And so sits empty the Empress’ Throne.

Hollow.

This daoist was not sole to wonder, blasphemously, on when the locusts would swarm. As the beloved of Heaven held no Heir apparent.

No ties of blood that might ascend.

Who could? For any that thought themselves worthy are unproven by the thought. In all dominions, Clear Sky, and outwith, none have been so appointed by Heaven as she was.

Silver could not compare to Gold, shine as it might. Silver, these pillars are, and have been for a millenia.

The daring would call this decline, or entropy.

Borders, pressed. Clans, shattered. Bloodlines, diluted. Even the Qi, now a mere shade of the exuberance it held in her life.

A mortal, this daoist wonders, what might they say? The youthful who know not, those blessed by oblivious souls and memories too short to know her reign.

What they know is fable.

The legacy left.

Whispered but once, by the inheritors of the [Cherry River]. Half a span of centuries since the [Summer] of Sorrow began.

Of the [Hollow Throne’s] opening, and the [Inheritance] of an Empire that would be gained once conquered.

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

The bed of his lodgings consumed Fu, even in its rigidity. Fabric, and the needles of hay compressed within this mattress shed their usual characteristics to become a softened ocean, one willingly entered.

An almost radiating pain, a burn, hummed about his heat-cracked skin. His muscles, no, his self in entirety, was as boneless as Hushi.

Three hours and my sentence will renew.

While he wished nothing more for a swift departure into sleep, Yunhan’s words brokered no opinion as to what might happen should he be late to arrive for his continued training. So it was, that with a rest of no more than five minutes, Fu rose.

A stalk of candle flickered away atop the table, and in short order he had set the central lantern so it might illuminate the rest of his room. He had several choices on how to spend his time, but a bound scroll called his attention first.

Fu knew it had been delivered in his absence, and opening it, already had a notion of what the contents might be. Unfurling it showed but two lines of characters. “Winter Blossom Teahouse,” he read, moving on to the characters below, drawn in red. “Li Chengxi.”

My mission.

He sighed, rolling up the scroll. But it was pointless, as the candle’s wick suddenly expanded into a stream. Engulfing the paper to reduce it to ash. Naturally Fu fell into alarm, more so as he hastily committed the two names to memory.

Hushi surfaced in a similar mood, crawling forth from the cramped space beneath the bed. An impression came as he saw the flame, however, settling more on curiosity.

“Winter Blossom Teahouse, Li Chengxi,” he relayed. “Winter Blossom Teahouse, Li Chengxi. Our mission, Hushi. I hope I do not mistake the importance of red.”

The octopus only regarded him.

“The Clouded Court Squads are a place for secrets and whispers. Darkened deeds. We are to kill this woman.”

Hushi had no approximate gesture for a shrug, but stony silence spoke volumes.

No less than this is required.

The table held other items, delivered in his absence. A vial of green hue that evoked thoughts of fetid, swampy water, and a tome. The [Clouded Ghost Arts], in style matching its domain. It was a simple, wooden thing, of innocuous design.

Yet the [Stifling Streams Revolutions] had addendums to read, and the second scroll of his [Wind Phantom Strides] required inspection.

After a moment, Fu chose the [Clouded Ghost Arts], leaving the vial idle as he opened it wide upon the wood. Revealing a diagram, and a spread of five pages.

“Hushi,” he called, studying the figure there. An outline of a body in broad, inky strokes.

Various chambers were ringed in faded circles, [Meridians], he mused, if positioned in a more general splay than he recognized. Fu counted up, glancing half-inward to mark where his own sat in comparison to the diagram.

This glance was cursory, but enough to mark the page as a map of [Body Meridians]. In a quick flick through, he saw the others to be an overlay of thinned paper, able to be swapped to fit atop the first diagram with a small fold.

If nothing else, he now had a rough roadmap for when he progressed to [Core Formation].

Fu returned to the [Body] overlay, and noted the behaviour of the Qi as was denoted by a haze of white splodges. From the [Dantian], in black, and how it was fed throughout the remaining [Meridians].

His Bond mounted the table to inspect the tome.

“See here, Hushi. What do you make of it?”

Hushi impressed a pensive tone, beginning his own Qi suppression. His cultivator nodded, and-

Ah.

Fu’s own Qi suppression was already active, which bade well, he supposed. He traced his finger atop the diagram’s white Qi. as though it might unveil more.

And for long moments he stared. And stared.

In the moments after this his gaze fell to the vial, where he might find more luck. It was not long before he had unstoppered the seal, and his [Hundred Immunities Fruit] responded. A waft of poison, exciting the treasure through nostrils.

Now, occasions where one might face the choice to sample poison- they lacked in Fu’s life to date. Reason, common sense, self-preservation, all these conspired to disabuse him of the notion that he felt then. Poison consumption was not…

I hold resistance to it. Should I be seeking it? The addition to my Qi reserves is almost worth it, and they would not grant a harmful dose to their initiates.

The last thought was perhaps, an uncertainty. But he wondered on its appearance, and just why it would be in his chambers if not for use.

Fu sealed the vial with his index finger, upending it so only his skin would take the poison and cause no spillage. The [Hundred Immunities Fruit] danced expectantly. Even with what he sensed to be a weak tincture.

Then, most sacrilegiously, he put the jot of moisture upon his page. Giving rise, only, to a small dampness on the surface. The [Clouded Ghost Arts] did not react.

So, Fu consumed the vial’s contents. Haze overcame his vision. A blur. Or spotting. Some mild hallucination that had him try and shake free as though it were sand. Almost immediately, his [Hundred Immunities Fruit] ate away at the poison.

But not before he saw a glimpse of moving patterns upon the tome. Driving him to curse as it faded through detoxification.

🀦

The solitary flash of insight into the [Clouded Ghost Arts] became further obscured, now prone to the inaccuracy of Fu’s memory amidst his current torment.

Or training, if senior Yunhan’s title was to be used.

In the same sanded arena as their meeting, Fu stole forward. An intolerable heat on his blistering soles, for he was nigh stripped bare. A furnace of grains beneath him where sweat was too readily evaporated to provide solace.

A bell chimed.

A willowed root struck.

Fu toppled.

There was a break in the [Dao Field] as Yunhan made himself known. “Three lengths. Good, Gao Fu. Though, four is better.” Bound tight in his multiple scarves, he came to crouch by the prone Fu.

Who still nursed his swollen calf, a bruise formed there much like a swollen grape. Of which he near possessed a full bunch, granted over the last hour.

Yunhan unwrapped from a woollen bundle to expose his arm. Shivering. The tip of his finger flicked one of two bells, attached to Fu’s heels. Strapped there in such a way that he could not bear his weight without having it dig into his arch.

“Diminishing returns.”

Fu dipped his head apologetically. “I will try again.”

“Hmph,” mumbled Yunhan, drawn once more into his scarf. “Instinct does not form in a single day. Balance is key, and you do not lack [Control] from what I have seen. Begin slower.”

Fu rose again, hopping across the sand to reach the far end. A shudder passing as the [Dao Field] descended once more. [Silence], as possessed by the Green Blight Bastion’s Head Librarian, but on a scale that covered the entire training room.

With his [Qi Suppression Art] stoked, the step was made.

Gentle, upon the balls of his feet, Fu crept. Light placement in the measured pace of one who wished to go undetected. There was an element of anxiety as he did. A forewarning chime that almost echoed in anticipation of the bells’ sounding.

For these two items were the only things that could sound.

If Fu was to move improperly- if the bells detected the possibility of sound from his movements, clad in the [Dao of Silence] as they were, he would fail. A trite amount of Qi would expel from them, and a nefarious lash of willow would surface from the sands to strike. As it would if his own Qi was not suppressed.

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He made it halfway to the sand’s end before the heat of the searing grains beneath grew to unmanageable proportions. Instinct told him to skip forward, as determined, measured steps were slow things. Exposing him to more sand as his feet were half-buried, and for longer than a quick flash of footwork.

Pain at the edge of intolerability.

Fu made two journeys before it threatened to overcome him, two lengths of the pit’s diameter with this accompaniment of gruelling heat. It was here that his [Qi Suppression Art] withered. As if paint flecked from a fresh coating upon wood. Little at first.

Bulges caught the corner of his eye. A tentative growth of willow not yet to breach the sand’s surface. Serpentine, and approaching, tasting the leakage of his Qi.

A third journey was managed despite this, and without incident. His current record. But he did not allow pride to break his stride, and pivoted once more to return. The harshest movement, he supposed, as the distribution of weight had one foot submerged.

And subsequently boiled.

His failure happened not three strides later, where a grain entered freshly torn skin. This single speck burrowed deeper, and sent the join of his toes into agony. Driving him to a knee, and setting the bells to chime.

At an instant, the willow snapped out. A tendril lashing into his foot to widen the sores.

Fu turned about. Eager to spread the points of contact. Much like an inverted turtle, he put his limbs to the air. Thankful for the respite.

“Diminishing results, as I have said,” spoke Yunhan. A disturbance closed in on Fu, the sand, waving. He was shifted from his position by a force beneath, and carried until his delivery to the adjacent stone floor. “We will end this here.”

“Yes, senior Yunhan,” cringed Fu, forcing himself to a knee.

The man waved this platitude away, promptly tucking himself back in before speaking. “Save such manners for when you are taught, Gao Fu. As of now we are merely estranged brothers.” His [Spirit Beast], the much reduced onyx serpent, peeked out to scowl at this. “Have you the fortitude to continue?”

Looking at, and feeling the radiation of heat in his soles, Fu grimaced. “If it is required of me.”

“Be honest. [Foundation Realm] is a distant memory, it is…” Yunhan struggled to search for the correct phrasing. “I am trying to be accommodating.”

Were this a different place, Fu mused that he may trust this man.

“Cultivate to close your wounds,” he continued. “Then we will translate these skills into further practice.”

🀦

The architecture of the Clouded Court Squad’s building was unique from those that Fu now flew across. Balconies ringed its entire perimeter, and they were distanced from the surrounding buildings by only twenty or so paces.

By design, Yunhan had said, as they were not limited in which direction they might travel from.

It was some hour of night by the time they had emerged, and [Summer’s] encroaching presence was felt in the post-dusk warmth. Though by all accounts save one, such a stifling heat was Heavenly when placed against the sandy training hall.

Yunhan shivered as he mumbled for a stop, retrieving another cloak from what Fu knew to be a spatial storage ring. One of the few he had ever seen in use. Its Qi cast a dim glow between them, in greying hue.

But this was not the focus of their attention.

Instead, Yunhan had them poised on the sloping arch, street-facing, and out of the embrace of a lantern’s glow. “Say what you see, Gao Fu.” It was a surprising question, and stoked a ponderance of meaning.

Possibly.

As of now, Yunhan had proven meticulously, and refreshingly direct in his lessons.

All that Fu could see matched much of the surroundings. The Four Corners Prefecture, this city, or region: he was unsure, seemed as identical as the Divine Clouded Mountain. Here stood looming buildings of traditional design, with lanterns strung as guideposts to light the streets in orange glow.

Perhaps the height held variety, in multi-storied grandeur. As it was the rare building that was separate from a skyline of no less than three floors, and rarer yet that boundary walls did not join the press of construction.

Fu wondered what might happen were he to push too hard on a building, for they seemed so tightly packed that any interference might have them shoot upwards like a water-slickened fish from his palm.

Though he thought Yunhan’s question more specific than that, and so he focused on the corner building across the street.

“A warehouse,” he said. “Busy for this hour? Or, they trade in [Spring’s] goods that would soon spoil.”

“What else? Who are these people?”

Who?

Four stories up… Fu’s [Senses] were proved to be lacking. “Brother Yunhan-”

“No more than one floor down.”

Fu slung himself over the roof’s edge, dropping fifteen foot with no consequence. His foot was arched upon contact, flat then after by instinct. But he made a change, and stole forward in the same shaping that his bell-lessons had imparted.

The who perplexed him.

A multitude of Bonds accompanied the warehouse workers, a train of laden [Spirit Beasts] that aided their cultivators in the movement of goods. Square crates on the shoulders of many, two a piece, or more when the [Might] focused were shown in passing.

He counted ten, tracing their walk from a building further up the street before they disappeared to unload their goods behind his target’s doors. There were few others occupying the street, and those who did kept well clear. Almost retreating into the entrances or shade at the street’s side.

“Place who does not belong,” whispered Yunhan.

Fu started, feeling his [Qi Suppression Art] tremble at the surprise. Having to collect himself before doing as was asked.

Most were plain clothed. Wrapped in loose, [Summer] styled hanfu. Well open, or short ruqun jackets over trousers- and hilts.

Three sets, two women and a man, matched with less domestic [Spirit Beasts]. Out of place for labour. “Cultivators,” he said, swiftly correcting his obvious statement. “Experts, keeping watch over their wares.”

“And who are they?”

Untrained, Fu could pick no further details. But he could guess. “When I was a fisherman, those who ran ventures did not move their own crates.”

“Elaborate.”

“A Sect disciple would find the task beneath them, no?”

“Most would,” mumbled Yunhan.

“Loose cultivators as guards? Vagrants?”

“And you think vagrants to have less pride merely for their lack of attachment?”

“Ah-” said Fu.

“It speaks of several things. The goods that are transported are either of high enough quality to require protection, or the owner is of sufficient paranoia to employ them as standard.” Yunhan gestured to the closest blade-wielder, a woman with a [Spirit Wolf]. A cinnabar, shaggy thing. “But to have them masked as labourers, what does this suggest?”

“That the owner’s pockets are not deep, and he wishes to save on costs.”

Yunhan barked out a laugh, and his serpent emerged to show distaste at the jostling. “A possible answer, Gao Fu. A fisherman’s answer, I should think. But an answer. No. Hidden guards would suggest the contents are not to be common knowledge. Mortal knowledge. No poorly tucked blade would fool a true cultivator.”

“That such things can be taken from a glance, brother Yunhan.”

Yunhan cringed beneath his scarf. “A matter of experience. Your own will flourish, in time. We have spoken enough, however. Go, and discover the name of the owner. That is your task this night.”

“The name?”

“The Clouded Court Squads do not deal in hidden blades alone.” Yunhan looked to the skies, well past the titanic spear. His breath, a frigid plume. “Half of the hour. I grow too cold.”

Fu put his attention on the building. Finding that his instructor had vanished by the time his head had returned. Traceless.

I must learn that.

Soon he had put his best plan into action, conjuring his [Half Cloud Step] to cross the gap between sloping roofs.

A muted exclamation sounded in how those below turned their attention to him, and he slunk prone at his landing. The suppression of his Qi did not extend to active [Arts], no matter how far he had progressed.

But he extended his [Senses], focusing on what words could cut through.

Similar cries.

“An errant cultivator, late for his morning meal,” called one.

“You’d best hope that’s all it is. Go, search the rooftops,” demanded another.

One of the guards leapt a startling distance vertically, mounting the first story roof with no more trouble than a single step might yield. Hers was a [Spirit Bird] of streaming tail and ivory tinge, swelling to the size of an eagle mid-leap.

Fu crept back from his own roof, higher. Putting himself on the long peak to fall down the other side. The slant of each, street facing, no doubt to dissuade rain from gathering between buildings should a downpour occur.

Not moments after, the cultivator set down. Not a pace from where he had only just cowled. Hushi impressed a warning to the passing Qi above.

An ivory shadow, gliding overhead.

They tracked it for several seconds, and Fu cursed himself for his short-sightedness. Of course his Qi would be traced. He had been foolish, and had already jeopardised the task. The shadows could only cloak him so well.

Against a [Spirit Beast], less.

On the [Spirit Bird’s] second pass Fu took his chance. A sudden roll to have him fall from the roof to the story below, and a pause amidst the third pass to deliver him to the street below.

He could loop back around, as the warehouse stood at the corner between three streets. And so he did, falling into a natural gait.

Twinges from Hushi directed him to his avian pursuer. It had landed with no small curiosity held in his direction, perched a story above.

Almost boring a hole in the back of his douli.

Fu could not merge with the passing crowds, for those who stalked the streets at this hour were few and far between. He turned the corner as he reached it. If he was to be confronted, he would only be under suspicion of loitering near the cultivator’s workplace. No punishable crime. But still, their attentions were aroused.

“You, old man,” called a voice to his rear.

He stiffened, turning. It was the [Spirit Bird’s] cultivator, a woman of middling years. A tight bun fixed atop her sharpened features. “Am I the old man you seek, sister?”

“You turned, didn’t you?”

Fu frowned. “That- that I did.”

“Did you cross the rooftops there?” she asked, flinging her head to the side.

There were several ways Fu might answer, he supposed. A lie. A half-truth to avoid conflict. But the woman held a wide stance, and he noted how her fingers teased for the hidden hilt.

“I did, until I heard your cries,” he said.

“And why would that concern you?”

“Are cries not often concerning?”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “These buildings are owned by my employer, and entry is prohibited. That extends to the air above. Common, in the Four Corners. A man of your age should know this.”

Silence lingered.

“Why were you trespassing?” she asked.

Fu took the measure of her. She did not seem the type to be appeased by platitudes, and to do so might be seen as an admission of guilt. “My wife, sister.”

A snort sounded. “Your wife? She’s of the sort to prowl the rooftops?”

“Prowl,” he grimaced. “Is my shame so plain?”

Hushi shared an obvious confusion at these words.

But the woman reacted. Some slight shift in her stance. Her eyes, mocking. “Oh,” she half chuckled. “The water recedes, and rocks appear. She seeks a firmer Yang to quench her Ying.”

How would a cultivator react to this?

“Sister has unkind words,” he snapped.

“Mind your own words, old man. If you lack the talent to keep your own wife you lack the talent to face me. Bah. Be on your way.”

“I have business here.”

“Then do so quickly. But you’ll find no wives among my rooftops.” She allowed Fu to be on his way, where he finally rounded the corner as he met it. The cultivator hung back in watch, and her Bond swept to a closer eave to drive home her continued suspicion.

Alerted within moments of my task. What a fool. And now I must enforce this story of wayward wives.

At first Fu had reckoned in a vertical entrance. Some opened window to relieve the approaching [Summer’s] warmth, or at the least, a closer vantage where he might overhear what he sought.

These avenues were closed now. To be seen twice would not bode well, if a chance would even come under the woman’s watch.

He didn’t dare look back, nor allow frustration to overtake him. Instead, he ambled with the look of someone searching. His head, a pendulum between nooks and alleys.

Perhaps too obvious, but he had seen enough of his facade by the docks in Thousand Shore City to know it did not stray too far from what might be true.

Hushi slapped on his cheek, and he slowed. More eyes were upon him now. More familiar despite how they were cast, judging, half peering from shuttered windows.

But Fu smiled.

Four women were cloistered at a nearby window. One within, and three standing, sharing the same street. Baskets were laid at their feet, or under arms. Filled to the brim with naught but excuses and shallow laundry. Already, he could hear the telltale disparaging tones.

Or as it might stand, the ring of a silver lining.

“Younger sisters!” he grinned, casting back his douli to show these silvering, mortal women his face, unobstructed. “Might I stand with you a moment? This weather- the heat, it swells the joints most awful, does it not?”

And the first cawed to her peers. Softening. “Did I not say it was bad this Season, Yu? My old bones cannot bear it.”

“Old bones?” said Fu, aghast. “Why sister, I see no bowl for broth? For where else would such things lie among youths as yourselves?”

The second and third made a contented cackle each, leading the fourth to speak. “Oh I like this one, Liwen.”