Zhao stood in the doorway and watched Gu Hong practice his swordplay.

The wooden weapon he held moved awkwardly, but occasionally a spark of brilliance would manifest under the sunset.

A closely held part of him wanted to disarm the boy, tear the young man from the path of violence before he truly set foot on it. In Jianghu, doing so would equate to signing off on an execution.

As the weather cooled off the evening mist had thickened into a heavy blanket around the triplet peaks. It would vanish tomorrow morning, consumed by the ravenous beams of light that still pierced through it irregularly in the twilight.

Zhao knew that the sun would struggle to repeat the feat, fading gradually day by day until they reached midwinter and a perpetual cloud shrouded the sect in its entirety.

Gu Hong made an overhead chop with an exclamation, snapping Zhao back to the present as the child’s billowing sleeves fell away; a design feature that prevented fabric from blocking a swordsman’s vision.

Narrowing his eyes at the sight exposed by the motion, Zhao marched forward worriedly.

Catching Gu Hong’s hand mid swing, he raised the embroidered robe off his charge’s arm to see the angry sangria bruises he’d noticed.

A weight of responsibility ground down on Zhao.

He let go of Gu Hong, who looked more perplexed by his actions than remorseful at being caught.

In the Misty Cradle Sect, such injuries were numerous, especially amongst the Outer Disciples who had yet to raise their cultivation significantly.

Dropping the issue would make his life easier.

There was an argument to be made for adapting to the local customs, no matter how barbarous he found them. But Zhao couldn’t do it when he looked into Gu Hong’s innocent eyes.

“This is wrong,” Zhao insisted darkly.

“Who did this to you?” he inquired, already preparing to march down to the Outer Disciples’ residence and lean on his cultivation to suppress a bully.

Bewildered, Gu Hong looked at him with wide eyes.

“I ah-” he stuttered, “I got them when I went out on that errand earlier today.”

The deflection shouldn’t have meant anything to Zhao, as it offered no insight into the situation.

Despite that his intuition flared.

“Tai Yang!” he seethed, watching Gu Hong wince in response.

“It’s nothing really,” Gu Hong mumbled, “just what happens in the course of teaching self defense.”

Zhao’s eyebrow twitched as he remembered how long his junior brother had been gone looking for Tai Yang.

It irked him that no one had stepped in to stop a cultivator in the 9th stage of Qi Condensation from wailing on another who stood at a third of his strength.

Such behavior would never be tolerated from an average disciple, yet people were so terrified of Tai Yang that they would rather avoid the trouble intervention invited.

Zhao did not feel the same way.

He sent Gu Hong to go collect his monthly salary with a stern look to keep him out of trouble, deciding to leave Che Fang to his cultivation.

After having dismissed the boy, Zhao strode with purpose through the waning light that bathed the Sect.

He almost stopped to harass the watcher still ‘hidden’ near his residence but broke off that train of thought when he swept his divine sense past a second one and felt mounting pressure not to exacerbate the danger he was in.

Instead, perturbed by the additional observer, Zhao stomped towards the training plateau where Tai Yang would inevitably be found prowling.

Belatedly, Zhao realized that letting his frustration cloud his judgment would be a mistake.

His unruly emotions were at least in part caused by stress and paranoia warping his mind.

Acting on his feelings would likely worsen his situation, as evidenced by the results of stepping into a fight on Tai Yang’s behalf.

Zhao clenched his fists.

Memories and sensibilities from a life passed plagued him even as his charge up the steps to the plateau slowed to a more disciplined advance.

The act of hurting Gu Hong was not the only reason he was outraged at Tai Yang.

He had considered the man a friend.

While in character for him, it felt like a personal betrayal that he’d harmed Gu Hong.

Upon reaching the training grounds themselves, Zhao Mi had resolved himself. Taking Gu Hong in meant taking up responsibility for him too.

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He would not use the little marvel, and though it was not Zhao’s place to inhibit Gu Hong’s desires, Tai Yang would need to respect his guardianship and moderate his battle frenzy if he was to train the youth in question.

Approaching the spar he found Tai Yang engaged in at the late hour, Zhao’s earlier thundering rage crystalized into a colder form.

“Tai Yang,” Zhao announced as he stopped a respectful distance from the two duelists. “I would like to speak with you.”

The titan grunted in response, ignoring Zhao to mess with the inept disciple he was locked in combat with.

Though at first willing to wait, as the seconds dragged into minutes and Tai Yang continued to play games with his partner, Zhao’s patience wore thin.

As dusk dimmed to true night, he stepped into the combatants’ space with quiet grace.

Focused on each other as they were, neither man realized Zhao’s approach until he was on the poor fool engaged with Tai Yang.

With dexterity that felt deceptively easy to Zhao he pushed the bumbling disciple by his back, saving him from a blow while catching it himself with his other hand.

“Tai Yang,” Zhao reiterated, “we need to talk. Enough monkeying around with this amateur.”

Tai Yang widened his eyes as he took in Zhao’s form.

“Are you angry?” he commented, more observation than question. “I’ve never seen you angry.”

Feeling slighted, Zhao Mi’s countenance hardened. “Yes, I am livid.”

Images of Gu Hong’s nasty bruises overlapped with recollections of brutalized children in Zhao’s mind.

“I understand you are training Gu Hong,” he said through gritted teeth. “While I will not stop it, I have decided that you will show restraint.”

Inappropriately mirthful laughter resounded from Tai Yang as a recognizable glint shone through his eyes.

“Make me,” was the quiet response that unexpectedly cut his howling off.

Despite having sparred together many times, Zhao knew neither of them had ever truly let loose.

He suspected that for his opponent it was because deep down Tai Yang didn’t respect the transmigrator.

For Zhao Mi the rules he had bound himself with to stay uninvolved with major plots and cultivator troubles had always moderated his actions.

Demonstrating exercise techniques was strange, but ultimately harmless.

Zhao had long determined that revealing martial arts techniques from Earth was best kept as an ace for life and death situations.

They were off limits.

But now that he had freely enmeshed himself against his own rules and unwittingly formed nascent interpersonal relationships that he was starved for…

The rules no longer mattered in the face of brutality.

Zhao would not condone abuse.

So after each combatant took up the customary stance and bowed to each other, Zhao’s cultivation base flared to life.

Tai Yang’s fist flew towards his face a mere second later, and Zhao gently guided the blow with his right hand while sidestepping.

Brief surprise appeared on the aggressive visage of Zhao’s foe, only to be replaced with pain as a liver shot staggered him.

Though clearly effective, cultivators were far sturdier than mere mortals.

As Tai Yang took a step back, he quickly retaliated by turning his retreat into a roundhouse kick.

Around them, the few disciples that remained under the thin moonlight peeking out from behind the horizon stopped their own efforts to regard the brawl curiously.

Zhao dodged until it, sweeping Tai Yang’s lone supporting leg out from under him and grappling the bear of a man as he fell to the ground.

Unprepared for such an assault, he was able to firmly establish a stranglehold on Tai Yang and quickly began applying pressure.

Zhao’s adversary flailed wildly, striking a few glancing blows on his constricted form, but was unable to attempt to disengage without being trained in the technique.

The handful of seconds that it should have taken to knock Tai Yang out drew out into dozens, but the goliath's struggles slowed steadily until finally he lapsed into unconsciousness.

As Zhao rose breathing heavily, he noticed that around him his fellow disciples regarded him with a mixture of awe and terror.

The rapidity of the duel with Tai Yang was earth shaking compared to the unsophisticated drawn-out battles that were the norm between naïve disciples.

Moments later Tai Yang regained consciousness, and after rubbing his neck while cringing, he turned to Zhao with fire in his eyes.

“You’ve been going easy on me,” he noted calmly, all earlier aggression absent. Without bothering to respond to the allegation, Zhao extended his hand to help the downed man up.

“Will you respect my wishes?” he asked slowly, indignation having faded to emptiness and regret.

Without wavering, Tai Yang grabbed his hand.

“The Law of the Jungle prevails!” he declared with a goofy grin that seemed out of place after such an intense fight. “You are the strong, so you make the rules.”

Zhao sighed in relief.

“But,” the massive disciple reminded, “I will of course seek to usurp your position.”

Unable to muster an adequate reply to that, Zhao just nodded before leaving Tai Yang at the training ground.

Catching a few of the deferential glances of what few disciples were left under the stars only intensified the bitterness he felt for exposing his capability.

“What is it they say?” Zhao muttered to himself while gliding down the stairs. “There is no medicine for regret?”

A chuckle emerged from the mountain face beside Zhao, a gravelly voice interjecting itself upon his ponderous mood.

“Indeed,” it observed, “once loose, secrets tend to be impossible to contain.”

Spinning in alarm, Zhao desperately rotated his cultivation base in an attempt to fend off whatever was about to happen.

However, instead of an attack Zhao found substituted a grandfatherly man with salt and pepper hair hanging neatly over sapphire Elder’s robes.

Regaining himself Zhao bowed. “Disciple greets Elder…?”

He let the question hang, fishing for a name.

The Elder chortled. “Just Elder is fine.”

With a smile that seemed to hide deeper meaning the more powerful cultivator remarked, “A brilliant display of technique. Tai Yang is renowned- or perhaps notorious- amongst the disciples for his prowess. Many Elders would be interested in your talent.”

Then the nameless man gave him a look, the type that brooked no argument. “But I think it best that you hone yourself with some practical experience away from the sect. In fact, if you were to head out on a mission as soon as possible, perhaps you could keep your prowess a surprise for the tournament.”

Zhao nodded dumbly. His senior returned the gesture.

“I’m glad you understand, young grasshopper,” praised the man, using one of the taunts frequently leveled at Zhao.

Eyes flashing he offered a final warning, “Your recent series of actions have drawn the attention of many and placed you in the midst of sect politics. Tread carefully.”

The Core Formation cultivator vanished without further comment.

Once Zhao gathered himself enough to depart he managed a chuckle, “…maybe my intestines are turning green right now…”