Steadfast Heart had lived in the same abode for well over two centuries. It was exactly the kind of home he preferred: simple and clean, needing a minimum of fuss or maintenance. The most it required as far as housework was concerned was occasionally sweeping ashes from the fireplace.
But as he looked over the simple wooden rooms and found them unchanged from when he had seen them last, he couldn’t help but feel that they were emptier.
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The trip home had not taken overly long. It was not instant, despite a minor miracle in finding the movement treasure not forty metres from where the Patriarch had flung him; instead Steadfast Heart had demonstrated a proper teleportation art, which moved the group of disciples all the way to the foot of the mountain in minutes. Most likely because doing using the disk would have left it behind – can’t walk through a doorway while carrying it on one’s back, hm?
There was some sort of speech, but by that point Tai Sho had fully unravelled at the seams. He heard not a single word of it, only knowing it was time to disperse when the other disciples headed off, and when he followed it was with a head full to bursting with cotton and increasingly dark mutterings.
Sleep. I need to sleep.
The core sect was too far to drag himself, so he settled for a room in the administrative wing – a richly appointed bed and bath normally used by visiting guests. His body hit the mattress like a small meteor, but sleep did not come easily; instead, the indistinct voices in his head simply expanded into a series of nightmarish half-aware dreamscapes, dogging him through his imagination relentlessly. They snarled and spat at him, chewing away at his bones until all that was left of him were spatters of red coating the white earth.
When he opened his eyes, two things had changed: it was well past noon, and his soul had split raggedly in half, the smaller chunk no longer touching the larger at any point.
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There was no body to bury. Steadfast Heart had only the most tenuous understanding of the sky pus that had killed his student, but whatever its true nature it had left not even a sliver of bone behind. Of White Knuckle’s effects only the otherworldly leather tunic had survived, and the patriarch felt it wasn’t a proper testament to the man to use something that had so completely failed to do its job as a token of representation.
Instead the ceremonial casket contained only a portrait of the man drawn by Steadfast Heart’s own hand. Which was still not nearly enough… but it would have to serve. The resting place had been chosen, the disciples gathered, and now all that was left were the words.
“My student leaves behind no sons or daughters, or any personal disciples to pass on his teachings. He was… a very solitary man, though not an unkind one. Though he took no students of his own, he was a teacher to all of us; a firm instructor, who demanded diligence at every level; a bright star to aspire to, perched in the sky where all could see… A closed fist, to ward off evil and build a righteous future.
“To convey all of the man that White Knuckle was would take days. But I do not need to do that, do I? You are all his juniors, his sect brothers and sisters – you did not know him as long as I, but that is immaterial. You knew him.” Along the mountainside were thousands of men and women in mourning black, their faces grieving or controlled or passive depending on how close to Mu they had been. A small number of them were tearing up, the amount holding steady as stoicism broke at roughly the same rate emotions petered out.
“…You knew him. There is no need for me to recount his victories, nor his tribulations. He was a practical man; he would hate for me to waste time even at his funeral.” A wan smile tugged at the corners of his face. “No, I will keep it short.
“Mu Yongchi died in a battle against an otherworldly foe, fighting to his last breath to defend us all. He has returned to the Wheel, but his legacy has not ended; it exists here, within each strong fist of you many disciples. With each beat of your steadfast hearts, you follow his Path, the Path of justice and duty, and I know you will honour him well.”
The patriarch bowed his head, an action mirrored by the thousands facing him.
“Let us be silent a moment, and beseech Heaven to allow him entry…”
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After the Patriarch’s speech a handful of Elders gave their own recounting, none of them longer than the deceased’s teacher. Unlike the day before, these words Tai Sho engraved into his heart; he may not have known the man on a personal level, but it was impossible not to respect such a figure.
Then the burial. Traditionally each disciple would place something into the grave before it was filled – generally a cultivation resource, to aid them in the next turn of the Wheel – but there were a great many funerals to be attended today.
And so, only the core disciples went up. Tai Sho dropped a spirit stone into the grave, where it bounced among a pile of its brethren for a moment before lying still. He bowed deeply, then made way for the next disciple to place their own offering. As he shuffled back to his place in the crowd, he caught glimpses of solemn faces subtly shifting to avoid his gaze, hints of fear and pity and a thousand flavours of distaste congealing in their eyes. Their senses brushed feather-light against his, the most casual of inspections more than enough to confirm what they had noticed – or perhaps, for some of them, hoped.
There were no voices in his head now. No, only a spear in his side, dripping with his life’s blood. He could not help but smile, the expression faint and sad and genuine.
The Patriarch added the first handful of soil, Elder Braveheart – the new inheriting disciple – another, and then the rest was filled in by the mass of Elders via art. Another minute of silence during which certain disciples broke into soft sobs, and then it was over.
They moved over a ways, and began the ceremony for the late Winding Wind.
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In the end, the Steadfast Heart had lost three Elders and two dozen core and inner disciples. It was not the most devastating loss they had suffered – the later days of Hell’s invasion had been black indeed, assuming the history books were accurate – but it stood out as particularly damaging given the high pedigree of all involved.
‘In the end.’ As though that was anything more than an opening skirmish…
Even after all the preparation, the research and careful manoeuvring, the blood and sweat shed on the verdant soil of Earth and the thirsty wastes of Salt alike… We tried to cut them down before they could stand, and it backfired. The enemy pulled their hidden cards from their sleeves, and it ended in a draw.
And not a draw in their favour, either. Persimmon’s body stood, watching solemnly as the last of the empty caskets were set into the earth, but his mind was far from idle. He split in a thousand different directions, questing and prodding bits of information together, trying to build a picture of the world using nothing more than points on a graph. Most of him did, anyway – a good chunk was still present, giving his disciples their proper last rites.
Those three were, in a way, the best of us. Our wise martial grandmaster, the head of Special Operations, and the head of Intelligence and Foreign Affairs, all wiped out in a single day. In hindsight sending such important figures seemed the height of folly, but what other option had there been? Should they have allowed more villages to be wiped away while they dithered? Sent in waves of peasants first to soak up any surprises?
No. As the moment of silence for the departed dragged on, the Elder was forced to make an unsavoury conclusion. It wasn’t just bad luck or a moment of poor tactics on our part. The enemy knew we would come, had, in fact, herded us there – closing the breach to the east, allowing survivors to flee and warn the rest of the continent, sitting outside a middling sect when they had more than sufficient means to wipe it out from the start. All of these actions were in aid of this, this result.
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
It was impossible to see the first strike of the war as anything other than a decisive loss for Earth. The enemy may have inflicted thousands of times fewer casualties, but it was pointless to compare numbers; in terms of resources, they had sacrificed far less. A significant chunk of Greengrass was reeling, and even if the Heavens settled the matter tomorrow it would still take generations to replace what was lost.
The silence ended, and in ones and twos the disciples began to depart. Others, more pious, approached the graves to pray. Persimmon and his fellow Elders did neither of these things – they stayed rooted in place with their heads bowed, waiting for the Patriarch to act first. It will be a long wait. Steadfast Heart grieves more than any of us.
That was – and it was disgusting to think, but Persimmon was a man of logic, one who followed the truth wherever it might lead – almost certainly a greater tragedy than the actual deaths that had occurred. The Patriarch was a strong man, more than certain enough of himself to avoid troubles of the heart, but his situation was brittle. It was likely that the past few days had added multiple centuries to the time of his ascension; Greengrass would not have a second Emperor anytime soon, most likely not until far after this current conflict had ended.
And maybe not at all, if he is forced to fight again. His soul is ancient, filled with scars and too large to properly support or be supported by his body. At some point, his flesh will simply buckle under the weight of years, and take the rest of him with it. Even a half-step emperor would not survive for long without a body – a year, two at the most, and then they would depart for the Wheel.
Finally, after minutes, Steadfast Heart raised his head. He looked back to his subordinates and nodded, and Persimmon and his peers nodded back. In the time it took to blink, the section of graveyard became empty. Only the Patriarch and a trio of Elders remained; Persimmon, Braveheart, and Aiya Yu.
Such a great loss. Even the inheriting disciples were killed – or as good as killed. But even as a part of him set down an array to ensure privacy, the rest raised its chin. But we will get through.
Today is a funeral, but we haven’t breathed our last. The Heavens will unleash their wrath, and bright rising stars continue to ascend; the night will be long and terrible, but we need only to endure the cold until the sun rises.
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The area around the grave was quiet, but not eerily so. It was a natural sort of quiet, the kind one would expect to encounter on a sparsely populated mountaintop where the soil was just deep enough to support a few trees and bushes. There was sporadic birdsong and the faint ambience of the cool wind, but that was all; the sect’s centre was far enough away that human sounds failed to reach this far, for all that the buildings were clearly visible above and below.
A peaceful place. Where the dead can rest quietly, waiting to be reborn. Hah.
Engraved on the stone marker was a name and one-line epitaph.
Gong Shan
A tall tree amongst blooming flowers
It was absolutely stupid, and in a way that was more fitting than anything Bull would have put there. Gong Shan had been a man of overwhelming stupidity; the only time he opened his mouth was to share that lack of intelligence, like a pump set mistakenly into a cesspit rather than a well. The bastard had always had a half-baked scheme running, the kind of thing that only the most desperate person would look twice at. Hollowing out spirit stones, dyeing pills weird colours and marking them up to ten times the normal price, selling ‘love potions’ made of vinegar and cinnamon and then extorting anyone dumb enough to buy…
Fuck, I can’t believe I miss him. We never said two kind words to each other – if you asked me a week ago, I’d have said his greatest skill was converting oxygen into plant food. And it isn’t like anything about who he was changed, so why am I sad?
He continued to stare down at the grave, one of many that now dotted the mountainside. The Elders must have picked the location with further deaths in mind, because there was plenty of room for additional graves. That’s wise. War’s just starting, after all. He could have wandered to any of the others and found something to feel sad about, but for some reason Shan’s resting place had caught him.
I think it’s because I hated him. It was so petty – I beat the piss out of him on my way up, then he did the same when I fell down. Gave each other a few scars…
And what was a scar, if not a memory?
Nothing’s changed. He was still an absolute dumbass who asked for every problem that ever happened to him. But now he’s dead, and I’m not. The wind blew, carrying the faint sounds of the other disciples’ mourning to his ears. A bird flapped by, small and blue, singing its song without any understanding of where it was or what the humans around it were doing.
Hah. Maybe he’ll be a songbird in his next life – something with a smaller brain would suit him better. He turned away from the grave, his hands stuffed into the too-small pockets of his formal robes. The afternoon sky was bright and clear, and for a moment Bull tilted his head up to feel the sun on his face. Fucking emotions. Why Shan, of all people? He didn’t even have a pretty face. I should be getting sad about someone who deserves it, like Grandmaster White Knuckle. But no, I’m getting all teary-eyed about this dumbass. The sky was a rare shade of blue, almost more of a pink, as if the sunrise had found a way to linger far past where it should have died. It gave the day a strange air, though perhaps that was only Bull’s thoughts spilling out and infecting his eyes.
Yeah, I’m done here. Let the dead lie, and all that – maybe we’ll meet again, but probably not.
Bull walked away from the grave, past the other mourners and the stone markers they huddled around. A sickly ghoul caught his eye as he continued, something poorly wearing the skin of a human standing at the grave of one of the Elders, but neither of them acknowledged the other past a meeting of eyes.
Not today, that brief meeting seemed to communicate. Soon, but not today.
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The building was too small. The people who had built it had obviously tried to be accommodating, but their efforts weren’t enough; the ceilings and doorways were tall, and the rooms large, but not nearly as much thought had gone into predicting how many warriors would want to be in the same place all at once.
Stingy’s day was going badly, same as the day before, and the day before, and… Ugh. This is so boring. The Moving Waters clansmen weren’t bad, but there was only so much to do when they were all cooped up inside. They could tell stories or play games, but anything like sparring or trading techniques would break the thin wooden walls.
And that was bad, since it seemed that the alien Sun had finally decided to stop putting up with them.
Stingy’s feet tapped and her tail wiggled, entirely too much energy packed into her frame. Just when she had finally gotten healthy enough to really move…
“Okay, this is the way you need to make it move. You feel it?”
The human woman’s eyes narrowed, as if she thought she would be able to see the flow of energy by squinting hard enough. Maybe she could – Stingy didn’t really know how humans did things – but it seemed unlikely.
“[A little. Keep going, I’ll try to keep up.]”
Stingy nodded, excitement bleeding into her movements. Good spirit! If you suck at a thing, just keep doing it until you suck less! That’s how Cobo learned! “Sounds good! Now I don’t know how exactly you do this without a sword, but-”
A meaty shoulder bumped into her, cutting off the memory. “Hey,” the clansmen said, “Guys coming up the road.”
The man wore thick black cloth over his entire body, but small stretches of skin peeked out – the Moving Waters Clan wasn’t accustomed to wearing clothing, and it showed. Said skin, green and spotty like unripe fruit, was blistered like he’d taken a dip in boiling oil. More than enough evidence that he had just been outside.
Her jaw worked. “The usual guys?” Not as boring as it could be, but they always say the same things. ‘Give yourself up,’ and ‘Don’t prolong this unnecessarily.’ Like they think I’m dumb!
“Naw. Or- I don’t think so? They all smell the same.” The man’s thick hooded garment came off, and he sighed like the thing had been strangling him. “Yeah, no, they’re way too small to be that Braveheart guy.” Veins around his eyes bulged as the strain of recollection – or regeneration, more likely – forced his heart to pump faster. “They’re pretty scrawny, the both of ‘em. One might be that weird Lonesome?”
Stingy’s tail froze. “Oh, you think so? Was he all covered up?”
“Yeah.”
She slapped the man on the shoulder, her jaw widening in a grin. “Thanks! I’m gonna go look!”
“Don’t mention-”
She didn’t give the rest of his sentence any attention, putting all her effort into getting down to the ground floor. It was a struggle; the room, every room, was packed full of warriors hiding from the Golden Sun. They were mostly taller than her, though not nearly enough for her to slip under their legs, and lifting them aside was a struggle. But she persevered, and within a few minutes had managed to muscle her way down the stairs and near the front door.
There were windows, but they had been covered with mud to keep the light out. Still, she stuck her eyes up close, nearly touching the dried soil, and by dint of the overwhelming brightness of this world’s surface managed to spy two vague silhouettes approaching. She slid over to the door, and cracked it open to the audible distress of the room at large.
Immediately the light of the Sun fell on her exposed scales, golden rays etching them like acid. There was pain, but she ignored it – they would be fine in, like, a minute anyway.
“Cobo! And Lu!” The two men looked up at the sound of her voice. “Over here, this house!” She cranked her head back, addressing the room. “Hey guys, make space! Two more coming in!”