The sun’s purple rays bear down harshly through the rain, and he squints his eyes in its luminosity. Slowly, agonizingly so, he reaches out a hand until it eclipses the light, a soft glow seeping through his palm.
Then he grabs it, pulls it to his lips, bites into it.
The flesh resists before giving way with a soft squelch. Molten violet dribbles down his face, dripping off his chin to fall to his chest, where it sizzles away into nothingness.
He smiles, a cruel smile that knew of the innumerable multitude of life he had just extinguished. His fangs drink in the blood of the sun, his hunger chasing the light until it swallows that too.
He could smell her musk, taste her blood on his tongue, feel the joy in his heart as she died, prey to his appetite, before he snapped back.
It felt like falling, except there was no impact as his astral fell into his physical body. Only the acute sensation of electrical signals traversing his body in a panic.
He knows he is dreaming; after all, in reality, raindrops didn’t fall upwards any more than a man could touch- let alone devour- the sun. But the dreamer pays little mind to the strangeness of the dream.
In this dream, he is an island in a sea of darkness; void puppets, recognizable by their aura and inhuman movements, swarm before him, charging what remains of a walled enclave.
A roaring tornado screams into existence, catching dozens of puppets and throwing them haphazardly. The animated marionettes quickly pick themselves up to resume their attack, except- They’re weaker, thinks the dreamer. This is no ordinary attack. Squinting his eyes, the dreamer recognizes the source of the attack; a ragged assortment of cultivators, adorned in robes the color of the midday sky, their auras weak and uncontrolled. They’re Cloud Runners! The dreamer’s thoughts escape his control, and they hit a barrier, the first sign of resistance he’s encountered.
Then, the dreamer’s body groans mechanically.
It whistles and whirs, sounding much like water boiled in a kettle. For several moments the body screams non verbally before it draws its weapon, a familiar dagger that glistens the color of midnight.
And stabs itself in the temple.
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Weimin wakes with a start, eyes wide and gasping for breath. Shutting his eyes tightly, he pictures himself calm and in control, and gradually he regains control of himself even as water trickles down his brow. When he opens his eyes once more, he sees the servants that stand on either side of his bed. He recognizes the monocled junior physician- Zhou Meilin’s nephew, if I recall, that monitors him, the only servant still moving.
“Carry on,” orders the prince, and the servants go about their business. One in particular, a petite brown haired woman, sparks a flood of questions in his mind as she carries out a pot of something that is unpleasantly fragrant.
“Physician,” begins the prince. The physician pauses, retracting his monocle with the press of a button on the elaborate contraption on his head. “You are Zhou Meilin’s nephew?”
The physician bows his head before answering, “This one is called Zhou Liqin, Honored Contender.”
Weimin takes a deep breath as he considers his line of questioning. They wouldn’t be here without good reasoning- if for no other reason than Feng Shun’s vigilance. So. Being vindictive wouldn’t be expedient.
“What cause have you for disturbing my rest, Zhou Liqin?”
Zhou Liqin bows again, more deeply this time. But before he can speak, a visibly distraught Feng Shun bursts into the room.
The elderly servant is covered by a thin sheen of sweat- a sign of exertion in excess of anything Weimin had seen from his servant before.
“My liege,” exclaims Feng Shun, his voice strained but not winded. “You called out in your sleep, but would not wake. I summoned the physician immediately!”
Despite everything, Weimin can’t help but crack a smile. Wiping his brow, he alleviates Feng Shun’s fears. At least, until his hand begins to burn, and he notices that what he thought was sweat is instead a viscous black goo that sticks to his wrist when he flicks it in irritation
Ah. Now I understand why Feng Shun summoned them.
“You’ve done well. What is the physician’s diagnosis?”
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Zhou Liqin clears his throat before Weimin remembers he is in the room. That must be the result of a technique. A departure from the Zhou Matriarch’s cultivation path? Without thinking, the prince files away this information for future consideration.
“Honored Contender, though this lowly servant has the utmost respect for his betters, your ailment is almost certainly caused by an incompatibility between your mortal shell and your body cultivation technique.”
Weimin flares his nose in irritation at his title and subsequent platitudes. This is fine, though. It doesn’t seem he’s discovered that my technique diverges from my father’s. Either that, or he’s discrete enough to keep quiet.
After finishing his train of thought, Weimin is mildly surprised by the continued presence of Zhou Liqin. “You are free to leave, physician.”
“This one means no disrespect, honored one, but perhaps we could discuss the matter of payment?”
Weimin rolls his eyes. Maybe he’s a Zhou after all.
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Rubbing her temples, Hong Xia laments how Zhou Meilin had managed to replace one headache with another.
“The old crone asked for 10 taels of gold? Who does she think she is,” rants an indignant Xifeng, wthrowing her hands in the air as she paces.
The elder Contender had many strengths, but fiscal responsibility wasn’t one of them. Even with the cyclical allowance of 50 taels of gold that their father granted them, Xifeng never seemed to have more than a handful stashed away.
Xia sighs before speaking. “It’s just the cost of doing business. I’m lucky to have survived.”
”Still, your injuries weren’t that severe. Shufen would have paid 5 taels at most, and perhaps a minor favor.”
“That’s just it. A favor from the weakest Contender is nothing in comparison to one from the strongest,” snorts Xia. “Not that you’d know anything about that.”
“Meimei, that’s not fair, and you know it.”
”Sorry, Jiejie. It’s just-,” starts Xia, pausing for a moment. “It’s no use.”
”Ok, I know that look,” says Xifeng upon seeing her sister’s dejected expression. “What’s really going on?”
The younger Contender sighs again. “It’s just, I’m the weakest Contender. Shufen doesn’t care about me; she only promised to spare me because of you. I’m stuck at the weakest stage of cultivation with an affinity I can barely use, let alone understand, even as everyone else grows stronger.”
Xifeng stares at Xia for a moment before she bursts out laughing.
“What? What’s so funny?”
“Ha ha- ha…. That’s what this is about? Meimei, Shufen spared you because of your own strength- your own potential. There’s a reason you’re the youngest Contender, and it’s not because of me. You’ve survived so long because you know how to play the game, and despite your words, you’re one of the most skilled fate cultivators to be born in generations.” Xifeng scoffs as her sister’s expression curls into a snarl. “What does it take to convince you,” she exclaims. “Think logically. Weimin also has an affinity for fate, but you didn’t see him at the ritual, did you?”
Xia can’t help but smile despite herself.
But the moment doesn’t last as dual chimes resound from the bracelets worn by each Contender- a multipurpose artifact for communication and tracking.
With the press of a button, information streams into their brains.
Moments later as the sisters lock eyes, Xifeng breaks the silence.
“And so it begins.”
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The chime of his bracelet interrupts Weimin’s thoughts.
About time, he thinks. Feng Shun had done his due diligence, so the Prince knew there’d been no new instructions concerning the Contender’s trials. Twice now, they’ve been postponed. What now?
Turning his head, Weimin scans the hallway in front of and behind him for 200 paces. Detecting no one else, he presses a button on the side of the artifact, signaling his preparation. But he is not prepared for what is to come.
The artifact’s functionality is simple, hence its strength. It isn’t gentle as what feels like a needle is forced through his Soul Cover- the protective shell located behind his forehead. The injection of information is like ice water being forced through his veins- but the sensation doesn’t last, and Weimin comes to sprawled across the ruby carpeted floor, his mouth trailing drool.
Sheepishly, he stands up. Good thing nobody saw that.
The information is nothing surprising. It’s similar in concept to a portable memory jade, recalls Weimin. He’d spoken to one of the artificers involved in the Trials upon his reinstatement, but hadn’t yet reflected on it.
The artificer was wrong, though. There’s something different about this- I can feel that the knowledge isn’t mine. Weimin sighs loudly as he walks briskly back to his chambers. I’m sure Feng Shun will want to comb through the details.
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Court proceedings are nearly complete when the Mouth of the King recuses himself. Perplexed, the King completes court using hand gestures and aura projections to maintain a facade of strength.
Only after the hundreds of courtiers and schemers have filtered out of the throne room does Hong Tao, monarch of the Hong Kingdom, subservient only to the Crimson Empress and the gods, let himself relax, retiring to his private study behind the throne.
There, he joins Xuan He- Mouth of the King and trusted confidante.
“What could have happened to disturb you thusly?”
When Xuan He turns to face his lord, the King is surprised at the mirth he finds in his friend’s eyes.
“What is it,” asks the king, raising a singular eyebrow. Xuan He simply turned the artifact he was holding towards his lord. It was a tablet of divination, carved from stone and inscribed with runic characters- all with the purpose of showing Hong Tao what could only be described as-
“What an embarrassment,” exclaims the king disgustedly.
But Xuan He’s infectious grin takes the bite out of his words, buried memories of joy resurfacing for an instant before he suppresses them.
”There’s one other thing”
The daimyo’s words bring Hong Tao’s attention back to the present. He gives Xuan He a look, indicating his attentiveness.
“The Crimson Empress is sending an emissary to observe the Succession.”
Hong Tao simply stands there for a moment, eyes blinking in rapid succession as his mind struggles to scheme around this new development. But only for a moment, as he quickly realizes-
There’s no way out.
”Do we know who the emissary will be?”
“The Empress’ favored niece and most likely successor, Cao Meng Qingzhao.”
“Well, shit.”