather my wits about me and find a way out of this mess. Sadly, nothing comes to mind and I even lack the strength to move myself into a less shameful position, so all I can do is stem my bleeding and keep him talking to... to buy as much time...

“Where’s my wound?” Bracing my forehead against his thigh, I peer down at my stomach to better understand the situation. There’s a tear in my shirt and dark, wet blood everywhere, as well as a few finger-thick holes around my chest which are new, but beneath all the gore and viscera is whole, healthy flesh, with no sign of a gaping knife wound to be found.

Instead of answering, the Seneschal merely snorts in reply and knees me away from his thigh. Hesitating to cling to a man’s leg no matter how tired I might be, I flop back and crash hard against the floor which sets my head to spinning. Note to self: next time, tuck your chin and grit your teeth. Seeing how the old man makes no move to follow up, I give in and stop trying to make sense of the insanity. “Rude,” I gasp, already choking on my own hysterical and possibly deranged laughter. “You this rough... with everyone you penetrate?”

Again, silence is all that greets me, and I inwardly grumble about how no one appreciates my humour. Having rested long enough, I slowly push myself back up onto my elbows and slowly but surely drag myself away from the maybe-homicidal geriatric. I must’ve Healed my injury when I blacked out, so all I need to do is play for time and... well, pass out again. “So,” I wheeze, racking my brain for the old bastard’s name and ultimately coming up short. “Seneschal. Why does the Legate want me dead? At least tell me that much.”

This time, the silence is accompanied by a curl of the Seneschal’s lip and punctuated by a flourish of his dagger which sends droplets of my life’s blood arcing off into the air. Then he takes a step towards me and my initial response is to scream in fright, but I settle for a grunt of alarm instead. Redoubling my efforts to get away, I drag myself back while keeping my eyes fixed on the dagger, ready to give it my all and fight to the bitter end. “What will you tell my family?” That makes him hesitate, if only for a half-step, but then he continues with his cat and mouse game. “Make sure your story makes sense and the blame falls on someone plausible and expendable. My family might rebel for anything less, and neither of us want that.” The Legate can’t afford to have the North’s second-in-command take up arms against the Empire and I don’t want my loved ones to die, so whatever story he’s cooked up to explain my death had best be good.

I haven’t given up yet, but there’s no harm in preparing for the worst.

Then my futile escape comes to an end as the Seneschal reaches down and grabs me by the throat. Hauling me to my feet, he keeps me at arm’s length and on the tips of my toes with his iron grip fastened around my neck, slowly choking the air from my lungs while studying me with his cold, impassive stare. Still trying to bide my time, I put up a token resistance while waiting for the dagger to come into play, because it is the only hope I have of turning the tides. While dangerous, it’s also the only weapon in the room since I didn’t bring one with me, so if I can get it away from the Seneschal, I might be able to use it against him. It’s a long shot, but it’s the only one I’ve got, so I fight for every scrap of air I can get and wait for my moment to strike.

And wait.

Anytime now. It’s coming.

Still waiting...

Soon.

...And I’m fucked.

Lungs burning and head light, my last reserves of patience, discipline, and oxygen are squandered away while waiting for the Seneschal to act, so all that’s left to do is panic. Without tools of iron, I must rely on flesh and indefatigable purpose, so I grab his forearm with both hands, lift my knees up to my chest, and hammer both feet into his stomach. A steel post would’ve given me more of a reaction as the Seneschal all but ignores the attack, holding me in place as easily as turning his hand. A second kick results in more of the same, and the third time around, I get the bright idea to brace my feet against him and use it as leverage to draw a breath. That earns me a reaction, but not one I can use as his eyes flash with displeasure and he lifts me even higher until my feet fall away from his midsection to dangle helplessly in the air. Guess he doesn’t like being stepped on. Noted. Lacking the strength to lift my legs up to wrap around his arm or possible rest on his face, I fight through the pain and hammer my fist against his elbow, first into the bone to try and break the joint, then into the socket to try and force his arm to bend so I might break his hold, but it’s no use. In my desperation, I resort to digging my fingers into the meaty flesh of his palm and trying to wrench his hand away, but it’s no use. I trimmed my nails for happy fun times with Mila and Yan, but even if I didn’t, I doubt it would’ve made any difference. The Seneschal is too strong, or rather I’m too weak, unable to Reinforce or Amplify my attacks to any degree, and utterly helpless to do anything but watch as he raises his dagger to my jugular.

Then the darkness consumes me once more and I beseech the Mother to look after my loved ones.

Coming to with a gasp, I’m once again greeted by the sight of the Seneschal’s white cloth loafers. Fight or flight kicks in and I shove myself away from the old sadist, sliding across the hardwood floor for all of a second before slamming into two solid posts behind me. The air rushes out of my lungs and leaves me gasping for breath, but I still have the presence of mind to check my surroundings before simply skirting around the obstacle, and a good thing too. If I hadn’t, I might’ve literally crawled between the Legate’s legs to hide under his robes, and if that had happened, the Seneschal would no longer have to knife me because I would simply curl up and die of shame. After a long, silent minute of staring at the Legate’s handsome features and insufferable smirk, I eke out a small, “Hello.” Swallowing hard, I glance warily at the Seneschal behind me and ask, “Is my death sentence on hold or are you here to watch? Just wondering if I should keep struggling against the inevitable.”

“Your life is in no danger for now,” the Legate replies, smiling as he none too gently nudges me away with his feet. “Unless you’ve stained my robes of office. As you so astutely pointed out earlier, it is ‘a bitch’ to get blood out of fabric.”

Too weak to actually stand up, I lean away from the Legate’s legs and slide back ever so slightly. It’s the bare minimum of courtesy, but the bastard did just have me stabbed and choked. If he didn’t want my blood all over his shiny golden robes, then he shouldn’t have sent his stupid seneschal to gut me while he was Concealed in the room.

Hang on. Shiny golden robes. That’s important, but why? Ah, right. Robes of Office are made from Halcyon silk. Expensive shit. If the Legate is wearing them, then that means this is serious, official business, something he’s handling with the Emperor’s Authority. Since the robes are representative of such, it wouldn’t surprise me if the penalty for ruining someone’s Robes of Office is death or worse, so the Legate probably isn’t cracking wise and I should refrain from touching his shiny golden self. He also has his jade fan open and in hand, with the Imperial Clan’s Dragon sigil on full display, which if I recall correctly means I need to kneel and bow or something. The best I can manage is a grunt and slight incline of my head, because while my wounds have been Healed, my side still hurts like a bitch since my body hasn’t quite realized I’m no longer dying and still won’t for a few minutes more.

Thankfully, the Legate is magnanimous enough to overlook my lack of respect, which is good because if he made an issue of it I was going to shove my boot up his ass. Or try to, at least, no matter how suicidal it might seem, because a man has his limits and mine are so far back I can’t even see them anymore. I don’t take kindly to being stabbed, but for now, all I can do is swallow my pride and suffer in silence.

“You must forgive my deception,” the Legate begins, not so much offering an apology as he is granting clemency for his own actions on my behalf. “Facts needed to be verified and assurances made.”

“...You had the old bastard stab me just to see if I’ve been faking my injuries?”

“Old bastard he might be,” the Legate replies, his smile never faltering as his tone grows cold and merciless, “But you will afford Solitary Sword Zhang Jun Bao the respect he deserves.”

“I see.” Glancing at the old Seneschal as he puffs up with pride, I can’t help but open my mouth and say, “I’m not up to date on old, forgotten has-beens, so you’ll have to forgive me. Exactly how much respect does he deserve?”

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That sucks the wind out of the old bastard’s sails, and the Legate even clears his throat to hide what I suspect is a chuckle. Can’t believe that earns me a laugh when my penetration innuendo fell flat. “Your lacking education is no excuse,” the Legate says, waving a hand to signal the end of the matter. “He is my Seneschal, and therefore his actions are an extension of my will. Disrespect him, and you disrespect myself.”

I’m angry and stupid, but not quite suicidal, so I swallow my first, second, and third retorts before finally coming up with an appropriate response. “Then in that case, allow this Imperial Consort to amend his statement. You had your lackey stab me to see if I’ve been faking my injuries?”

Okay, maybe I’m pushing my luck by calling the Seneschal a lackey, but I don’t care if I hurt his feelings. The motherfucker stabbed me.

Using silence and a stern glare to make his displeasure known, the Legate gently taps his open fan against his lap, which I suppose is a hint that he could use his authority to do horrible things to me, but I’m too tired and injured to care. If he wants respect, then I need answers, because there’s no point in being cordial to someone who means to kill me, so I weather his glare with exhausted indifference and wait patiently for an answer. After a long minute of staring, the Legate actually backs down first and says, “Matters are not as simple as they seem. Consider your situation from an outsider’s perspective. A young, Imperial warrior is crippled and sent to the front lines to die. Once there, his most hated Defiled foe gathers a million strong army to march out against him, who then manipulates events so that the two might meet in private. During this meeting, the only impartial, Imperial witness present hears the young Defiled General make a comment about ‘playing games’ and offers advice regarding negotiating from a position of strength.” Leaning forward, the Legate’s smile disappears as he continues his explanation. “Then, to our witness’s great surprise, he hears the young warrior greet his foe by a name which has long faded into legend, a being even this Imperial Legate must treat with respect, if said being were truly still alive after eight centuries since his supposed death.”

In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have brought Kuang Biao along to my meeting with Zhen Shi, but this all happened before I knew the Bannermen were skulking in the shadows. Incredible warriors they might be, but the People in general are sorely lacking in communication skills, and I plain forgot they'd come to Sinuji with me.

After studying my reaction for all of an eternity, the Legate sits back and continues his narration. “The introductions complete, the young warrior and old legend share a brief exchange which our impartial witness is not privy to, aside from the tail end of the conversation in which said legend makes an offer of alliance, an offer which the young warrior takes time to consider. All parties then return to their respective sides, and not two hours later, the crippled young hero demonstrates strength far beyond what a warrior his age should possess, and even later offers no plausible explanation for how he came about it.” Resting his chin on his free hand, he gently fans himself with the symbol of Imperial Authority and says, “Knowing all this, you might understand why it was necessary to go to such extremes to verify all the facts. A wiser man might even suspect that someone in power went to no small lengths to ensure there was no chance of you suffering more permanent harm, accidental or otherwise, for there are many who would rather err on the side of caution and simply have you killed outright instead.”

I hate when people are logical and convincing. I’m not smart enough to poke holes through his theories. I guess there was a lot more riding on this meeting than I initially suspected. Then again, if I had any inkling of what awaited me, I probably would’ve never come back to the Citadel in the first place and just asked Dad to bring me and everyone else back home. “So... what’s the verdict?”

Taking a deep breath which may or may not have hidden a sigh, the Legate slumps ever so slightly in his chair without ever taking his eyes off me. “Difficult to say, though after seeing you almost die three times without using Chi to fight back, this Imperial Legate is reasonably certain your ignorance is not feigned. Others were not so easily convinced since you were still making jokes and wanted to continue testing, but the Healers warned us that your chances of survival were slim to none if we were to continue our testing, so we had no choice but to force a decision.”

...Hang on. I almost died three times? Why do I only remember two? Is that how I got the holes in my shirt? Were they testing Chi attacks or did a bunch of Eastern Nobles take turns poking me? Also, I guess I didn’t go all Primal Instinct on them, else I wouldn’t have needed a Healer. Probably because there’s no Heavenly Energy to Devour, but I’m actually kind of glad it worked out like this. If I’d gone all psycho, I’m pretty sure they would’ve cut my throat for being Defiled and call a Purge on the People.

Since his withering stare is failing to make me shake in my boots and change my quippy ways, the Legate gives up on intimidation and continues. “With some effort, I made them see reason to spare you, or at least raise enough doubt to keep them from demanding your death outright.”

Pretending to take the Legate at his word, I muster up the strength to push myself to my feet and bow in thanks. “I am grateful for your assistance.” Suspicious as to your motives, but grateful nonetheless.

Accepting my thanks with a nod, the Legate snaps his fan shut and tucks it away into a sleeve. “Gratitude is not enough. I will have answers now. How long have you known about... him?”

Fan goes away, but robes are still on. Is this Emperor business still or not? Am confused. Also, are we not saying ‘Zhen Shi’ out loud? ‘Speak of the devil, and he doth appear’, that sort of silly nonsense? Then again, seeing how he’s hooked up to Spectre Radio, it’s entirely possible he has eyes and ears everywhere reporting back every use of his name, so there’s no harm in being cautious. “Ever since I shattered my Core.”

“And you never thought to share this pertinent information?”

Shrugging, I offer my prepared excuse, one I came up with months ago and never had a chance to use. “Insanity is a defining trait amongst the Defiled. I never actually believed it was an eight-hundred year old monster puppeting the idiot, but it’s easier to humour him than anything else. Hell, I still don’t entirely believe it.” Eyeing the Legate’s reaction and reading his displeasure, I add, “But you do. You’re convinced it’s actually him. Why?”

“The Imperial Clan has long since suspected he faked his death,” the Legate replies, saying much without saying anything at all. “And if anyone could survive so long undetected, it would be him.” Again, the Legate doesn’t say why he believes it’s Zhen Shi, but this leads to some interesting questions. Does the Imperial Clan know about body-snatching? Or do they have some other secret to long life? Questions which need answering, but I’d be stupid to voice them out loud here, and the Legate doesn’t give me the chance to anyways. “Regardless of your foe’s true identity,” he says, drumming his fingers against his armrest in a rhythmic staccato, “I must know. What did he say to you in private?”

“Mostly senseless ranting.” Knowing he wants more, I explain, “First, I asked him questions and tried to figure out if Gen was just crazy or if it was really the other guy.” Which fits the narrative, since the Sound Barrier went up after I accused him of not being in complete control. “Then he did a bunch of boasting about his notes which I didn’t understand, because apparently I don’t have the complete set.” Pausing to see if the Legate will give anything away, I get nothing and decide I’m too tired to care anymore. “Then came the bog standard recruitment spiel. He started off with ‘Join or die’, ‘I’ll spare your people if you do’, then moved onto ‘we’re kindred minds’, and finished off strong with ‘we will rule humanity together’. You know, an employment pitch, chock full of insane lunacy and death threats.” I leave out the bit about how Zhen Shi said the Emperor would have me killed if he knew all my secrets, because as loathe as I am to take the old coot at his word, I’m equally hesitant to rely upon Imperial Mercy, which as far as I can tell, doesn’t actually exist.

The Legate might’ve bent over backwards to keep me alive, but I doubt he’d so much as lift a finger if he didn’t stand to benefit from my continued existence. Or conversely, he might’ve saved my life because my death would’ve impacted him negatively, like losing face for backing the wrong horse or something. Chances are, he’s either grossly overstating the danger to my life, or he saved me for a multitude of reasons rather than just one, but I’ll be damned if I can come up with any other guesses.

While I contemplate his motives, the Legate tap-tap-taps his fingers and silently ponders my fate, and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t nerve wracking. There’s something in his eyes which leaves me quivering in fear, as if I’ve been stripped bare of everything besides value and risk. He’s calculating my worth and weighing me upon his scales, and if the costs outweigh the benefits, then the Legate will not hesitate to cut me loose with all my friends and family alongside me.

“You,” he begins, after an insufferably long wait, “Present me with something of a conundrum. You’ve played your part well as my sacrificial pawn, but your continued survival means you can still be used against me. Now you are almost more trouble than you are worth, yet an investment so tempting even a fool can see your potential.”

Well I’m sorry I bothered you with my existence. None too pleased at being treated like a commodity, I shift my feet and pray this doesn’t go poorly. “One must not forget to put a price on peace of mind. Some troubled waters are not worth sailing.”

Amused, the Legate’s smile returns in full force, so charming and almost genuine enough to trust, but not quite. “Are you advocating against your own survival?”

“Of course not.” I don’t want to be a pawn again, but it sure as hell beats dying. “But like you said, I’m more trouble than I’m worth. Part of that is because I’m too... visible and your enemies will act against you the moment I’m put into play. If that’s the case, then instead of devoting resources to my management, why not just leave me be to distract your foes while you concentrate on... less demanding and more reliable investments. I won’t act against you or your interests, this I promise you. I’m a simple man, Legate. All I want is to recover, fight the Defiled, and then, when it’s all over, go home and live out the rest of my days in peace.”

“It appears Imperial Servant Zheng Luo might make a politician of you yet,” the Legate replies, still resting his chin on one hand. “You are correct. You are far too visible a piece, and since I’ve already used you as a distraction once, my foes will not fall victim to the same ploy twice. However, what if I made you my pawn in truth? You could be the ignored sacrifice who makes the winning play.” Fixing me with an intense stare, he continues, “Never once have I made this offer twice, and you, Falling Rain, require my help now more than ever. Accept my aid, swear yourself into my service, and I will devote everything towards speeding along your recovery. I can even promise to allow you your freedom once I no longer require your services.”

A tempting offer, especially since I’m already firmly in the palm of his hand without enjoying any of the benefits, but when it comes right down to it, I don’t want to be anyone’s patsy. “Is working together really so out of the question?”

“If you understood the stakes at hand, you too would understand.” His smile melting away, the Legate’s eyes unfocus as he stares off into nothingness, no doubt contemplating some future or another. “I will not leave anything to chance, and you, Falling Rain, are a confluence of chance and calamity.”

How flattering. I bet he tells that to all the boys though. You can never trust a man that handsome. Then again, if I end up regretting swearing myself to his service, I already know how to break my Oaths. All I gotta do is shatter my Core again and I’ll be a free man again. Plus, it’s not like I have to swear an Oath right this second, because I couldn’t even if I wanted to. Even then, I’m loathe to give him my word while intending to break it later, because... I dunno. It doesn’t sit well with me. Is that stupid? Probably, but it’s who I am, and try as I might, I can’t be anyone else. “I cannot accept your generous offer,” I reply, turning down the Legate’s offer once again, despite knowing it’ll upset him. “Because if I did, then I would no longer have reason to pursue strength.”

“The boy speaks true, insofar as he understands it.” An unfamiliar voice sounds, and I turn to find Chief Beardie standing by the door with his hands clasped behind his back. Or maybe it’s not Chief Beardie, and it’s one of the other two Beardies. I can’t really tell, they all look the same, but I do know he was sitting at the table for Divinities the night Mahakala died, or a fourth person indistinguishable from the other three. A human Divinity in the flesh, which is both terrifying and awe inspiring at the same time. “Swearing service would be in direct conflict with his Dao and ruin whatever value he might have.” Shrugging, he adds, “Such is life.”

“How disappointing.” Slumping back in his chair with a sigh, the Legate carries out a brief and silent exchange with Beardie, and I do my best not to panic. I’m not one to go down without a fight, but I can’t even beat the Seneschal, who I suspect might very well be the weakest person in the room besides myself, so my life is pretty much in the Legate’s hands. Can’t say I like that much, but there’s nothing I can do about it except resign myself to fate.

“Pull up a chair and sit,” the Legate commands, and I hesitate briefly before complying. Wordlessly asking if I should bring chairs for the other two, the Seneschal quietly shakes his head and I plop the closest chair down across from the Legate. “Now tell me everything,” the Legate says, still displeased by my refusal but willing to let it drop. “Starting with your arrival in Sinuji.”

Launching into the tale without preamble, I tell him mostly everything while avoiding any topic regarding my dissociative identity disorder, my close brush with Defilement, Blobby’s existence, Devouring, one with the self, rejecting the world, and a whole host of other uncomfortable topics. Easy enough.

Then the Legate makes me tell the story again, and things become less easy, because now I have to stop and think about what I left out.

The third time around, the Legate takes the lead and questions me on the events in no particular order. This of course adds to the difficulty, but I navigate the pitfalls rather well without giving the game away.

Then he asks me about my Martial Path, and things get really complicated.

Several hours later, the Legate sits back and calls for tea to be served while I sit and stew in concern. It’s not easy to lie in front of a master interrogator, and it’s clear as day that the Legate knows I’m keeping many secrets. I don’t think he suspects I’m Defiled anymore, but he suspects there’s something about my Martial Path which I haven’t told him, because there is. I considered telling him about Baledagh and my mental health issues, but I suspect it would not be good for my physical health if I did. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’d have me killed out of hand, because he doesn’t seem like the trusting type, and there’s nothing trustworthy about the clinically insane.

“You hide many truths,” he declares, the accusation given while gesturing at me to pour tea. “But it matters not. Your Martial Dao is your own, and I will not begrudge you your secrets.” Because he doesn’t think they’re of any value? Or because he already knows about them? Does he know because I’ve stumbled upon the secret to Imperial Strength? Taking from both sides, Imperial and Defiled alike? “I have given it some thought,” he continues, speaking over my inner turmoil while snacking on a pastry, “And I agree to your earlier suggestion. To work together,” he clarifies, upon seeing my confusion. “You will cooperate with me against my enemies, and if you betray me, I will visit untold death and suffering upon you and everyone you hold dear.”

Delivered with all the emotion of a rock, the Legate isn’t so much threatening me as telling me how it is. If I don’t play ball, people will suffer and die. That’s the cold, hard truth, so it’s on me to comply. Not too much better than straight up servitude, but at least now I have a choice. Not much of one, but it’s still there, so I guess it’s something. After filling his teacup, then mine, I drain my cup dry in one gulp before putting it down with trembling hands. “Okay.” Taking a deep breath, I still my nerves and accept my fate before picking out a snack of my own, a flaky sort of strudel stuffed with red bean paste. It’s good, but it’s not tofu pudding good, which I suppose is an appropriate representation of my current value. “So what do you need me to do?”

Maybe things aren’t all that bad. Everyone’s been telling me that life, and the Martial Dao, is all about perspective. I’m paraphrasing here, but in the end, isn’t it all about finding the truth that suits you, and move on from there?

So I’m not a slave, vassal, or lackey. I’m... an unpaid intern.

Yea, freedom is so much better than silly things like a salary and benefits. Totes worth.

I should form a union, or at least make some demands, like tofu pudding and a pet lion or five...

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