…pre-requisites.

The Heavens above. [Season]. What firmament hangs in the sky.

Tide.

Time. Weather. Position.

Proximity to specific [Qi Types]. Treasure-based opening mechanisms. [Dao] understanding. Martial understanding.

[Spirit Beast] genealogy. [Bloodline].

Conspirators, one and all, or none at all.

The unique circumstances that correspond, and are oft, required, for the opening of the various [Mystic Realms].

Commonality exists in realms with a lower [Heavenly Restriction]- though this is by no means a rule- wherein the lunar cycle holds great sway over the opening of such. A full fourteen [Seasons] passage, granting access for a supply of mere days.

Or years.

The sole correlation being that all [Mystic Realms] hold these requirements.

Citing an example from within the Gu-soaked plains of the Black Ribbon Graves…

- “Beyond the Paifang, a collective work,” by the Quill House of Cherry River Spear

The tiles beneath were well-slick from the evening’s rain, further hampering their progress. Not in sliding soles, or an unsure grip where his fingers pulled him further atop the Lesser Tiger Palace’s crest, for these were mortal foils- but in the splash of passage, or the noise of well-sodden fabrics.

A haze of breath pushed from the patrolling cultivators below, as it did their [Spirit Hounds]. Plumes each, where the members of the Clouded Court Squads had wisps.

Two women exchanged idle conversation, unaware of Fu as he leapt the gap between perimeter wall and main structure above them.

The second gatehouse, now bypassed.

Cerulean banners marked his destination, a set of two, emblazoned with bold, white characters- hung pristinely by the building’s doorway with no apparent marring from the downpour about them. But the plaza ranged before them. Several hundred strides from Fu’s perch to the main entrance. Plagued with marble braziers, set with the same cerulean light all across the approach.

The [Clouded Ghost Arts] were sufficient to mask his presence from those that stalked the grounds, though sight and sound would prove troublesome.

It is no well-regarded merchant house, and Mohini stated that the only [Dao] inscriptions are to be found within.

With little other choice, Fu trusted the woman’s previous words. Her brief explanation of their goal, if lacking in any details beyond where they were to go and what they should acquire while here.

[Half Cloud Step].

It irked Fu that his sole [Art[ was as of yet untested with the recent improvement to his [Might], but he descended despite it.

A light splash sounded as his sole touched down on the plaza below. A spray then, as his suffusion of [Air Qi] had him blurring forwards. He stifled a grunt, hoping that no true experts were on patrol this night.

The memory of other

Ghosts guided his steps, and it was a style he had set to practising. Intermittent bursts of bolstering Qi, as opposed to a full cowling of his [Art] with every step. He could recall the times when blades were pressed to his nape, or throat, having suddenly appeared from thin air- or more so, those who possessed them.

To constantly infuse their [Arts] or techniques would drain no small amount of Qi, he had mused, which was lent credence by their long spells in shadows. Waiting, skulking, and remaining sentry for a time when they would need to appear.

As such-

Fu’s [Might] proved more profound than he had realised, for he had cleared the plaza’s length during his distracted thoughts.

Swiftly.

The door, of some twenty strides high, was closed tight. So for long seconds he studied it, well aware of the splashing to his rear. A triad of feet, approaching out of concert.

He drove himself to the air, springing lightly from the building’s facade to arrive in the eaves above. Where he went low, slinking against the same beam that fastened the banner around it.

Hushi unfurled an arm, warning of a [Dao] interred in the fabric.

The footsteps’ owners moved underneath, a tangerine [Spirit Frog] showing to be the third source of noise. Fu’s breath caught when the cultivator halted, rapped upon the door, and spread a menacing grin in his direction.

Before any thoughts might coalesce, the entrance yawned open and a voice intoned, “Brother Mu.”

The one beneath Fu nodded, and coughed out a greeting. Ding’s voice came next, strained under a pretence of irritation in his throat. “[Autumn] is unkind,” he said, slapping his chest. “This junior bears a missive for the Treasurer.”

“Junior? [Autumn] is as [Autumn], what ails you is spirit wine. The stench will not be pleasant for our senior,” replied the voice. He, for it held a male bearing, opened the door further for Ding to follow.

Fu noted how Ding’s weight fell against the wood, cracking it wider with a cough to veil his efforts.

A bastard. But useful.

[Half Cloud Step] launched Fu into the doorframe, and there he swung, and launched- his body inverted. Blind acrobatics into unknown surroundings. Higher, until the floor above met him bodily.

Without ceremony his hook emerged from spatial storage, levering into the wooden boards above to hold him firm. Granting him a view of Ding, in another’s form, strolling forwards below. Trading light words with the previous cultivator until the latter parted to close the door.

This establishment, this core repository, was Lesser indeed.

Fu found himself gifting the Heavens his gratitude for this, and the neglect they showed in maintenance. Gnarls in the wooden boards, splits and flawed carpentry conspired to provide enough hold to allow him to crawl.

But this said little of the hall itself. A three tiered hexagon, replete with low shelving, incense and further braziers of cerulean. Ding walked the first flight of stairs, the central platform, and in short moments ascended to the second.

He traded small words with cerulean-clad figures, scholarly sorts with furls of parchment that tenderly stocked the shelves. Trunks to their rear glowed with a spectrum of hues, owing to the cores within, and proved almost blinding to look at as they moved to continue their duties.

When Ding broached the second staircase, a look came Fu’s way. The man stopped, inspected a falsehood of dust upon the bannister, and directed the fisherman with a nod. Towards the destination that Mohini had scarcely touched upon.

After an extension of his [Senses], Fu slung his way to the third floor overhead, weaving behind the closest shelf for cover. Great rows ringed the platform, and if not for the persistent cerulean flames he might well have been immersed in a rainbow.

Even as he crept, the ambient Qi from each [Spirit Core] enshrined to his sides had his [Dantian] shiver with anticipation.

Half of this floor alone would see my debt severed. But we are to leave no trace.

Beneath the douli, Hushi squeezed. A warning, perhaps, which had Fu wonder if some part of him might consider pushing a handful into his spatial ring.

He followed the intermittent shade cast behind rows, and put his eyes to the sparse patrols on this tier. Four individuals, evident in their lacking diligence. They were immersed in conversation, though their expressions told that none among them was particularly gifted in humour.

Ding barely caught their attention, and theirs was a brief exchange before he moved by. However, it prompted the group to move.

Now at ten paces distance, Fu was forced to still.

As they had no need for silence, the [Spirit Hound’s] padding was loud. A slow drumbeat upon wood, approaching from the staircase where they had loitered. It filled Fu’s [Senses], as did the second’s, despite routing in the opposite direction.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from NovelBin; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“The reek of Mu’s breath. Gah. I’d sooner spend two [Winters] in the rain than approach the Treasurer like that,” the closest called, receiving a laugh that echoed around the hall.

Fu backpedalled, pressing himself tight to the adjacent shelf.

He heard the crinkle of soft soles on the shelf’s other side. The waft of a loose hanfu, nearing. Minute nails, clacking on wood.

His [Clouded Ghost Arts] demanded stillness of breath, and as such it was already held.

But the sniff came.

Hints of agitation tinged the nearby cultivator’s voice. Not three paces beyond Fu’s wooden haven. “A scent,” he called.

“You’ve been on the spirit wine yourself, brother,” laughed the distant one. “To repeat words so quickly!”

“My nose in peerless,” grunted the first, albeit beneath his breath. More fabric shifted, and a knee hit the wood. “Find-”

Only a fool would wait.

Fu conjured his full [Might] to dive some distance forward, maintaining a height below that of the rows. His fingertips caught his weight, quiet things that they were, and he conjured another burst of bolstering [Air Qi] to flash closer to the door that Ding now approached.

“Dampness,” came the roar a moment later, and the telltale song of a blade unsheathed soon followed.

Then arrived the feet before him, another of the Lesser Tiger Palace’s guards.

Fu went motionless. Breathless. Only able to inspect the rear of this man’s clothing as he called after his comrade. “Dampness. You fool. It’s nose this, nose that with you. Still, you try and justify your [Boon]- it cannot be used in all situations!”

Arguing?

“Brother, you dare?” shouted the distant one.

“A palm of silver does not turn to gold by gazing on it!” scoffed the second. Fu went to his fingertips again, and contorted his body into a crawl. Marginally different from the crabs that stalked Thousand Shore City’s shores.

The pair ahead closed on each other just as he arrived at the doorway, slipping himself inside to the backdrop of further footsteps, ascending the flights between tiers.

“Brother Fu,” acknowledged Ding, chuckling.

He emerged into a vestibule, rising from his crab-like imitation. “Ding,” he said, and traced the man’s eyes to Mohini, clad in shadows at a nearby screen. Speaking to her vocation, Fu had spied no trace of her entry.

“The Treasurer sleeps,” she whispered, and Fu saw the [Dark Qi] before her. Her arm, retracting as if once swallowed.

Ding chuckled again, and had them enter the room beyond. A lavish office, cerulean to a fault, and held together by the ornate desk at its center. “Tilt his head back,” Ding gestured, noting the greying elder that was slumped in his chair. “The desk will mark his skin.”

Fu did as he was told, gently setting the man’s head so it rested on the chair’s back. “And reveal our presence?” he half-asked.

“Exhaustion, or heavy drinking,” chuckled Ding. “The only reasons to explain a heavy sleep, putting his head like this, it’s more natural. He’ll wake with little suspicion.”

Unexpected wisdom.

He nodded his appreciation, and joined Mohini in rifling through the desk’s drawers. Tomes were piled, one after one, and leaves of parchment yet to be bound. Curious, Fu read the contents of one, finding it to be a ledger of deliveries. Hundreds, neatly interred in ink.

“Here, Fu,” said Ding. “That’s our objective.” Then he took the ledger, and nodded for Fu to check the others.

However, Fu was drawn to the parchment that emerged ahead, pulled from within Ding’s hanfu. Blank, and carefully lain on the floor. Where he called forth a [Dao Principle]- a subtle pulse of ivory characters in the air before him.

Inscribing a perfect replica of the ledger’s contents on his blank sheet.

No Daoist, Fu still considered if something so profound should be used on the mundane.

The ledger was handed back, and Fu restored the contents to how he had found them. Mohini continued in the opposite fashion, progressing a fastidious search through the slumbering elder’s robes.

She pulled out a jade ring, bound on a chain.

“A second objective for our mission?” asked Fu. “A trinket of this value would not escape notice.”

Mohini ignored him, and set the ring against a drawer. Some minor trace of Qi passed as it opened, revealing several [Spirit Cores] within.

“Brother, Sister,” he began. This was not their objective. He was certain. But he did not have to ask after their intent.

Even blind men could see greed.

A concert of motions happened at once. Ding blurred towards the screen, nigh ripping it from its fixtures as he flung it open. “Brothers!” he cried. “Brothers! There is an intruder!”

A shriek followed this, no later than he had sounded his voice. An oppressive force of [Sound Qi], visibly distorting the air in ripples- emanating from the drawer that Mohini now emptied.

Ding flashed from sight, smashing the hall’s door open if sound was anything to go by.

And Fu spared but one second in which to wash out his anger.

[Half Cloud Step].

🀨

Cerulean shadows flew across the rooftops with [Spirit Hounds] at their fore.

The citizens of the Four Corners Prefecture however, cringed at their passage, yelling obscenities for the disruption to their sleep. Shutters flew open, screens were pulled back, and no small number of cultivators joined the hurling of insults.

Fu counted seven on his tail, and-

An arrow struck the tiles at his feet, narrowly avoided. It had him bound higher, and curse. Archery was a rare talent among the martial world. A double edged blade, for many cultivators on many [Paths] were able to avoid a bow once they were aware of it.

Or so his reading had told.

With limited Qi, Fu’s flight was powered by [Might] alone. A pounce, a slide, an inversion to negotiate him around bends so he might flee from the sight of his pursuers.

It is a credit that they might see me through this lousy rain.

He was ascending the skyline, pushing himself away from the Clouded Court Squad’s headquarters lest he bring unsavoury attention to his Sect.

Another arrow raced by his head, a finger’s breadth from his cheek. “Hushi,” he grunted. “Is there a source of [Air QI] nearby? A rat whose core we might sever? [Autumn] has us crippled!”

Hushi impressed only the need to move. Silencing such thoughts. To kill the pursuers was not their mandate, and he could offer no more aid lest he choke them all to some unconscious state.

All seven.

Fu heard thunder amidst the wetness of his gait. A resounding drumbeat that cut through the surrounding raindrops. It carried a physicality to it, which only increased as the beating grew more rhythmic.

A pagoda rose ahead- which held no great rarity, save for the clear icons upon its upper eaves. The Daoist’s eyes. The Seeking the Adamantine View, as Adhrit had once lectured.

Half open, and a beacon.

The monks are called for reflection.

A swivel changed his footing just as another arrow scored his flesh. Hot, but shallow given his [Resilience], and Fu paid no heed to his bleeding neck as he made for the pagoda ahead.

Three streets forward, four to the east, and he arrived. An equal number of arrows having plagued his travels.

The howling [Spirit Hounds] reached him at the very moment he leapt. His final scrap of [Air Qi] conjuring a clouded platform from which to do so. It brought him high, and delivered him to the pagoda’s third tier.

His external Qi birthed a ruckus at the pagoda’s base, having the monks that wandered there crane their necks. Yet the most obvious draw was his pursuers, with snapping jaws and pitched howls to pollute the continuous drumbeat.

“Amituofo, strangers,” one chanted, flashing to the rooftop where they stood. Bowing to address the beasts, and their still-distant cultivators. “This penniless seeker would ask-”

Fu fled before he might hear any more, leaving behind the trail of disgruntled monks as they queued to voice their concerns.

🀨

“Brother Fu! You’re dripping! Truly, it’s a step too far to embody the frog in the well!” laughed Ding.

Mohini barely greeted him. “A humorous brother.”

“A humorous brother indeed! But, you’d take my role?”

Fu felt the potential. The predatory tension that told him their earlier… actions were to be smoothed over like crinkled scrolls. Evident in expectant looks.

See what it will gain you.

Who would you tell?

Are you in a position to speak such things?

“Our mission, is there anything else I must do?” he asked. A smile on his lips.

Ding’s brows went curious. “No, no,” he waved away the sentiment. “Brother Fu fulfilled his role with the grace of an expert. Take a deserved rest. After all, we’ll do all of this again very soon.”

The pair returned to whatever duties they had carried out upon his entry moments ago, an organisation of papers and scrawling of missives. Reports, he assumed, though his interest never went beyond a glance.

Nor did this pair spare any attention for him.

Without further words, Fu turned from their quarters. The labyrinthian tunnels were less convoluted on this trip, doubly so given that he had not long emerged from them, but owing to this he found himself swiftly back in the main building.

The [Autumnal] rain pattered away with a pleasant enough rhythm to clear his thoughts as he strode the balconies, stopping to look upon the prefecture. “Two paths,” he said.

His Bond slung down, landing on the balustrade. Hushi extended an arm, gathering the rivulets of water that cascaded from the tiles above. But he was curious beyond this, and impressed his full attention.

“Our next brother- or sister,” whispered Fu. “They must be in line with our appointment. Never are you lacking, but we are as clay oxen entering the ocean without a reinforcement to our stealth. [Dark Qi] as Mohini has, or more. An [Art] from the Exchange, at the risk of our debt.”

Hushi gestured to the city.

“We could look outwith the Sect, yes. But heritage plays a role, is that not what we hear? To know the path ahead, let us ask those who are coming back. No?” His feet were already moving towards the training hall.

At the risk of appearing as a moon-touched fool, Fu held his words back. Chattering to oneself was a certain method of fostering concern in those he passed, and as such he arrived at Yunhan’s hall in silence.

Which extended as he pulled back the screen.

As before, it was darkened. Bereft of bulging sand, and the intensity of heat that his sodden clothes now longed for. Figures darkened the recesses, sprouting little hope, for he knew them as training dummies and nothing more.

We are fully-fledged, perhaps Yunhan would not aid us for this. Or, is the Elder’s plan now in motion? A pair such as they…

Fu moved to the hall’s far side, settling into the [Stifling Stream Revolutions]. The first set, through third, perfect imitations. Those inscribed by Grandmother Hua were out of reach for now, aided in no small part by his current [Tyranny]. It had him hold at the end of each motion, poised in hyper-extension or balance until the spiralling [Air Qi] in his [Channels] subsided.

What dregs remained after his mission. The [Season’s] first, as he was well reminded. With an untold number beyond.

“Sixty four sets, as Yunhan preferred,” he said to Hushi. “And then we go to the Contribution Hall for [Spirit Cores]. Lest Qi deprivation be our-”

Characters glowed in the spot where his foot was about to hammer down, and Fu stalled the delivery. Finding a chit there, dark and of modest clay. It brightened at his touch, and intangible Qi scrawled a name.

Seventy Fifth Mohini.

In startling, scarlet red.