Whose memory is this?
Jianyu had learned most of what he knew about Immortals from the stories his mother had told him as a child- a frequent topic of which concerned the aspiring cultivators of legend who’d found them in circumstances similar to his own- challenged, spent, and yes, perplexed. Yet, despite the many conflicting testimonies, there were similarities between their accounts.
Strength, Heart, and Soul. Always those three in an Immortal’s Inheritance.
The first was physical; often the simplest of the three, it sought to separate the rice from the chaff. The Trial of the Heart was the vaguest of the three; often, it tested courage, though darker tales spoke of a cultivator’s capacity for depravity. The Trial of the Soul, however, always drew on a cultivator’s memory. Cultivators were forced to bear the weight of their sins, confronting their deepest regrets, darkest desires, and greatest sorrows.
The trials Jianyu had faced before hadn’t posed a challenge, but he’d undeniably completed three of them.
So what is this?
The young cultivator’s visage twists into a grimace as his meridians contract from overuse.
I’m almost out, he thinks. His dantian drains as he charges his shielding technique, and he chokes back bile. This is my last set of robes, he thinks sardonically. I’d rather not live with the consequences.
An explosion is hidden from view by the blue robes over the crook of his elbow.
Those robes, thinks Jianyu. Is this memory from a Cloud-Runner?
The cultivator’s technique saves his ally from a strike to the jugular, the attacker’s blade rebounding off an invisible barrier before exploding backwards from the resulting shockwave.
The reflection of the sun on the attacker’s mask flickers away as the shockwave forces them back. Those damn masks, thinks the cultivator. Devilish, probably.
Those masks, thinks Jianyu. I know those masks! Those are-
The cultivator and his allies tried, tried, and tried again. But their assailants were faster. Stronger. Better.
Suddenly, a tempestuous blur explodes onto the battleground, dispatching assassins with their every move. Three, four, five and then even more go down, their corporeal forms melting and then disintegrating, leaving only robes, masks, and weapons behind.
There’s my brother, thinks the cultivator.
His brother? That means… Didi, this is your memory?
In the space of ten heartbeats, the figure had dispatched all but five of their opponents.
But they’d lost the element of surprise, a mistake christened by the descent of a domineering aura upon the battlefield that left the cultivator and his allies trapped.
The young cultivator coughs up blood, barely withstanding the aura. Damn, he thinks. I have the best constitution to resist, but even I am struggling. This needs to end, and soon. No sooner had the thought brushed his mind than the sickening crack of broken bones resounded. Feng Cai! Dammit. He didn’t deserve to go out like this.
The cultivator, as the strongest of his companions, could barely lift his eyes to gaze at their would-be savior.
His shoulders were broad, sun kissed skin hidden by dirt-stained sectarian robes. Eyeless sockets bled profusely down a chin shaped not unlike his own. Brother, what happened?
Jianyu’s questions had been answered. The answers don’t bring him joy.
I don’t know if I can go through this again, he thinks numbly.
Brother, what happened to your eyes? Crushed by the weight of the malignant aura, Zhaohui can’t help but remember the orphanage. But he doesn’t clamp down on the memory, instead letting his memory flow through him, reminding him of what he’d lost- and gained too.
The voices in his head, malignant and malicious, seek to place the blame on him. No, he thinks, strengthening his resolve. But then the fear creeps into his mind. It doesn’t seem like much at first, just an uncomfortable warmth that leaves him sweating. That’s when his sweat starts to boil. His mind acts quickly, summoning his memory of the heat of the fire, the way his eyes and lungs burned, how his skin had bubbled at the conflagaration’s caress.
No. I survived.
You were saved, says a rumbling voice in his head.
He’d cried out again and again to no avail, yet-
My brother. He saved me then.
That image was forever cemented in his mind, how Jianyu had crashed through the door to his dormitory, splintering it to pieces. He’d been unrecognizable then, covered in soot and ash, and uncompromising too. He hadn’t stopped to ask if he was okay- he’d simply thrown Zhaohui on his back and sprinted out the way he’d come.
I- I didn’t know, thinks Jianyu, his head spinning. What happened back then, I-
But Zhaohui, oblivious to his impending demise, doesn’t hear his brother’s thoughts. And now, he’s trying again to save me.
With raised sword, Jianyu stands poised to strike. Even as their enemy’s oppressive seeks to dominate them, he refuses to give in. Zhaohui can see the veins bulging on his brother's face as he struggles, alone.
Just like always.
10 heartbeats stretch out into an eternity, before the pressure disappears as if it’d never existed.
Zhaohui hadn’t ever looked a gift horse in the mouth, and, activating his storage ring with a wave of his hand, he withdrew a handful of nutritional pills, immediately stuffing them in his mouth.
This damn bloodline has its uses, he remarks, morbidly, as his bloodline turns simple nutrition into qi- the source of his power.
Zhaohui grimaces as he assesses his companions. Xue Liu is in no condition to fight, he thinks, noting the vacant look in the plump cultivator’s eyes. His compatriots hadn’t dawdled either- Tian Guang, well-known amongst the outer disciples for his habit of ‘liberating’ anything that wasn’t bolted down- had put his skills to good use, stripping anything of value from Feng Cai’s purple-faced body.
Except- corpses didn’t cough blood.
“Help me,” whispers Feng Cai desperately.
“Tch,” spits Xue Liu. “You should’ve died. Not that it matters, we’re all going to die soon anyways. It’s for survival, not personal.”
Zhaohui, seeing the futility of treating a dead man, doesn’t mediate between his compatriots. It’s not difficult, either, to focus on-
The enemy.
Their opponent floats down from the darkened sky, seated in the lotus position with legs crossed. His face is covered by an ornate mask of gold, its details difficult to discern in the suddenly darker midday sun. His shoulders span twice the breadth of Zhaohui, and he seems to tower above them, easily a head and a half taller than even Jianyu. But his voice is human, despite the fangs visible beneath his mask.
He’s more terrifying than I remember, thinks Jianyu. Did I really fight that monster?
The enemy’s voice rumbles, vibrating through Zhaohui’s body as he speaks.
“What a surprise,” he begins. “Our scouts didn’t report any remaining threats after surveying this backwater sect. Who are you to defy me?”
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Zhaohui watches as his brother holds his tongue.
Good, brother. You’ve grown, thinks Zhaohui.
As the cultist begins to monologue, Zhaohui, tunes out, instead focusing on recovery.
He’s the leader, I’m sure of it. I wonder, though- why does his mask expose the lower half of his face? And his movements, they’re less rigid than those of his subordinates.
Zhaohui’s thoughts are interrupted by the sensation of a cold blade pressing his neck.
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A thunderous boom reverberated from the heavens, interrupting Zhaohui’s focus. Dammit. I zoned out again. Zhaohui could imagine vividly his brother rebuking him.
He’d say something like, ‘Pay attention, Didi.’ Or, ‘This is why you always lose when we spar.’ The memory makes Zhaohui roll his eyes- as far as he can move without threatening the sanctity of his throat. He never did understand his own strength.
Jianyu can’t help but disagree. You were wrong, Didi. You were the strong one; you were the genius. 4 pillars before 14 cycles was far beyond anything I could have accomplished.
Zhaohui, oblivious to his brother’s praises, remains perplexed by the attention of the heavens. There’s not a cloud in the sky, so why-
Zhaohui’s answer reveals itself in the beams of light that pierce through his brother’s body like falling arrows through naked flesh. Approval of the heavens. He can hardly believe his eyes as the light seems to bend into chains, encircling Jianyu in a radiant embrace. His expression falls as his mind makes the connection. Brother, is that how you lost your eyes?
Nothing else made sense- he’d seen dozens of his fellow disciples murdered by the shallowest of slices from the blades of the Void- enough that he knew better than to test his luck now, and enough to know that his brother’s injuries weren’t the scars of battle.
This realization sparks a solemnity within Zhaohui- one that he hadn’t felt even after the fall of Patriarch Long, nor even as he watched his allies dwindle faster than kindling in the midst of winter.
I’d thought him invincible. Yet here he is, sacrificing his body, even his soul, to protect me. Why? What did I do to deserve this?
Again, Zhaohui scrutinizes his memory, searching for even a single time that he’d given something to his brother- provided value, or support.
But there’s nothing….
This is how he thought of me? If Jianyu could’ve shaken his head, he would have. You’re wrong, Didi. You were my family. My hope.
My everything.
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Even with the oaths he’d partaken, the sacrifices he’d made, the duel is trying.
That Jianyu’s opponent could fly, an ability reserved for Core-Formation powerhouses, doesn’t help.
The light reflecting off of Jianyu's sword flashes as he clashes blades with his foe so fast that Zhaohui struggles to keep up. The assassin wields two husa knives, slender blades that seem to swallow all light below the hilt.
For a dozen heartbeats, Jianyu’s blade is a flurry of motion, deflecting thrust after thrust until the assassin’s dismembered hands arc towards the floor. Jianyu doesn’t let up, aiming a diagonal slash he hopes will bisect his opponent.
The assassin takes no time recovering from his amputation, snap kicking left into a roundhouse right kick so fast it creates a ring of disturbed air in its wake. When it connects with a hastily constructed block, Jianyu goes airborne. He flies for a heartbeat before gravity forces him into an uncontrolled tumble 10 paces long.
“Not bad,” remarks the assassin, before he summons shadows from between the pebbles at his feet. They slosh like water before swallowing up his amputated hands. Then, shadows burst from the his wrists, forming into hands clothed in black, holding pitchblack daggers.
Moments later, any evidence of Jianyu’s retaliatory strike was gone.
High level regeneration and physical strength, remarks Zhaohui. He’s definitely a body cultivator, but just how strong is he?
Before he can finish the thought, the assassin attacks, chaining slashes, thrusts, and kicks into a dark whirlwind. Or at least, that’s what it looks like to Zhaohui, his perception unable to capture anything but the fluidity in the movements of Jianyu’s foe.
His brother moves as if surrounded by molasses, in comparison. His parries, honed through hundreds of hours of sparring and studying, always seem to arrive on time- to the excitement of his foe. There is no time for stances- though Zhaohui can see his brother’s efforts to do so- under the cultist’s onslaught.
Again and again, Jianyu amputates his foe, going so far as dismembering one leg at the knee, one arm at the wrist, and the other at the elbow. Yet the assassin’s reckless charges leave few exploitable openings, given the cultist’s prodigious regeneration and superior agility.
A particularly devastating kick leaves Jianyu cradling his left arm gingerly, and Zhaohui can’t help but wonder-
Is he going to lose?
The cultist abruptly changes styles, accelerating his attack until his movements leave afterimages- the only thing Zhaohui can still perceive.
Faced with injuries and an even faster opponent, Jianyu retreats, taking step after step backwards until his back rests upon the wooden wall of a destroyed dormitory. Left with no other option, Jianyu contorts his body unnaturally to avoid his impending perforation, and Zhaohui hears the pop of dislocating joints.
His ploy works, and the cultist’s blades lodge themselves in the wall. Zhaohui sees the assassin’s body fold around his brother’s knee before a kick separates the antagonist from his weapons.
The cultist’s bestial gold mask is deceptively short, the lower half of his face covered only in black cloth, leaving his fanged mouth visible. The horns, tusks, and fangs of the mask contort unsettlingly as the assassin adjusts his neck, his vertebrae cracking into place.
Then, in absolute silence, the cultist attacks, trading blades for devastating unarmed attacks that leverage the full power of his physique. Jianyu is forced onto the defensive, using his left hand to redirect lethal strikes when he can’t parry.
For nearly an incense time, the duel continues like this, and Jianyu begins to visibly fatigue. His injuries accumulate; Zhaohui sees him sprain an ankle, hyperextend his left arm in a poorly timed block, and fracture a rib when the cultist lands a brutal kick to his torso.
Zhaohui’s chest puffs with pride, causing his neck to press against the blade at his throat. That’s my brother, he thinks. Nothing can stop him.
Jianyu’s head pounds, his heart aching for his dead brother. I wasn’t as strong as you remember, Didi. I’m glad you thought I was.
He must have attained Bone-Forging, thinks Zhaohui as the cultist regrows his left hand, having lost it in the previous engagement.
In a move that perplexes Zhaohui, Jianyu drops his sword, catching it by the root. He accelerates as he spins three times before releasing his blade. It catches the cultist squarely in the chest, piercing flesh and bone until it’s the cloth wrapped around the handle rebounds from his chest. The sweat stained wrappings quickly stain red, absorbing the assassin’s blood directly. For a moment, the cultist simply stands upright, gurgling blood as he struggles to breathe. He traces the circumference of his wound with his right hand as he struggles to remove his mask, unsuccessfully.
Again, the domineering aura expands, preventing Jianyu from pressing his advantage. Grunting, the assassin pulls the blade from his chest with a sickening squelch before he throws it to the ground. The hole in fills in quickly with regenerating flesh until a patch of hairless pale skin is visible through the tattered black robe.
The aura disappears once more, yet a defenseless Jianyu stands with a statuesque stillness, his visage as vacant as his sockets. The assassin accelerates from a walk into a sprint towards Jianyu. Zhaohui sees Jianyu’s blade flicker from its place on the ground towards his hand, watches as the blade flips its orientation and plunges blade first through the cultist’s back, disrupting his attack.
“Huh,” says the assassin before he collapses, a fist sized hole through his torso. The blade itself lands in Jianyu’s outstretched hand, slick with blood that he tries to dislodge.
“At least they bleed,” remarks Jianyu as the cultist falls to his knees. He kneels for several tense heartbeats before Jianyu tries to approach. But the cultist releases his aura once more- this time containing it to 5 paces. When he swings his jian through the affected area, the cultivator can’t keep his blade upright, instead collapsing blade-first to the earth.
The wind knocked out of him, Jianyu crawls into the lotus position to try and recover his breath- and any qi that he can. After a moment, he starts muttering.
The wind carries his brother’s words to Zhaohui. Incantations! If he’s speaking them aloud, he must be low on qi, thinks the cultivator. Vortex, Cloud Puppeteer, and- I don’t recognize the last one. What is he planning?
Zhaohui watches his brother’s face contort with rage in the midst of his meditation, before he jumps to his feet, his blade at the ready.
This isn’t good. Something aggravated him. Zhaohui recalled dozens of bouts of sparring with his brother. I only ever won if I could work him up.
At that moment, Zhaohui knew he had to act. But how? If I move, I’m dead, and then I’ll be no help at all. Unless-
As his brother fights for their lives, the gears turn in Zhaohui’s mind.
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Why is this happening, thinks Jianyu. I want out….
He understood what his studies had emphasized, then- that there were fates worse than death.
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Plan in mind and preparations complete, Zhaohui steels himself for what is to come. He calls on his bloodline, more instinctually than conscious, and he pulls. He coaxes more of his bloodline than he ever had before, feeling as his skin turns to scale, his hair on his arms and legs shedding as his throat hardens beyond his captor’s ability to slash it. His humanity washes away with the waves that buoyed his ancestors until a single thought remains.
Protect the clutch.
The world is awash in iridescent light as distinct features fade to colorful blurs. His thoughts fade into urges, desires, needs.
Protect the clutch.
Putting aside its flawed vision, it feels for Jianyu, and finds him.
Protect the clutch.
Its target identified, it uses the only technique it knows. It becomes the center of a radiant sun that-
Lasts two entire heartbeats before a poisoned blade carves out a piece of its throat.
The world becomes pure pain as corruption in the wound burns through his throat that turns the rest of his body into a conflagaration. It’s vaguely aware of its own body collapsing to the ground from its flippers- knees- appendages.
As it falls, the organism’s transformation reverses until Zhaohui becomes self-aware once more. The assassin’s strike had been swift, his blade sharp. So Zhaohui had expected death to be quick- even painless.
How wrong he’d been.
It’s all- khak- so painful- khak, thinks Zhaohui. Between tears, he manages to see Jianyu looking down at him as he cradles his brother’s head.
“Did it work,” is what Zhaohui tries to say, but his words are little more than grotesque gurgles with the perforation in his throat. When he finally blinks away the tears, Zhaohui sees the panicked confusion in his brother’s eyes.
I’m sorry, Brother. But there was no other way. You have to win. Only you have the power. I’ve only ever held you back.
But I failed you, screams Jianyu internally. I couldn’t protect you, and I wasn’t there when you needed me most. How could leave your hope with me?
Jianyu's appearance is ghastly, his empty sockets crying rivulets of bloody tears that drip onto his robe, his hair grasping ominously at the wind, but Zhaohui isn’t afraid.
There’s no one I’d rather be with at the end.
I guess this is it, thinks Zhaohui, his mind and body in agony. With the last vestiges of his strength, he forces his lips into a smile, before everything fades to black.
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Jianyu awakens in an unfamiliar space, blind and alone. Where am I? The last thing I remember was-
Jianyu’s memories return to him in a flood, threatening to overtake him as his heart twists and turns. “Brother,” he cries, “why did you leave me!”
And he weeps.
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Despite its malevolent veneer, the treasure has a core of vivacity, as if a blazing phoenix had been caught in still painting, aura and all, and shoved into the core of the pill.
It’s not just its aura- the pill is huge, thinks Jianyu as he grips it. Larger than my thumb, at least.
Su Kang had expressed a desire to reward him for his completion of the trials. Accordingly, Jianyu had made his way to the treasure hall- or whatever an Immortal’s Inheritance called its equivalent.
Prior to the trials, Su Kang had felt all-encompassing, even omnipotent.
And yet, she doesn’t seem able to hear my thoughts anymore.
Of course, Jianyu could hear Su Kang; on and on, she went, blathering about how she’d make his dreams come true and give him the power to avenge his brother.
Does she think that little of me? Jianyu ponders at first, before shaking his head. No, that’s probably just how Immortals think.
“The Heavenly Rebirth pill is my recommendation for your unique constitution,” remarks the Immortal.
Typically, successful completion of an Immortal’s Trials resulted in the reception of that Immortal’s Inheritance. But Immortals wanted capable heirs.
Not cripples like me.
“With your condition, you may need more than this single pill.”
“Then what’s the point,” answers Jianyu, bluntly.
“Someone’s impatient! Normally, I wouldn’t do this, but- ah, whatever. If you can complete a small task for me, I’ll personally reconstruct your body.”
Jianyu had been raised with a healthy suspicion in benevolent bargains- so he couldn’t help but question the catch. “What type of task did you have in mind?”