Allowed.

For what other word might be said on the matter?

This daoist is shamed to admit his age, as he is no genius beneath the Heavens. But he has lived long enough to see clearly.

When one is named by the Qi as [Empress Above All], what force might stop her?

It is no insult to any to say the answer is none. Not by lack of strength, as there are more experts under a starry sky than grains of sand upon every shore.

In the furthest reaches of what was her border, the myriad Warring Tribes could not reject her.

The heart, where the One Hundred and Eight seek truth.

In her, it was found.

Fathomless in number, the Sects, with profundity of talent and variety in ideal.

Children were made of their Elders.

Desolation? Annihilation? Were all ancestors scoured, and was all history unmade? This might be done with a flash of her sleeve.

No.

The Empress knew well what filth the Earth contained. That to walk there would dredge silken robes with impurity, as base existences are no more than a discontented mire.

Instead, her wisdom allowed them to continue. To exist. To wallow far beneath.

To gaze up, in impotence, knowing fealty could be their only glimpse of the imperious, clear sky above.

- “The Clear Sky Empire,” by Lord Seventy Fifth.

It was almost upon the furthest ridge that the warship did descend, and tethered itself there by manner of appearing walkways. Not the mere implement that Fu would use to bridge himself between ship and land. No, not his base gangplank, but a structure unto itself, and one that only scrutiny would mark as temporary.

With a retinue of many hundreds, Cheng Rao led the way across this most pristine of bridges, sparing no attention to the clouded chasm at either side of the ornate walkway. At the edge of each island stood an expanse for such things, a three walled stretch around it, with its gate in the centre to lead to more internal places.

It was through here Fu walked, and similarly rose to height above that of his surroundings. Seeing now, still obscured by a persistence of cloud, that this was not the final island. For that hovered in looming observation, coiled back in this serpentine chain some hundreds of li above and behind.

But this did not diminish the splendour of current surroundings. The scale of the stepped plaza, carved pagodas, and myriad buildings around the main ingress.

Fu carried himself with awe in place of terror or anxiety, though such things were easier. While the lesson with his senior hung draped upon his shoulders as some ever-present cape might, the remaining time of their approach had calmed him.

A man who cannot tolerate small misfortunes will never achieve great things.

With this in mind he fell into steady pace, reassured further by Hushi’s presence within his freshly repaired midden.

The number of their group lessened with the passage of time, where more senior disciples of the Sect would break off to disappear to adjoining staircases. Or into shaded doorways and darkened passages towards the island’s bowels.

Always a descent, whereas Cheng Rao would only move higher.

Fu’s expectation was that they would continue to ascend to the highest point, where some manner of appointment might be granted to him. Though he was not foolish enough to believe that his actions alone were deserving of a meeting. It would be an afterthought, with any hope. One delivered far away from the attention of any that Cheng Rao might now report to.

Soon enough there came a halt. Turning them from the staircase, and placing them at the entrance of a building no grander than any others.

But here Cheng Rao placed a hand, rapping knuckles upon the sealed doors.

To see this, Fu’s calm wobbled. As he knew well the senior’s power, and he baulked at the thought of who he might knock for.

Hushi. We are entering a tiger’s den. Above all, show respect.

“Enter, disciple Cheng Rao,” intoned a woman’s voice, and the pair did.

As was natural to their hierarchy, his senior moved first. The building within was a clouded affair. A hall of waters and mists, and a depression circled by both. Cheng Rao strode here, to a dias edged by floor-set channels, and knelt.

“This humble daoist offers his respects to the senior,” he addressed.

This woman is no Elder then. What position might she hold?

In observation, Fu had forgotten to follow in timely fashion. Foolishly. And so he knelt where he was, unsure if his greeting was worth voicing.

One figure reigned from the bar above Cheng Rao, alone upon a seat.

A higher position aside nine, empty others. She was a handsome woman, from what Fu spied behind the counter where her hands were clasped. Another peerless beauty, as most high-realmed cultivators appeared to be. Though none he had met save for Officer Zhiyuan had hair of such bold coloration.

Locks of ice-blue, to match the lips that now spoke. “Of those dispatched, you are the thirty second to return, Cheng Rao. Will you offer excuses, I wonder? It is most unlike my prize hound to lack punctuality.”

“Senior Siying, this daoist can only offer his apologies. His demons overcame him! How much he has to learn of restraint and propriety.”

A susurrus came at Fu’s hands, where a multitude of lesser serpents had risen from the clouded channels beside him. Some small glint of [Spirituality] was interred in their gazes, a curiosity not seen in base beasts, and perhaps this is what had them remain in the water.

“Were all in the Sect so lacking,” noted Siying. “Could all possess such demons. Nevertheless, disciple, I would hear your report in words.”

Cheng Rao rose, only to bow again in gratitude. “The [Green Blight Valley] [Mystic Realm] has its treasure secured, senior. Yet this daoist has squandered the opportunity granted by his venerable Sect. One among these Hopefuls was of green eyes and blackened belly. An accursed traitor that this daoist failed to see! The scoundrel Yongwu Long stole into the [Mystic Realm’s] [Trial], and robbed two of the treasures.”

“So what I have read is no falsehood. How, disciple, do you of all my talented, lose sight of such a thing!” Siying’s voice never reached a shout. But there came a cold there that was not unlike the depths of [Winter]. Frost reached from her position, claiming the channels in ice shortly after. “An atonement must come, Cheng Rao, for such insult. I will have you hunt-”

Fu became acutely aware of trailing robes to his side. A presence of [Intent] that fostered no emotion, yet there all the same. At first, peripheral glance, he saw new bodies enter the hall. A total of three, with as many again in aides at their trail.

“Sister Siying,” addressed a man at the fore. Though as he paced Fu saw he was barely this, and closer in appearance to an adolescent. The tone of his skin marked him as Vajra, if that was indeed how such things worked. “How strange that our secretary has fallen from diligence. It is fortunate that you are here to address matters, and preside over appointments in place of a full council. Gratitude.”

The frost did not recede by way of simmering anger, rather, a radius melted by the passing of these arrivals. Of them, three took place upon the seats above. Leaving their aides to stand prim over each shoulder.

An older man, of flame-hued brow, sat firm to Siying’s right. His displeasure clear as jade. “I am three days from washing my hands in the golden basin. That you fill my twilight with trite matters such as this is inexcusable. Administration. Bah.”

“Brother Zhibo, did you not claim it to be three days but a [Season] ago? The [Season] before that?” laughed the first cultivator.

When each had settled into their seats, they put their eyes to Siying. Still central, and highest. This deepened the frost, having Fu’s skin burn with cold.

“Sister Siying,” gestured the final entrant. A woman, with amber [Ink] splayed in full coverage across her face, and full enough to climb down to one exposed shoulder. Her hand traced the seat beside her.

One upon an equal level to all others.

So it was that Siying dismounted, feigning grace in how she descended to sit with her peers.

“Speak, disciple. Recount in full what you have reported in our absence,” demanded Zhibo.

Cheng Rao bowed four times before he began. Granting his words in the exact manner of his first delivery, and ending upon the topic of Yongwu Long once more.

There was not a murmur between the Seniors to hear this, and they had all fallen into implacable silence. All save for Siying, who adjusted in her seat.

“The [Green Blight Valley] [Mystic Realm] is conquered?” Zhibo suddenly roared, demolishing the counter before him with a slap of his palm. “Pray tell, Siying. If I cut you, would Blossom Wine flow in place of blood? Does dependency touch you? [Demonic Urges]? This is no small loss!”

“Brother Zhibo,” warned the [Ink]-scrawled woman.

“Do not seek to mollify me, Sister Yulan! That [Mystic Realm] was a trove of [Poison Affinity] treasures, and a fitting trial for the [Formation Realm] youths.” Zhibo’s face darkened in a short breath, exposing the wrinkled leylines upon his face.

Siying scowled. “What bearing has this on you, brother Zhibo?”

“What bearing? A fire at the city gates is also a disaster for fish in the pond!” he roared back.

“Brother Zhibo. Sister Siying. Is this a matter for junior disciples to witness?” Yulan’s words fell on deaf ears.

As now the arguers’ Bonds had risen. One pair of [Spirit Serpents] upon Zhibo’s side, hissing in challenge at another set. Outnumbered beneath Siying’s three, and her one. A viridian swordfish that engorged by her head.

“Oh how I have missed these meetings,” laughed the first, unnamed man. “Four tigers gathered upon one mountain, forgetting they are cubs.”

Fu noted how this garnered a strange reaction, a call to peace that Yulan’s way could not. For the gathered then simmered, returning to poise.

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Yet through this he was in disbelief that these were seniors, and not some pack of temperamental children. Granted leave to act outside their parent’s scope of sight.

“Pavillion Heads, the matters of [Mystic Realms] do not fall to us lest a fresh [Paifang] were to appear within our walls. Might we return to this waiting Disciple? Judgement is to be passed,” he continued. “Siying, he is your man. As such, only my counsel is offered should you wish it.”

Zhibo grunted.

“Gratitude, brother,” she replied. “Disciple Cheng Rao has served the Sect faithfully. His tribute, paid over ninety five moons. No question can be raised about his loyalty. Yet tenure may see him slip, as he has just shown. To lose the [Mystic Realm’s] treasure to one at [Foundation]. A child, with not a moon’s full of [Seasons] of cultivation.”

“This Long yet lives?” queried Yulan. “Affronts to the Sect must be deal with like thunder, and pass like wind.”

“As is right,” said Zhibo.

“As is right,” repeated the first man.

These… Pavillion Heads- These seniors, in punishment they agree.

Cheng Rao maintained his kowtow, and Fu found it no small wonder he remained composed in the face of his future being measured.

“Disciple Cheng Rao was to ascend to the [Open Origin Realm] upon his return to the Sect. But oversight has put this into question,” said Siying. “Lest a [Heart Demon] be fostered, I would demand he bring justice to this Long. Out of care, of course.”

Zhibo was shown to be affected with further creasing. “Truly?” He steepled his hands, burying his nose inside with several taps. “Yes. I sense the musted Qi of one at the cusp of a bottleneck. It would be shameful to forbid him this.”

Both Siying and the youthful man showed interest in the statement.

“Duty must be followed,” said Siying.

“And deny our Sect of another [Dao Named] expert?” returned Zhibo. “In light of service, he is due much.”

“He is my man.”

“Are not all men of the Sect?” said Yulan. “For the friendship of sister Siying, I would stake my own forces for this task, granting junior Cheng Rao leave to ascend.”

The youthful man placed his feet upon the counter. Lounging. “I vote for tradition. To follow our Sect’s by-laws. That the disciple will find his Long as penance for failure.”

Siying was quick to add her opinion. “Tradition.”

“Reward his service, and then might your man give chase,” snapped Zhibo.

“I am of a mind with brother Zhibo,” said Yulan.

“Thus bringing us to a draw,” laughed the youth. He made a show of a notion sparking, snapping bolt upright. “Let us consult the reason for our meeting, no? Have that child over there decide. The shorn headed, draft maker that has taken no steps towards closing the door behind his seniors.”

The room fell quite silent then, and-

Ahead the discussion had ceased. Fu shuddered at what his ears had just caught up to.

My opinion counts for nothing. Politics, and the unguessable reign here.

There was a play at work here, with forces and motives that he could no more fathom than sway. Allegiances, by-laws, whatever they may be, and a scope of authority that-

“Yes, it is you,” called the youthful man.

Fu’s mouth splurged some incomprehensible form of greeting and gratitude. Arriving as a cough.

“Sister Siying you are too liberal with your aura, this poor man is frozen in both body and tongue,” he went on to chastise. “[Foundation Realm]. Poor infants.”

The four Pavillion Heads had turned no real attention to Fu in any case, and this man’s words brought some gestures of agreement from the others. Showing how little regard they placed for him. An expected thing, he mused, for the difference between them was that of Heaven and Earth.

Yet…

“A festering ship still holds three pounds of nails.”

While well receded, the frost stole into his heart then. For in truth, his lips had flapped free as though touched by an unknown wind. And it was then that he wished this wind would sink him, burying him from four searching [Intents].

Four sets of eyes, multiplied in the [Spirit Beasts] astride. Incredulous. Stunned, by all accounts.

Pensive in their quiet.

“Oh ho!” exclaimed Zhibo, exhibiting a depth of emotion that was not brooding discontent. “This boy has the truth of things. Does he not?”

An “Indeed,” came, in variations, before Siying tapped upon the counter. “Disciple Cheng Rao, go, and redeem what face you have lost this venerable Sect.”

At the hall’s center, Cheng Rao dispensed another series of bows. “This daoist will seek to remedy his shortcomings.” With that, he rose. Not with an accompaniment of further exchange, but in a prompt manner that showed no interest from the council. He strode by with queer haste, his brow low in clear shame.

Closing the doors behind as his final act before vanishing without a trace.

“Disciple Gao Fu will approach,” called Siying, and Fu almost tripped over himself in the scramble to replace Cheng Rao.

“Gao Fu.”

“A glad name.”

“Disciple Gao Fu,” came Yulan, finishing the small murmurs. “What do you know of this gathering?”

Fu kept his head pressed to the stone. “This junior followed only senior Rao’s words, and eagerly waits for his appointment so he might better serve the Sect!”

“I see. Lift your head, so I may look upon you.”

As he did, Hushi shrunk from his head to his shoulder. A half-cower, and an impression of discomfort. “As you wish, senior Yulan!”

“To resist the treasure of a [Mystic Realm]. Why, there must be merit to the Elder [Gleeful Viper’s] concoction after all. To refine such a loyal sort for our ranks.”

It was the youth that had spoken, and as such, the youth that received twinned, begrudging stares from his peers. “You sully the Elder! Who are you to guess upon her designs?” rumbled Zhibo.

“Unorthodox cur,” joined Yulan.

“Oh come now, sister, brother. Arrive at the matter before us,” dismissed the youth. “I would have him for my appointment.”

Have me? Is he requesting this, or demanding?

Zhibo cracked another segment of counter with his palm, exposing his lower half through crumbling stone. “Rewards come before the appointment. Haste reveals you, Twenty Third.”

“Already has the disciple welcomed gifts from my hand. Four, as is right for the loyalty shown. Junior Cheng Rao dispensed them at the moment. His appointment is mine, lest he know shame.” Siying’s words spoke of Fu, yet were in no way addressed to him.

None were.

Whatever conversation took place did so above his head. As though he were no more distinct and of no more notice than the floor itself. But despite a trade of several minutes, wherein terms were aired and names were named, it ended at the youth.

This Twenty Third.

A Numbered, which Adhrit had touched upon, an age prior in Fu’s past.

“The fourth gift is not delivered,” he announced. “By your words, sister Siying, Cheng Rao voiced the disciple’s desire to see his family. Hence no covenant is struck.”

Fu, who could scarcely follow, blinked.

“He will go, then. And this final gift is granted unilaterally. An equal share between each of we, Pavilion Heads,” growled Zhibo. At a snap of his fingers, his aide stooped closer to hear a whispered exchange.

“Agreeable,” said Yulan. “This Pavillion Head grants one day as gift.”

“This Pavillion Head grants one day as gift,” repeated Zhibo, a further growl as he clarified his intent.

“Four days,” said Lord Twenty Third. “And the choice should then be made.”

Perhaps the surrounding clouds had filled Fu’s head at that moment, for all thoughts felt enshrouded.

All notion of what had just occurred. Or what hand fate had dealt him.

For he soon stood observed once more. Each of his seniors settling a weight of gazes upon him, expectant of an answer that he knew not the question. Thus he kowtowed, one by one. “Gratitude,” being his sole reply.

And hoping desperately that he had kept the questioning tone from his voice.

🀦

Say what one might about the Cloudy Serpent Sect, and their city proper. But Fu truly found himself to enjoy their methods of transportation.

In a shorter order than he could compose himself, he was rid of the Pavillion Heads and led from the hall. Further then, across the enormity of stairs and passages, and to a plaza where one of his seniors stood. A [Spirit Serpent] at his side.

Yet a feathered beast, and one that now tore through the cloud-soaked air with Fu upon his softened scales.

It was a rapid, exhilarating descent that had them move at speeds to defy the Heavens themselves. Fu had tucked at first. Clamped himself to the pinions that comprised each scale, and pushed tight for the utterly reasonable fear of falling.

Though he had not, and in a moment the rapture of [Air Qi] had him spread tall.

“She is a true dragon!” he had roared, forgetting himself upon their final stop. Though drenched, and chilled so near the bone he might freeze, Fu could not contain his joy.

The Bond’s cultivator was clearly pleased, and dismounted alongside him to pat the head of the [Spirit Beast]. “These words are too kind, brother. But appreciated all the same.”

“Had I more words,” Fu chuckled. “Gratitude. I will take no more of your time.”

Where he was delivered was an island many score down from his previous, and where it had held unified purpose in Sect matters, this did not.

In place of characters to denote training halls, or offices, signs here marked the mundane. A small difference at first, though a disparity that grew in the buildings and avenues, stalls and populous streets.

A civilian island. A city.

He was at the inner edge of a district gate, and felt obligated to hold his half-bow until the [Spirit Serpent] and cultivator were far above. “Hushi,” he began. “Let us not-”

In the absence of the beast, he was soon immersed in a throng of people. Forced to recall where he was.

It was undeniably… queer.

Fu’s skin rose in pinpricks, not owed to the coolness of settled cloud. Proximity to passing shoulders and trailing robes, to voices loud and present. He felt disquieted by it all. How they brushed a finger’s width from his shoulder with no concern.

How this buzz of life had his hand hover above the chain.

The streets of this island city were lit by a glow of lanterns on either side. Well marked, and enough to guide oneself by until the next was reached in half a dozen paces. Fu navigated by these, close to the solidity of buildings that lined his walk. Stopping only to read the note bundled in his palm.

Golden Merchant canton. Residential building three thousand, eight hundred. Floor nine.

As he had given the [Spirit Serpent’s] cultivator this message, Fu assumed that he was in the correct location. It was a pristine set of characters, speaking highly to Zhibo’s aide’s prowess in calligraphy, and would surely brook no misunderstanding.

After a span of several streets however, he grew less sure of his destination. To have walked this same distance in Thousand Shore City he would have come across a wall, or district gate to aid in finding his path. But here, the clouds made each stall, corner and doorway extend in repetitive patterns.

He looked to the faces of the crowd in passing. Hundreds occupied this thoroughfare alone, seamlessly marching around those who perused the stalls, or those with larger [Spirit Beasts] that took up much of the room.

Oxen, proving to be the most common. [Spirit Birds], following next, perched upon roosts above their cultivator’s… their merchant’s wares. Shrewd in their watch for thieves and miscreants.

Perhaps Fu had stared too long at the closest, some sparrow of flaming plumage, as the vendor below beckoned him forwards. “Master cultivator,” he called, drawing Fu close. “Might this humble merchant interest the discerning expert in some ores?”

“Oars? That would be of interest were my boat still intact, master merchant, but I must refuse your offer.”

The man, of clear success given his bulging beltline, nodded. “Ah, but master cultivator, one of such clear wisdom as you must know of [Three Tonne Peak’s] closure! No doubt your stockpile would far exceed the [Mystic Realm’s] own at any rate. Yes, yes.”

Not to be drawn in with false compliments, Fu feigned his agreement. “This may be in poor taste, but might I ask something?”

“It is true, yes. This humble merchant is he. The one cursed by the Heavens to grant all who pass by with such fine prices. A true curse. Why, I might barely-”

“Master merchant,” cut Fu, and to his own widening eye these words had the man silence immediately. “Are we in the Golden Merchant canton?”

“We are.”

“I would be most appreciative to know the location of the residential buildings. Three thousand, eight hundredth. If you are aware of such a thing.”

The merchant dipped his head. “But four streets behind. If the master cultivator might travel east from the junction beyond these stalls, he would find it. The eight hundredth grouping will surround a wooden pagoda, as all the centuries do. I wish you swift travels.”

Fu gave his thanks and departed from the man. Though he could not rid himself of the merchant’s reaction. The slightest showing of authority and he had buckled. This thought carried with him as he found his junction, moving east as directed.

Do I project such an aura as to be respected?

He shook his head, tossing Hushi about beneath the douli.

My uniform is of the Sect, and this is all he sees.

A mirth pushed Fu to move faster when the pagoda came into sight, and twice did he almost topple into labourers moving in his path. A [Season] had passed, or thereabouts, since he had laid eyes on his children. Which had his heart tremble with excitement.

So much so that he could barely control his [Senses], as slivers of [Air Qi] had bolstered them into searching for any recognizable sign. Yet his lacking practice returned an overwhelming taste of information.

Heightened voices. Sharp cries. Shouted whispers. Trundling wheels. Merchant’s calls. The sounds, maddening in concert.

But the edge of his hearing caught something delightfully familiar. A small chastisement. A hum of disapproval as Grandmother Hua set about lecturing. Ahead, in the cloud-wrapped grounds of the pagoda.

And-

[Half Cloud Step] had Fu blur into motion, where he broke through the obstacles of passersby, weaving and barging in equal measure. Alarm rose at this. Several shrieks. A sound of shattered pottery.

Mattering little as the fisherman kicked out with a motion from the [Wind Phantom Strides], knocking the towering [Spirit Ape] from Feng’s side. “Children, behind me,” he cried. Already rounding to tear the beast’s head from its shoulders.

“Still yourself oaf,” came a hum. “You will ruin the tea.”