“– and so they lived happily ever after again as husband and wife.”
Though narrated in the halting manner of someone unfamiliar with the words, Jorani nonetheless applauded Asmani’s efforts, for the imposing woman had come far in so short a time. Truth be told, he felt more than a little ashamed considering how quickly she’d overtaken him in the realm of literacy, proving that while she might be uneducated, she was far from stupid, sharp as a spear and twice as deadly. Unmoved by his accolades, Asmani sat in stoic silence while studying the scroll before her, a children’s tale about a husband and wife who argued and later reconciled, some silly piece about cherishing the people you love. Having known her for almost two months now, Jorani was getting better at reading her expressions, and he could tell she was just brimming with questions, but wanted to gather her thoughts before unleashing the deluge upon him.
“If she was unhappy with her... husband,” she began, stumbling over the unfamiliar word, “Then why did she not kill him?”
There were still many social barriers to overcome before Asmani and her tribesmen would fit into polite society, but thankfully, the only civilized people around were the monks, who seemed more than capable of looking out for themselves. “See,” Jorani began, trying to think of a way to properly frame it, “There are lots of ways to settle yer differences besides killing, which is really something of a last resort.”
“But you said marriage was a bond between two people,” Asmani countered, “One that is to lasts unto death. Did the wife not break this bond by leaving her husband.”
“Well... yea.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean why?”
Brow furrowing in confusion, Asmani regarded Jorani with a look he’d seen her give the Defiled children when they were being particularly annoying. “She gave her word, to stay with her man until death. Then she left, proving she is not true to her words. Why would she do that? Would she not be shunned by the rest of her people?”
It took a moment to understand what she was asking, though Jorani still wasn’t quite sure why. “Yer asking how could she break her word?”
“Yes.” Nodding, she went on to explain as if Jorani were a particularly dumb child, “A word given as bond must be upheld, else all would know you for false. The Ancestors sometimes speak in falsehoods, but they are dead and lack control over what they share. As for this wife, it would be better if she had killed her husband and stayed true to her words, for in death, their bond would be no more.”
How odd. Asmani didn’t think twice about murder, but lying and oath-breaking? That was simply unacceptable. “Well, puttin’ aside the morality of it all, let’s look at it another way. If she killed her husband, she’d have never been able to settle their issues, like they did at the end of the story. They had their differences, but they made up and lived happily ever after, which wouldn’t have happened if she killed him, yea?”
“Yes, but then why did he not kill her, for breaking her word?”
Whoo boy. This was the sort of thing Monk Happy would be better at, but Jorani’s many pleas went unanswered thus far, so there was no point in complaining yet again. Instead, he did his best to work around Asmani’s preconceived notions and convince her that killing was wrong and lying the lesser of two evils, but the Defiled woman wasn’t having any of it. “A word given is bond,” she insisted, unable to even fathom the concept of lying. “No tribe will ever ride with one who speaks false or has broken their bond.”
That was news to Jorani, but it made a twisted sort of sense. The Defiled were happy to kill one another at the drop of a hat, but they were upright and honest about it at the very least. “People don’t like liars here in the Empire either,” he said, shrugging because he didn’t know what else to say. “We don’t exile them or kill ‘em though, not unless their lying caused some harm, like lyin’ to steal or something.”
“What is this word? Steal?”
Yet another foreign concept to the Defiled, where might made right in every sense of the word. Taking from someone else only happened when you were stronger than the other party, meaning you had every right to help yourself to their things. The strong thrive, the weak survive, that’s how the Defiled lived their lives and Jorani found it difficult to disagree considering things weren’t all that different here in the Empire. People were just less honest about it, making all sorts of excuses to take what didn’t belong to them, just like he had during his years as a bandit. If he didn’t rob those poor farmers and fishers, then someone else would, so why shouldn’t Jorani look after himself first? The Defiled might be a bloodthirsty bunch of savages, but they put the prosperity of the tribe above all else, meaning every tribe member was always working towards the betterment of the group, even when taking things from their kin. A strong Chieftain meant a strong tribe, and a weak Chieftain meant death for them all, so in their eyes, the constant tribal tensions were merely preparation for the harsh trials and tribulations of Heaven.
For this reason, the Defiled were constantly challenging Jorani for his undesired title of Chieftain. Thankfully, the tribesmen fought in good faith and were open and honest with most of their attempts on his life, plus he’d improved by leaps and bounds in recent weeks, else Jorani might well have met his death here outside the monastery walls. More to the point, Asmani never tried to challenge him again, though she did ask several times if he was going to lay with her. Not out of desire it would seem, but rather because she wanted to know where they stood, because if he wasn’t going to fuck her, then she suspected he intended to kill her instead. Jorani did his best to let her down gently and reassure her of her safety, but thankfully, the fearsome and pregnant woman didn’t seem too upset by his rejection, more confused because she thought his lingering glances were indicative of interest.
Because they were. Mother knows how long it’d been since Jorani had lain with a woman, but only a fool would risk death by sleeping with someone liable to crush him between her thighs.
For long hours, Jorani sat with Asmani and answered her questions about the simple children’s fable and other intricacies of civilized life, though it wasn’t so easy considering he couldn’t read the damn thing and had forgotten most of the tale in the telling. There was nothing more shameful than being looked down on by a tribal Defiled for his lacking literacy, especially given her blunt and forthright demeanour. “Reading is simple,” Asmani said, when asked how she picked it up so quickly. “Just memorize the symbols, the thing it represents, and the sound you are supposed to make.” A very literal answer, but after some more questioning, Jorani realized Asmani had a Natal Palace, one she used to good effect learning to read, write, and speak common, but while he also had a Natal Palace himself, he had no idea how to use it.
His Natal Palace was just a small room, the spitting image of his guest quarters inside the monastery, a stark, cozy little suite with a bed, desk, and writing table. Sure, he could change stuff inside it to practice with his Chi, but it always reverted back to the monastery suite in time, so how in the high Heavens was this supposed to help him memorize things? He tried writing things down inside his Natal Palace to see if that would take, but by the time he found Balance and entered the damned thing, he’d already forgotten the character he meant to write down, rendering all his efforts worthless. Monk Happy said it probably had something to do with Jorani’s ‘atypical advancement to Natal Palace Formation’, an unwelcome reminder that he only succeeded at this milestone thanks to Kukku’s inadvertent help and Old Vyakhya’s meddling.
No matter though. Even if he’d taken a shortcut, Jorani was still pleased as punch to have a Natal Palace at all, so he tried not to be envious and kept working hard to find success in literacy and the Martial Path both. Sitting in with Asmani’s lessons and following as she read along helped more than he thought it would, but he was still lagging behind her ridiculously speedy process, slowed only by her unfamiliarity with concepts such as marriage, lying, and other Imperial norms. These children’s tales were Monk Happy’s idea, to help familiarize her with Imperial life while she practised her reading and comprehension, and Jorani was tasked to answer the inevitable questions that followed.
Once her curiosity was sated, Jorani stood up and stretched while once again marvelling at how well-built Asmani’s hut was, especially considering it was her first time ever working with wood. The monks taught her well, and you could barely tell where the wood joints were locked in place, the entire round structure held together without nails or twine. Aside from two supporting pillars, the whole hut was open and undivided, with only a plain wooden table and woven-grass mats for furniture, but it was clear she took pride in her accommodations. The mats were kept clean of dirt and other debris, her bristle broom already showing signs of wear from overuse, which was odd considering her aversion to bathing. Waste of water was a cardinal sin, which Jorani understood well enough considering the frozen wastes had precious little freshwater to drink, what with their lack of coal or firewood to melt ice and snow. How she kept her clothes clean without water was a complete mystery however, but at least she was wearing more than a loincloth now, looking less savage and out of sorts in her loose, hemp shirt, one that she made herself which stretched down to her thighs. On another woman, Jorani would’ve called it a dress, and a scandalously short one at that, but somehow, even on big-bellied Asmani, he couldn’t see it as anything more than a long shirt.
Oddly enough, the tribesmen were adamant at making their own way in the world, having refused the clothes prepared for them by the monks, but they saw nothing wrong with accepting the raw materials needed to make their own clothes, so Jorani wasn’t entirely sure where the distinction lay. He tried asking of course, but Asmani was so horrified by the fact that she might have incurred a debt, she tried to take off her dress and return it to the monks at once. It took a lot of convincing to assure her that she owed the monks nothing, and that the raw hemp was basically worthless plant matter that took almost no effort to grow or harvest. Of course, Jorani wasn’t entirely sure the monks were telling the truth, but even if they were to go against the Right Speech and tell a little white lie, he saw no harm in letting Asmani believe it.
A man only had so much self-control, and there was just something about the pregnant, imposing Warrior woman that intrigued Jorani so. Probably the breasts and distinct absence of a cock, seeing how he wasn’t exactly picky when it came to fleeting female companionship, but it helped that she was covered up most of the time now, as opposed to almost naked all of the time.
As was customary after their morning reading practice, Jorani and Asmani made their rounds about the village, checking in on the tribesmen to see what they were all up to. An industrious bunch, these Defiled were, always keeping busy with one thing or another, whether it be expanding their personal homes, cleaning the public buildings, practising their newfangled crafts, or even honing their Martial might. There were no Demonstrations of the Forms, not from the Defiled, nor was there ever any friendly sparring, as any altercation was bound to end in bloodshed or worse. Instead, the Defiled trained a lot like how the bossman sometimes trained, taking a single move and repeating it until they understood every last facet of the attack. While not exactly unique to the bossman and the Defiled, it was still interesting to see the similarities in their Paths, Insight turned into comprehension through repetition and experience. Warriors of the Empire put more emphasis on the Forms and unlocking the secrets within the movements, but the Defiled made their own Forms and own movements, ones that might not necessarily be the most effective styles around, but worked well enough for their wielders.
Which style was better? Debatable, as there were upsides and downsides to both, but it was still interesting to see how the Defiled progressed in strength.
More important than the direction through which they approached the Martial Path was their single-minded dedication towards it, with some so fervent in their devotion that they forgot to eat or sleep for days at a time. Jorani had heard tales of Martial Warriors finding Insight so deeply that they continued to practice at the expense of all else, but while he’d been led to believe it was a rare and exceptional event, among the Defiled, it was a near daily occurrence. It didn’t just happen to Warriors of renown either, as even the ‘unblooded’ sometimes lost themselves to Insight on almost a weekly occasion. Were it anyone else, Jorani would have said these people were blessed by the Mother above, but these were debased Defiled, who were supposedly as far from the Mother’s grace as one could be without wholly succumbing to the Father’s lies, so Jorani didn’t know what to believe anymore.
When asked, Monk Happy simply shrugged and replied, “What do you make of it, Brother Jorani?” Hardly helpful, but it meant the monk didn’t want to lead him astray and wanted Jorani to come to his own conclusions, but despite mulling it over for many a night, he was still lost as ever. The Mother had not forsaken the Defiled, this much was clear, but why did She favour them with Insight and Inspiration instead of Her most devout believers? Perhaps because the Defiled needed it more, for even though every last man, woman, and child was able to succeed at Core Creation, the average Defiled Warrior was undoubtedly weaker than an average Imperial one. Why might that be? Who could even say, but it was a question Jorani yearned to answer, for no reason other than curiosity.
In truth, he was rather impressed with how civilized the Defiled could be, for Asmani’s tribesmen had come far in so short a time. When Jorani first arrived, they’d seemed like nothing more than primitive savages, but now they were all dressed in simple yet serviceable hemp garb, clothes they designed by themselves to protect them from the harsh sun without restricting their movements or causing them to overheat. Their sturdy huts were much of the same, with ventilated roofs that protected them from the rain yet allowed light and cool air to pass through into the shadowy interiors. Packed dirt trails had already been worn in by the passing of bare feet, with the main avenues made wide enough for six people to walk side by side, though the tribesmen tended to move in single file with as much room as possible between them. Now, some of the tribesmen had even taken to decorating their homes and village with wooden carvings, planted flowers, painted pottery, and more. Asmani’s latest shirt even had a little embroidered bone battleaxe on the lapel, and since Jorani had never seen her with a weapon in hand, he assumed the axe belonged to Vithar, the supposed father to her unborn child whom she clearly still pined for, as evidenced by today’s fixation on the concept of marriage.
And that right there was the strangest discovery of all, learning that the Defiled were capable of love. So simple a thing, to love, yet until recently, Jorani would’ve thought it a completely foreign concept to the Defiled, for they were merely monsters to be killed and nothing more. Now... now he wasn’t so sure anymore.
All in all, the Defiled village was no marvel of architecture or even anything impressive to behold, but given how it was built by tribesmen with next to no knowledge of woodworking, Jorani gave it high marks overall, and not just because he helped build it. There was beauty in simplicity, and he loved how well organized it all was, the huts all evenly spaced and set apart with plenty of room in between. There was no clutter or sprawl like you’d see in an Imperial village, with each household too afraid to be too far from the next, nor were there any meaningless disputes between neighbours and tribesmen about silly things like land size or resource distribution. The village operated with near military efficiency and needed next to no oversight, with the only disturbances coming from those few tribesmen still troubled by Jorani’s leadership.
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
A job he didn’t want, but couldn’t just give away, since it meant he’d have to lose a fight to a tribesman and pray they didn’t just kill him out of hand. He tried just giving the position back to Asmani since she pretty much ran the tribe anyways, but she almost tore his head off at the mere mention of it, as she thought he was looking down on her skills. “When this child is born,” she began, hand resting on her belly as she glared at him from above, “And I am no longer nauseous and unsteady, I will challenge you again and retake my rightful place as tribal Chieftain.”
Though she made no mention about what would happen to Jorani once she reclaimed her title, he prayed she wouldn’t claim him as a plaything as she so obviously expected would happen to her. Intriguing as it was, that was just death by another name, though if he were to die doing anything, there were far worse options to choose from.
As expected, towards the tail end of their inspection, yet another tribesman came up to challenge Jorani, unarmed and unarmoured as he performed his deadly dance before them. There was nothing delicate or elegant about his movements, but the Warrior emanated power and grace as he flipped through the air and stomped his feet in a daring act of strength and acrobatics. Expressing his displeasure in his guttural language, the challenger voiced his intent for all to hear as his tribesmen gathered for the show, all of whom were encouraging their latest champion. Without understanding a single word, Jorani had long since figured out the gist of the whole spiel, namely that the tribesmen were all unhappy with having him in charge and hoped that this latest challenger would defeat him and throw his body to the worms, and he knew there was no escaping the challenge. If he ran, the entire tribe would turn against him for cowardice, so he really had no choice but to fight.
In hindsight, this was probably the exact reason why Monk Happy made Jorani come here each and every day, because otherwise the tribe might have fixated on any one of the monks, which would lead to a tricky situation if they were ever challenged in combat. The monks took great care to keep their own pride in check, destroying their works of art each and every night, so defeating Defiled Champions every day might well go to their heads, as it had with Jorani in these past few weeks. Granted, most of the tribesmen here were not the greatest of Warriors, seeing how they’d abandoned the war effort in search of a peaceful alternative, but a win was a win, and Jorani had precious few of those to his name, so he took them wherever he could.
Like most of his challengers, this tribesman was young and wild, full of brash confidence and youthful vigour to the point where Jorani was tired from just watching him jump and flip about. In a strange departure from the norm however, this challenger addressed Asmani directly, and his husky question earned him a round of quiet chuckles from the crowd. Her answer, however, had them all in stitches, laughing without actually laughing as the Defiled were wont to do, and Jorani was curious to know what just transpired. Seeing the unasked question, Asmani shrugged and said, “Gorengi asked if you were attending to my needs. I told him even the most talented of men could not do so while sleeping in another hut, much less hiding behind high walls like you do.”
Ah. So that’s why they were all annoyed with Jorani, because he’d stolen away the belle of their ball and wasn’t ‘making good use’ of her. As Gorengi continued to give an impassioned speech, Asmani translated for Jorani’s benefit. “He says that when he wins, he will let you live, so that you might see how a true man treats his woman, and that this same example will be given to our child so that he or she grows strong enough to lead the tribe.”
Touching how Gorengi didn’t seem to care that the child wasn’t his and had already pledged to care for them. What’s more, he only just learned that the Defiled didn’t lie, so he could just lose and give up the mantle of Chieftain, but unfortunately, his conscience wouldn’t allow it, not without asking first. “So, uh,” he began, not sure how to phrase it. “Are ye hopin’ I lose or what?”
“Better if you win,” she replied, without skipping a beat. “Gorengi is unworthy to be the father of my child, and his snores keep even the garos awake.”
Did this mean she thought Jorani was a worthy father? Ugh. What had he gotten himself into? He always wanted a kid or three and knew they wouldn’t be blood of his blood, but this was just too much. Stifling a sigh so as not to be rude, he nodded and faced Gorengi with fists raised, his Spiritual Rope left hanging on his belt where it would stay unless his life was in danger. “C’mon young’un,” he said, flashing the towering youth an insolent smile. “Show this grandpappy here what ye can do.”
Like all his other fellow challengers, Gorengi opened with a straightforward rush, opting for a wide right swing which Jorani slipped under with ease. Somewhat expecting the maneuver, Gorengi stopped short and launched a wild, backhanded strike, hoping to catch his foe off-guard, but he’d have to move faster than that to land a good hit on Jorani here. Already circling around to his opponent’s blind spot, the backhand sailed wide as he pressed forward on the offensive, slamming his boot into the back of Gorengi’s knee. Like kicking an iron post is what it felt like, but Jorani was strong enough to shatter iron with a single strike now, and the tribal Warrior’s knee buckled and bent before the force of his blow. Giving into momentum, Gorengi fell to one knee and pivoted about on the point of impact, no doubt earning him a nasty bruise at the very least, if not torn muscles, snapped tendons, and fractured bones to boot, but the Champion paid no mind to the pain as he came about on Jorani with fists a swinging.
Despite the massive difference in height and weight, Jorani gave as good as he got as he rolled with the punches and returned them in full force, his fists hammering away at the kneeling Champion while parrying what attacks he could. One good hit landed on his shoulder and nearly knocked him off his feet, and a lucky shot to the ribs drove all the air from his lungs, but Jorani pressed the offensive and didn’t let up until he saw the whites of his opponent’s eyes. Lurching in place, Gorengi’s back straightened and arched as Jorani’s uppercut landed square on his chin, reeling back before toppling forward as the darkness rose to greet him. Catching his unconscious foe before he hit the ground, Jorani growled as he hefted the burly tribesman to the ground as gently as he could, resisting the urge to drop him like a sack of rice and give him a few extra stomps for good measure.
Not that the man didn’t deserve it, but Jorani didn’t like picking on the weak. Besides, Gorengi wasn’t all that bad of a sort, and he had a great eye for carving nondescript patterns that were pleasing to behold, an artistic talent even the monks appreciated. What’s more, since coming to the monastery, he didn’t just waste all his time building and answering questions, but also training in the Martial Path, mostly with Monk Bones who was surprisingly nimble for a man with one foot in the grave. The spindly monk ascetic had a mean right hook and could run circles around Jorani while boxing him out, so in comparison, dealing with a few wild Defiled wasn’t all that difficult.
Just sort of difficult. Nothing too too bad, but all the same, Jorani would prefer if the challenges stopped coming.
Before he could even catch his breath however, the world shook with an unearthly rumble, and it felt like an eternity before Jorani realized it was not the ground moving under his feet but his bones reverberating within his own body. Courage fled before primal terror as he recognized the sound of an apex predator, not from familiarity, but sheer instinct alone, for only a king of beasts could emit such a fearsome sound. All around him, the rest of the tribe joined Jorani as they all turned north to face their foe head on, but this was not something they could fight, not even if Jorani were a hundred times stronger. “To the monastery,” he uttered, before unleashing his Aura and repeating himself with more authority. “Everyone to the monastery, now!”
Despite the language barrier, most of the tribe understood his warning, and Asmani made it clear in no uncertain terms. Grabbing two tribesmen and entrusting them with the insensible Gorengi, Jorani unfurled his weapon and held it at the ready as he took up the rear guard, but what he saw made his legs weak and palms sweaty. Chosen of Heaven Cloud-Stepped their way towards him, dozens if not hundreds in close formation, meaning these were either all Peak Experts or close enough to it that Jorani was undoubtedly outmatched. There was no helping it though, because he didn’t see anyone else around to fight the Enemy off, so he waited until the foremost Chosen was about to enter his range before unleashing his opening attack.
Balance found him so readily he barely remembered reaching for it, and Insight followed soon after. This happened quite often since coming to the monastery, and sometimes the Heavens even spoke with the bossman’s voice. It was only Jorani’s overactive imagination of course, as there was no way the bossman was actually guiding him from the Heavens above, but it was nice to hear the man’s voice saying something besides ‘Kukku’. Giving himself over to Insight, Jorani readied to sell his life dearly against these formidable foes, channelling Chi into his Spiritual Rope as it whipped out to meet the foremost Chosen. Sneering in disdain, the armoured Chosen reached out to catch Jorani’s weapon with a gauntleted hand, at which point the bossman said, “Now.”
There was no prior explanation or preparation involved, but Jorani just knew exactly what to do, the knowledge appearing in his mind as if it’d always been there, but forgotten until this very moment. Unleashing the energies stored in his Weapon, he Amplified, Resonated, Honed, and Guided for all he was worth, alongside a few other skills he had no name for, but knew exactly what needed to happen. The air snapped as his Rope whipped forward into the Chosen’s palm, glancing off metal while a whirlwind of forces shredded flesh and bone underneath. Honed Chi circled about the end of his rope as he whipped it about again, his weapon at the centre of an invisible storm scything through a half dozen more unsuspecting foes before the others finally caught on.
“Bring it back,” the bossman commanded, and Jorani complied, pulling his weapon out of reach of his foes just as the Chi storm dispersed. A brief burst of power is all it was, one that made use of the force created by cracking his Rope, but therein lay the beauty of the attack. Since it made use of external force, it didn’t require all that much Chi to fuel it, and Jorani could crack his Rope as easily as lifting a hand.
Again his weapon whipped out, and again it claimed the lives of several Chosen, their Runic Armour proving no defence against his Chi-enhanced attack. This was External Chi at its finest, a step Jorani never expected to reach, not so quickly at least, but dire circumstances and fortuitous Insight hastened him along to success, alongside more than a little luck from the Mother Above. “Fighting retreat.” Heeding the bossman’s orders without thinking twice, he backpedalled away from the converging Chosen and was delighted to find himself propelling through the air, not quite Cloud-Stepping as he was still low to the ground, yet bounding along so quickly it couldn’t be simple running. Like running on a taut canvas sheet is what it felt like, moving with a spring in his step as he covered the tribes’ retreat. Out and about his Spiritual Rope went, killing without even touching so long as a foe drew too close, and before he knew it, the monastery gates slipped into view and the bossman ordered him to stand down.
Arms heavy, legs aching, lungs burning, and spirits drained, Jorani huffed and heaved for sweet air that did not seem like it could come fast enough. The walls were no barrier to the Cloud-Stepping Chosen, but the dozens of monks arranged atop the battlements were enough to give the Enemy pause, their surprise offensive stalled before it could ever really begin.
OM MANI PADME HUM
Much like the bestial roar from before, the monks coordinated chanting took on life of its own as their deep, baritone recital filled the air with power and threat. The Brotherhood were a peaceful lot, but that didn’t mean they were willing to just roll over and die when pressed. Barring entry through the gates, Monk Happy stood with spade at the ready, his robes billowing in the gentle wind as he made the Mudra of warding and chanted the Sutras alongside his brothers. Almost every monk was armed in some way, shape or form, but few held what anyone would call a conventional weapon. Many carried wooden fish drums similar to the Abbot’s, while Monk Bones had his broom in hand, the same one he used to sweep the courtyard every morning. Monk Sour-Face, the resident gardener, wielded a rake with Martial authority, while Monk Cook, the portly fellow in charge of the monastery kitchens, didn’t have his knives in hand, but an oversized wok instead, while his kitchen attendants sported all manner of rollers, ladles, spatulas, and other such utensils. At least some monks had the good sense to take up their flails, and Jorani could only hope that their instincts would not betray them in the middle of battle and cause them to inadvertently turn their weapons against themselves.
That would just be the honey on top of the cake, now wouldn’t it, for the Penitent Brotherhood to beat themselves silly in the middle of battle out of sheer habit...
Though still short of breath, Jorani joined in with the monks’ recital of the Sutra and felt his words resonate with power. He didn’t understand what was happening, nor did he know why he felt compelled to join in, but he knew these words had power, even if that power wasn’t evident at first glance. The chanting was safe and soothing to his ear, but evidently it was not the same for the Enemy as the army of Chosen stopped well outside the monastery walls. More than one armoured foe flinched as Monk Happy’s voice boomed across them, the weight of their sins bearing down upon them as the Sutras forced them to confront their greatest regrets.
Before the monks’ chanting could gain the necessary momentum, another bone-rattling roar shook the air and cut through the mystical emanations of the Sutras, and the change was startling to behold. This time, it was the monks turn to falter, and not just a handful at a time. Staggering back as if physically struck, Monk Happy retreated three steps before stopping in place, his body even sliding back across the dirt before his momentum came to a rest. “Rakshasa,” he uttered, his customary smile replaced by an ugly scowl as his words echoed through the near silent courtyard. “So the apostate has returned, here to kill those who you once called brother. At least now, there can be no doubt in our minds, for your View is flawed while ours still holds true.”
“Hmph.” Appearing out of thin air, Vyakhya stood at the forefront of the Chosen with a hulking tiger at his side, one whose shoulders stood well above the hunchbacked monk’s head. Where he once seemed gentle and eccentric, there was an air of malice and madness about the old Healer, and Jorani mourned the loss of the man he thought the monk had once been. What happened to make him so bitter and angry? What drew him to the Father’s lies and turned him against humanity itself? To seek the end of all creation just because he believed life not worth living, how could anyone condone such complete and utter lunacy?
Unaware of Jorani’s thoughts, Vyakhya laid one hand upon the massive tiger’s shoulder and its rumbling growl came to a stop. The monks had long since stopped chanting the Sutras, unable to continue in the face of Rakshasa’s attack, but they made no effort to resume it either, since it’d been shown to be ineffective. Utterly unfazed by the anger and hostility directed towards him, Vyakhya flicked his sleeves and snorted a second time. “Had this monk come to kill you,” he began, speaking with a haughty air he lacked before his departure, “Then he would not have given warning before the Chosen were in place.” Catching Jorani’s eye, Vyakhya sighed and shook his head, his abject disappointment still painful despite his obvious delusion. “Oh Jorani,” he said, his voice heavy with regret, “Again you stand in this monk’s Path? You should understand more than anyone what this monk seeks to achieve.”
“Nihility,” Jorani replied, swallowing his rage and anguish. Betrayal only hurt because it came from those you trusted most, a realization that did little to ease his pain. “Thanks, but no thanks. Me, I’m real fond of existing and all, so I’ll hafta ask ye to kindly fuck off.”
“Such anger, such sin.” The customary ‘Eh-Mi-Tuo-Fuo’ didn’t follow after, and for some reason, Jorani found that more disturbing than anything else Vyakhya had done, a sign that the old Healer was truly dead and gone, or perhaps had never existed in the first place. “So quick to spill blood, when no violence is truly needed,” Vyakhya continued, gesturing at the Chosen around him. “All this is merely a show of force, to ensure you blind fools understand this monk’s conviction when I tell you I am here for Falling Rain, and Falling Rain alone. Surrender him to me, and the rest of you will remain unharmed and free to carry on as you please. Refuse, and these Chosen will raze this monastery to the ground, alongside every other monastery in existence.”
The worst part was the lack of heat in Vyakhya’s voice, the threat given in almost bored tones as if he resented having to come all this way, accompanied by a stifling Aura of intimidation and conviction. The old Healer was ready to cut all ties with his former Brothers, to inflict violence upon them should his demands not be met, proving that he was no dissenting member of the Brotherhood who splintered off to form his own faction, but a traitor ready to do whatever was necessary to further his personal goals. Though it still came as something of a surprise to Jorani, Monk Bones visibly stumbled beneath the weight of Vyakhya’s statement. “How could you?” he asked, his aged voice trembling with bitter disbelief as he clutched his broom to his chest. “You said you wanted to reconcile with the Brotherhood, to find common ground again and reassess our Right View, but you lied and used what I shared with you in confidence for your own nefarious purposes.”
“Nefarious?” Sneering in disdain, Vyakhya turned his gaze to the monks and asked, “Who among you agree with the Abbot’s recent actions? Not only what he did after he lost himself in his grief, but long before, when he declared an unknown brat still stinking of mother’s milk as a Wisdom of the Brotherhood, first among equals no less? Falling Rain, the Chosen Son of the Mother, or so the Imperial Clan would have you all believe, but he is nothing more than a puppet here to shepherd more souls towards their eternal suffering. The boy is soaked in blood and sin, yet you would accept him and allow his word to shape the Right View? Madness is what it is, and this monk will not stand for it.”
“And that’s why you’re here for Falling Rain?” Rife with sarcasm, Monk Happy seized control of the dialogue once more. “How magnanimous of you, to kill the child who so threatens the Eight-Fold Path. The Right View is the Right View, regardless of who presents it, for it is only the Right View if we all agree with it. Oh ye of little faith, apostate, but this one will not so easily be shaken. Begone from these lands, or suffer ignoble defeat.”
Vyakhya’s Aura redoubled with effort as he pressed them all with unspoken menace. “Not even a Half-Step Divinity, and you dare threaten me?”
“No threat apostate.” Bringing his spade to the ready, Monk Happy looked every bit the Warrior as he stood alone in the monastery gates. “Only facts.”
Rolling his eyes, Vyakhya stepped back and waved his hand, revealing the half-Demon Gen standing in his shadow. The young tyrant’s unblemished face stood in stark contrast to his twisted metallic frame, his body fused with his armour in some unholy ritual that turned flesh and blood into cold, hard steel. Barely able to contain his excitement, Gen stepped forward and puffed up his chest, like the self-important ponce he was, but before he could signal the charge, the Heavens whispered in Jorani’s ears using the bossman’s voice.
“Even the Chosen of Heaven respect strength. Show them their leader’s weakness. Break their spirits before the battle begins, and victory will soon be yours.”
Well. Nothing else to it.
“Traitor Gen of nothing and nowhere,” Jorani shouted, his voice infused with Chi thanks to a burst of Insight and stopping everyone in their tracks. “I, Hangman Jorani, Warrior of Sanshu, challenge you to single combat. Face me if you dare, coward, and reap the sins you have sown.”
Rage burned in Gen’s eyes, and flames burst into existence around him, a stark reminder that this Defiled nobody was an Elementally Blessed Warrior that once defeated the bossman himself in single combat. “The savage runt’s pet rat challenges this Sovereign to single combat?” Laughing without a smile ever touching his eyes, Gen’s lip curled into a sneer as he said, “I accept.”
Catching Monk Happy’s incredulous stare as well as Asmani’s doubtful gaze, Jorani cursed himself for ever opening his mouth and brought his weapon to bear. The Heavens asked too much of him, but he supposed it was only fair, as he’d come farther and gained more than he ever thought possible, all those years ago when he’d been nothing more than a street-rat in Sanshu. Besides, if ever there was a face he wanted to punch, that face would be Gen’s, and not just because of what he did to the city Jorani grew up in.
Some people just had punchable faces, and if Gen claimed to have the second most punchable face, no one would dare claim themselves as first.
Chapter Meme