Snip.

A single blossom fell, and on the shimmering silver blades of the shears a single drop of ruby sap glimmered. Hui Yuxuan observed with satisfaction. His garden bloomed around him, vibrant with life. The blooming fringe flower bushes, now perfect in arrangement. Many of his kin thought such duties beneath them these days, the curation of the base earth. But he knew the truth. The lotus is not touched by the mud, but it does require it to grow.

He observed the attendant carefully arranging the fallen blossom, that it might be placed for utmost appeal. Their smile was one of serene bliss, untouched by the pains of the world. Their eyes were empty of desires and base concerns. The rest of the staff was the same, wholly harmonious in going about their duties. Thus was the dream of the Pure One. A world without strife or desire. He thought that too many youngsters forgot that this was the point of their dreams, to be the caretakers of the garden of the world, and bring about transcendence.

Neither his flowers, nor his staff had a single hair or petal out of place. Neither moved or changed but with his will. All were extensions of himself, the mortals and low cultivators were the lowly, muddy roots, but even such things had their place, for now.

He extended his hand, and without a word from him, the shears were taken carefully. His attendant was meticulous in their care to not sully his fingers with their touch. He turned, his pale green robes rustling faintly in the cool breeze.

“You may report,” he said, without looking as he passed by his scribe, an elder of this, his garden clan. The lines of silver in his hair would probably be seen as an imperfection, something to be disposed of immediately in a servant, for a reckless youth. But the fading of things was too part of the dream, the garden, else Divine Tsu would not have created winter. “The package of seedlings from the Savage Seas has arrived my lord,” said the old man promptly. His expression was kindly and serene. Perfectly placid.

“Good,” Hui Yuxuan said, smiling faintly. The strange hermits of those isles were afflicted and impure, but only they could acquire samples from so far abroad.

“The matter of the parasites in the eighteenth grove has been resolved, casualties were light,” the scribe continued after only a beat to ensure Hui Yuxuan was done speaking.

“I trust you to arrange disposal and replacement,” he would naturally check himself to ensure that nothing had been missed, but he was confident he would find nothing.

The scribe nodded, made a single note on the writing board in an elegant hand. “Three letters from the capital have arrived…”

Hui Yuxuan nodded along, walking along the garden path, giving short answers where necessary. He allowed himself the warm satisfaction of the harmony of his garden.

“Ah, and lastly, my lord, my granddaughter has successfully borne her children, twins, both healthy and without flaw,” the old man said. “She is ready for your inspection.”

“Hm,” Hui Yuxuan said. They were near to the human nursery now. It would be efficient to take care of that now. It was imperative not to allow flawed blooms in his garden.

The girl was young, some nineteen winters, she had been appropriately cleaned and groomed for his presence when he arrived in the recovery room. She cradled her two children in her arms as he and his scribe stood over her, lowering her head in respect. There was a bit too much energy in her smile, but she was young and unfinished.

He observed in silence, scanning the infants with his senses. Unflawed, no signs of ill health, disfigurement or unwanted traits. “Be satisfied, young one. You have produced good seeds,” he said kindly.

“Your kindness and generosity is unbounded my lord,” the girl murmured.

“Hm,” Hui Yuxuan considered his plans. “However, we do not need two. And I do not desire identical flowers. Send one to composting.”

The girl’s expression froze, he thought he heard a crack. A tooth? Unfortunate. That would need repair. He watched her closely, tears prickled in her eyes, a touch of blood welled in the corner of her mouth.

Her smile did not waver though. Salvageable.

“Yes, my lord.”

He nodded, and turned to go, the girl’s grandfather followed after him, unruffled and serene.

“Assign her further training and meditations. One so affected by earthly matters is not on the path to transcendence,” Hui Yuxuan said mildly.

“Thank you, my lord,” the scribe said.

He was generous.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

“You may execute your tasks. I am going to visit my wife. There are to be none allowed among the roses today, under any circumstance.”

“Yes my lord,” said the old man, bowing so low his long beard nearly touched the ground.

Hui Yuxuan had already turned away.

His garden attendants were only a small thing, compared to his family’s great project. Started generations ago. Culminating now in his Rose.

He passed into the inner garden, where the hedges rose high. Studded with roses of every color. Hui Yuxuan breathed easier here, where the dross of the material world had been cultivated thin. Where his thoughts came closer to reality, a shadow of the perfection all of Hui blood sought to bring into the world.

Dream, the Father’s Hearth, here, he had long cultivated the thinning of the barriers of the world. The ultimate purpose to which he bent the energies of the outer garden. Here, where he met his Lingqin, for her own… cultivation.

It always amused him how so few seemed to remember the root of that term.

The Diao were the ultimate proof that his family’s strain of the Pure Way was correct. Many families toyed with artificial sovereignty, Sword Saints, Unmen, Measures of the Angle. There were many terms, as many as there were methods, shaping the dross of the human soul toward a pure controllable purpose, by those with the wisdom to do the shaping.

They were unrefined.

What his family had made, what he had made, was the key to achieving transcendence. Universal compassion.

He found his Rose upon a bench in the center of the garden, looking out through an arch woven with the intricate growth of pink, thornless roses. She sat with her back bent, with her face in her hands. Her sorrow was perfect and exquisite. Beauty beyond the limits of crude words.

“My dear, what troubles you so,” he asked, gliding across the perfectly kept grass. For her, gave the honor of his touch, a hand upon her shoulder.

“The executions,” she said softly

He turned his head to the side. Unusually short. He smiled. “Troublesome rebels. You should have taught them better.”

Trying to organize cross-fief defenses in the south without ducal or comital authority. Such troublesome things. Flowers trying to move to new beds on their own. You could not allow such things. Bad enough that the Throne had validated such things with the… Sects. It was irritating. So irritating, that the Crown Prince had convinced the peaks that their efforts at spring cleaning were negligence. Some of the feckless children thought it all beneath them obviously, but those who knew were aware that all was under control, before that band of ‘heroes’ had disrupted the story being woven.

His smile curled in, became a frown, his grip on her shoulder tightened. It was not all bad. Allowing his Rose the illusion of independence had aided in pruning her further, perfecting her beauty.

True, total compassion, could not have will. To be truly universal, it must love all things perfectly. It could never act, only be, it would suffer, and remain serene. Through her she would know every vice which dogged the hearts of the unenlightened. His sweet Rose’s sorrow was exquisite, but also a sign of lingering flaw, the last he would scrape and trim away.

“By the Sun and Moon and Bountiful Earth, how I hate you.”

Hui Yuxuan very slowly blinked. The words hung in the air, like a bout of flatulence in the midst of a perfect song. He wondered if there was a leakage, dream creatures slipping into the garden, fooling even his senses. He pulled at his power over realities, the dominion of his soul, a ripple passing through his garden, the roses writhed, but there was nothing. Only…

Diao Linqin raised her head. Her soft brown hair rumpled, her red rimmed eyes alight. She was smiling, but not in the proper way, free of earthly concerns. It showed far too many teeth. “Husband, what do you think of my new dress?”

His eyes flicked down, but more than that the full weight of his senses fell upon her. Horror dawned in his mind, ruffling and rippling the harmony of his soul. What he saw there. The threads. Those terrible, glittering threads, stitched all through his masterpiece…

“What have you done,” he whispered. He felt like a painter whose seminal work had been drenched in thinner. He felt a bubble of rage welling in his chest. “What have you done!”

“Remembered how to hate,” Diao Linqin said, serenely.

It was a crude, ugly thing what he did. He felt soiled by it, enraged even more that she had stained him with such emotion. The back of his hand struck across her face, knuckles cracking across her lips. How dare she sully him by drawing forth such an impulse!

But though she was his project, his art. They were both Sovereign, and blow is never a simple blow among their kind. His strike was a vast cutting blade, the glittering edge of impossibly sharp shears. In his wrath, the blade of his soul howled, uncaring that it sunder so much of his garden, leave shards for servants to be picking up for years and decades.

The single rose in its path, with its drooping bloom, stood unmoving and serene.

The blade struck light, and bent.

Hui Yuxuan howled, his nerves on fire as he clutched his shattered hand and reeled back a step. How many centuries had it been since had felt real, true pain?

The rose blossom turned to face him, and hidden within its petals, he saw a terrible radiance. It seared and it burned. He felt the roses of his garden blackening, felt the grass withering, the idyllic air turning hot and acrid with the scent of burning.

He gazed unto twin pools of pitiless radiance, an awful, hideous light that shredded beauty, that exulted in ugliness.

And he saw his wife embrace it with arms that were vines and roots, a tearful face that was a blooming rose. Their combined hate burned him like unfiltered starlight.

And a saber that was Truth rendered he and his garden both unto dust in a clash that was the first crack in the foundations of the world.