“Keep a man at the gates to watch for the rest of our guests.” Moji shifted uncomfortably in her chair. A sense of unease had haunted her since the meeting with Sezha. Faint shadows danced on the undecorated walls of her study, caused by the flickering yellow light of candle flame. Unlike her father, she preferred function over flash. Vain ornaments and paintings had no place in her study. “Do we have a delegation ready to meet the young captain of the Ironbloods? I hear she’s a handful.”
“I’m well aware of the rumors, young mistress,” Yanlai, her most trusted servant, said. Curvy in all the right places, with noble cheekbones and eyes, she was a beauty in her own right. A stark contrast to Moji’s own slender frame. “But rest assured. The delegation has already been sent. Will that be all?”
“Have Riya make contact with my brother,” Moji said after a moment’s consideration. With his showing yesterday, he was no longer an afterthought to her plans. He was a wildcard. A potential blessing. . . or threat. “She shouldn’t come on too strong, but interesting enough for him to look twice. Emphasize subtlety. He’s no fool.”
“I don’t mean to overstep, but are you sure Riya is the most sensible choice, young mistress?” Yanlai asked.
“Do you not trust her?” Moji inquired, squinting in the dim lighting. “I recall you being confident in her talent.”
Yanlai pondered a moment, her finger on her plump red lips. “She’s young and thinks with her heart. A fatal flaw for a budding spy.”
“Am I not young as well?” Moji asked with a rare touch of amusement.
“With all respect, you have the soul of an old serpent, young mistress.” Yanlai’s smile grew, and she bowed her head. “I meant no harm. What I meant to say is while Riya has a sharp tongue and bright mind, she’s merely an ordinary girl.”
An old serpent? Moji met Yanlai’s smile with her own, though it was more of a smirk. Unfortunately, if she wanted agency in her own life, being an ordinary girl just wasn’t enough. If being an old serpent was what it took to free herself of her shackles, she would accept the role gladly.
“Have faith in Riya,” Moji said, studying the sheaf of papers on her desk. “If it becomes too much, we’ll pull her out.”
“I’ll brief the girl on her new role.” Yanlai said with a respectful nod of her head. She departed from the room, leaving Moji to her thoughts.
She picked up the paper at the top of the stack and frowned. It was an ordinary report on the daily affairs of the Gallows, the prison for Cheng-Kai’s worst. However, a hasty note was scribbled to the side. Your father’s guest, the foreigner from Sevaskarr, came to visit Silvertongue. Couldn’t catch what they were talking about, but highly suspicious.
Highly suspicious indeed, she thought, holding the paper over the flickering yellow flame of the lone candle on her desk. It burned slowly to black until there was only a white stub left. She tossed it over her shoulder.
So many variables. Too many variables. If finding out Sezha was a genius wasn’t enough, the heavens weren’t through with her yet. What possible relation could her father have with Silvertongue, a notorious cultist? His behavior was strange of late, but working with cultists was a new low, even for him.
Moji didn’t like the foreigner much either. The disappearance of a few pretty young maids since his arrival was hardly a coincidence. Beneath his charming exterior, she saw him for who he really was; a slimy, sadistic bastard.
When the opportunity arose, Moji would enjoy thoroughly crushing him along with the rest of her father’s goons. And as for the big man himself? She smiled coldly. Some things were just left better unthought.
. . .
Sezha rounded a low grassy hill and kneeled before the carcass of a tri-horn boar. The wild beast lay on its sides, the white fletching of an arrow protruding from its eye.
With the placement of the shot, its death had to have been instantaneous. He quickly amended his opinion of Kan. He could tell Nara was impressed as well, though not nearly as much as him.
Kan came jogging up behind him, a bow strung across her back. She wore a new tunic, bought with the silver wrestled away from the corrupt tyrant of Roosterhead Village.
She pulled a broad-bladed knife free from her belt and flashed a rare smile. There was definitely something off about her. How many young girls actually enjoyed gutting and skinning carcasses? Still, it was a skill worth learning. He’d have to swallow his pride and ask her to teach him later.
Sezha drummed his fingers along the hilt of his sword. It was the reason Nara had dragged him out the middle of the marshlands. As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but tall grass and stubby trees with roots submerged in knee-deep water.
“What will it be today?” Sezha asked her, leaving Kan to her bloody work. He stepped into a relatively dry clearing. It wouldn’t make much of a difference, seeing as his boots were already ruined.
“Your next step on the Path,” Nara said, yawning into her gloved hand. There wasn’t a speck of mud on the hems of her loose, ankle-length trousers. “It’s about time you focus on forming your core.”
Sezha frowned. When Yunan and Moji had formed theirs, his father had shelled out a fortune in pills and supplements. With the influx of divine artists, all the apothecaries he had visited were woefully out of stock.
“Don’t go making that face at me.” Nara rolled her eyes at him. “That’s the issue I’ve noticed with these new so-called divine artists. All so dependent on external factors. Do you think you can pop pills to immortality?”
He looked down at his mud-caked boots. “It makes the process easier, or so I hear.”
“And how much easier would you need it to form a simple core?” She pointed to his chest. “Has all that training in the pocket realm been for nothing? Are you a simpleton?”
Words of protest died in Sezha’s mouth. “The flame in the core,” he murmured. “I was already doing it, wasn’t I? When I was fighting the Hunter, my body felt stronger. Faster. More resilient.”
Nara nodded slowly, her hand returning to her side. “You already understand how it’s done. All that’s left is actually forming it.”
He nodded in turn, then started. “We’re forming it now?”
“Naturally. Unless you want to stay here until sundown.”
After placing his sword against the trunk of a nearby tree, he plopped down on the ground, his legs crossed.
With his eyes closed shut, Sezha looked within his body. But not merely the physical aspects of it. Nara had taught him to visualize a series of interconnected veins known as meridians to most divine artists. It was through these that qi flowed to every part of his body.
As it was, his qi was evenly dispersed throughout his meridians. Feed the flame with everything you have.
His foundation was already there. Sezha had already built everything up in the pocket realm. All he had to do now was form the core. Easier said than done, however.
At the center of his body, the flame was around the size of a thumb, flickering softly. Utilizing the breathing techniques taught to him by Nara, he began to circulate qi, subtly directing it to the flame.
Slowly, the thumb-sized flame grew to a brilliant bonfire.
“More,” Nara urged. Her voice felt distant, as if he was submerged underneath the marsh. “Are you going to back down now? What happened to all that grit you showed me in the pocket realm?”
Sezha strained with one last push, squeezing every last drop of qi and throwing it at the flame. A thousand needles seemed to prick his muscles, his very bones itching unbearably. But compared to the pain he underwent in the pocket realm, it was nothing.
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His core expanded, qi coursing back through his meridians. With one violent shudder, Sezha’s world went dark.
By the time he regained consciousness, it was as if he was in a new body. He could hear the chittering of insects. The sound of leaves ruffling on the trees overhead. Even the sunlight felt too strong. His five senses were being overloaded.
Groaning softly, Sezha clambered up to his feet like a newborn foal.
He scooped up his sword and hooked it back to his belt.
“Stay alert. We have unwelcome visitors,” Nara whispered into his ear.
Sezha drew his blade without a second thought.
A man who was a few fingers taller than Sezha stepped out from behind a tree. He was dressed in neat, well-kept robes with no identifying insignia. But the curved blade he gripped in his gloved hands was proof of his likely occupation.
His face was covered by a dark cloth mask and a broad-brimmed straw hat, leaving only his sharp, narrow eyes visible.
“Come with me, kid,” he demanded, advancing on Sezha, his blade bared. The ambusher had a thick accent. “Make it easy on me.”
“And if I refuse?”
The ambusher’s eyes seemed to smile at Sezha’s words. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He glanced around the clearing. “You heard the boss! Take him alive, boys! But don’t be afraid to rough him up a little!”
Two other men dressed similarly stepped out into the clearing, carrying an assortment of weapons. So, three. He couldn't recall ever facing more than a single opponent. Sezha’s chest tightened.
“What a wonderful idea,” Sezha spat to himself. “Breakthrough in the middle of nowhere. What could possibly go wrong?”
“It’s customary to advance in isolation,” Nara said. “But this is a pleasant coincidence, don’t you think?”
Sezha readied his sword with a grimace.
Before a single person in the clearing could move, a white blur hurtled through the air toward the ambusher. He spun out of the way, the projectile just grazing his cheek and embedding itself into the tree behind him. White fletching.
Kan stood on a tall ridge overlooking the clearing, her bow in her hands, a second arrow already nocked. When it was loosed, a cry of pain quickly followed. One of the ambushers dropped to the ground.
“After her, Sai!” the ambusher with the curved sword snarled.
One of the ambushers behind Sezha sprinted in the opposite direction, disappearing into the foliage.
Don’t die, was all he could offer in his head to Kan. Sezha had his own problems to deal with. Still, he was thankful. He now only had to face two, one with a sword, the other with a spear.
The ambusher with the sword stepped back. He seemed content with letting the spearman have the first go. They were underestimating him. So be it.
Sezha advanced on the spearman cautiously, not giving his back to the swordsman.
The spearman struck out in a well-practiced, broad stroke. Sezha ducked underneath the arc and leaped back, anticipating the next move. Just as he had predicted, a thrust quickly followed up, grazing the flesh near his left eye. The trick wasn’t to react to the spear—it was watching the person wielding it.
Fortunately, Nara had exposed him to a variety of weapons in the pocket realm.
What happened to ‘take him alive?’ Sezha thought, dodging another thrust of the spear. If he had been just a touch slower, it would’ve run him through the heart.
Seeing Sezha’s struggle seemed to bolster the spearman’s confidence. His thrusts became wilder, less crisp. And the next time he went for Sezha’s heart, he was ready. He jumped to the side, and with a quick flick of his wrist, his sword sliced through the spearhead.
But Sezha wasn’t finished there. Instinctively, he snatched the spearhead from the air and spun around to the shocked spearman before jamming it through his eye. A sense of deja vu washed over him as Sezha’s fallen foe crumpled to the ground, face forward.
With the spearman out of the way, he directed his attention back to the swordsman. The death of his comrade seemed to be a slight annoyance to him at most.
“Impressive,” the swordsman drawled, pointing his blade at Sezha. He held the hilt with both hands. A strange stance, not one often used in the Lowlands. “For someone so young to be skilled. No hesitation in killing, either. If things were different, I’d have taken you into the fold of the Shroud.”
The swordsman’s qi was so heavy, it practically weighed down on Sezha. He forced himself to stand upright, however.
“Enough words,” Sezha said, taking a step forward.
The swordsman took a step as well. “You don’t have to walk down this path, boy.”
Sezha inched forward, circulating qi throughout his body. He felt like a nocked arrow, ready to let loose.
“My client doesn’t want you in pieces,” the swordsman continued. “Be smart about this.”
He was within striking distance now, but Sezha hesitated. Compared to the spearman, the quality of his qi was on a completely different level.
Sezha went through Nara’s lessons in his head. Every last scrap of knowledge he had gleaned from her had to be utilized if he wanted to triumph. After facing the swordsman, he would have to make his way to Kan. She could hunt mindless beasts without any issue, but what of trained martial artists?
The swordsman advanced, practically gliding over the ground. Sword met sword.
From the first meeting of steel, Sezha could tell he was outmatched. It was by sheer luck that he managed to fend off the first wave of probing strikes unscathed. Even then, the swordsman was only gauging his skills.
Sezha refused to be cowed. He doubled back at him with renewed ferocity, briefly surprising the swordsman. His blade nicked the brim of the swordsman’s straw hat, then sheared off a part of his sleeve before drawing blood in the form of the most negligible of cuts on the left shoulder.
The placid apathy in the swordsman’s dark eyes was replaced by mild annoyance.
“Very well then,” He said, pressing Sezha with swift and heavy blows. “I tried to be civil with you, cur.”
From the sound of things, killing Sezha wasn’t a part of his job description. But the swordsman was losing patience, and his blade could find its way to Sezha’s heart even if by accident. He had to end it. And soon.
“How much are they paying you?” Sezha asked, stepping away from the swordsman. He didn’t follow. “Is it worth dying over?”
The swordsman’s gaze sharpened. “You don’t need to show me any sympathy, cur.”
Sezha crouched down low to the ground, his sword at the ready for one last final strike. “If you haul me back, there can’t possibly be a good ending for me. I’m ready to go down fighting, are you?”
“Fuck you, brat.” The swordsman lifted his sword over his head. The qi around him seemed to gather in the direction of his blade. Sezha gulped. It was up to fate’s hand if he would survive to see the next few breaths. “You think I’m scared of death? I was raised by it. Make peace with your gods. Your head is mine.”
“Trust in the sword.” Nara spoke up from atop a tree branch. Sezha clicked his tongue. She had said it so casually as if his life wasn’t at risk.
The two moved through the motions, and time seemed to freeze. When the two blades met, steel sliced through steel.
The upper half of the swordsman’s blade flew through the air, embedding itself near the fallen corpse of the spearman. Sezha’s own sword came to a halt just a few fingers away from the swordsman’s neck. It felt wrong to end him in such a cheap way. He had relied on his sword, not his skill.
The swordsman stepped away, amused. He tossed his ruined sword to the ground. “Pity,” he said wistfully. “I quite liked that one. You have a fine blade. Too fine to be in the hands of a naive brat.” He turned his back to Sezha. “Some wisdom from a veteran. If I were you, I wouldn’t even have hesitated.”
Sezha watched the swordsman depart with mixed emotions. Did he do the right thing? He felt the furthest thing from victorious.
Nara leaped down from the tree and walked up beside Sezha. “There’s no use thinking about it. You’ve made your choice. The only thing you can do now is live with it.” She stared into the distance, her brows scrunched in thought. “That’s enough excitement for one day. Let’s check up on that servant of yours.”
With a sullen nod, Sezha sheathed his blade and sprinted away from the clearing.
. . .
Miasa ran his fingers through long, silver tresses and sighed. It was rare for an assassin of Shroud to fail, much less flee. They took care of their own, however. The swordsman would be punished, but not at Miasa’s hands.
He licked his lips and stepped out from around the tree. The boy had run off to retrieve his servant or at least what was left of her.
An unexpected turn of events, to be sure, but a welcome one. Who would’ve thought the mediocre son of the Kyu was such a fearsome genius? Kaizen was blessed to have such talented children. Of course, the idiot was too preoccupied with his grand plans to notice the animosity he had sown.
Despite all his arrogance and scheming, Kyu Kaizen was really just a pawn. They all were. Although Miasa was only a slightly higher-ranking pawn, he was content with his place. But Kaizen wanted more. It was there in his eyes. The blinding greed. The lust for power that claimed everyone they touched.
Would Moji be the one to cut the old man down? Or perhaps Sezha; retribution for the neglect and humiliation. Either way, breaking old men didn’t make for good fun. He found his pleasures in more. . . delicate things.
Miasa wondered if the boy’s servant survived. She was a talented archer, but against the might of the Shroud, just a little girl. It made no difference to him. If she perished, that was a blow against the boy. If she survived, he would have a new muse. The old one had broken too easily.
The thought of it made him smile softly. He started in the direction of Cheng-Kai, caressing the barbed whip on his belt. He was in a good mood. An artistic mood.