The Empress knew well the ways of souls, and spoke that were they not all the same?

What difference, she would say, was there between man and beast?

Little, when Bonded.

The heart, more so.

But she was great, and saw Divinity in those who could not fathom to touch upon it, though through act did they prove otherwise. In the beasts they venerated.

Those divine forebears, who granted so much.

The Divine Sow, and their guardians, their Sects and tributaries. Did she expect the Nine Tusked Prefecture to embody her kindness?

Or her Warring Tribes? Beneath shattered banners. A battle, eternal, with the Divine Ox at one front, and the Ape, the other? Could honour, culture, and truth, could these be found in worship and piety?

Myriad could the examples be, for this daoist cannot know all beneath the Heavens. What far reaches of her lands - all lands - for this seventy-fifth-rate daoist has not the talent or lifespan to reach any side the Clear Sky Empire could not touch.

What far reaches might contain more?

Again, myriad.

Yet these are cited for the exception, and most prevalent.

As those few fools beneath both the Divine and mundane’s archived tutelage turned from her, spurned her golden age, who might have guessed the opposite.

The Empress.

Only she saw the truth of the Cloudy Serpent Sect, of how the Divine Serpent’s cunning, guile, tact, subterfuge, obfuscation and threat were presented as gifts.

Not against her.

But in support.

Even in vain, as it came to be.

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

Fu’s [Senses] had each hair upon his body agitated with potential peril. The breathing, the humidity, the proximity to others, but none more than the rhythmic pattern of footsteps. His own, loud, as were those of the surviving procession.

Never, the Clouded Court Squads.

Under no duress they cut silent paths. Spirits, or ghosts, one and all. Haunting in passage as they warded the periphery of this moving column of cultivators.

Or perhaps his agitation came from the dryness beneath his fingernail. His index, sporting a ruddy mess of dried blood. It beckoned him to rub it. An irritant that an inner voice told him was vastly less important than what he should think on.

A brief walk had delivered the cultivators from one pit to a tunnel, and then further. Where they now emerged to a fuller shine of light, and Fu’s index was loosed of grime. Almost raw from the effort.

But complete. A task done that he had set his mind to.

Muted flames were upon the walls of this new arena. Tiles there, beneath their feet, free of the perpetuity of sand’s invasiveness, and filagree pillars where only a harsh, stony edge had held before. Yet it held one similarity from where these souls set their contests.

A monolith, wherein characters sprawled. Diagrams of figures. Poses. Movements. A border of poetry about them, covering the whole circumference.

And the treacherous pit, the chasmic moat that they were made to stand at.

It was here that the effeminate senior prowled, hands clasped at his rear. “This daoist sees the covetous glint within your eyes, disciples. As is right. Any of Clouded Court Squad legacy might realise what stands painted before you, if never in name, or recognition. The [Clouded Ghost Arts].”

Against propriety, there came a susurrus. Individuals at Fu’s sides now beginning to mutter, or approve of this name. He, however, had his blood chill with a thought. Here came another trial, if his foresight could be trusted.

One of dreaded meaning.

“As credit to the exploits that have delivered you before it, this daoist has thought to extend the time all might dedicate to its study. Hone its foundation, have it imprinted upon [Ink], and bear it with grace. These are the parameters to your success.” But this was not his ending, no. As now he unfurled his palms, displaying two seeds of recent importance. “Beyond the time allotted, seeds are the sole method of extension.”

Fu set his mind to de-mystifying his circumstances. An initiation was mentioned, yet this much was obvious. A competition for appointment, yes, but to what Sect branch? The Clouded Court Squads were bare in their provision of details, such as Cheng Rao’s Wandering House was.

Life was cheap to them, at least this much was clear.

To an end of what? Why must the cultivators die? Tempering? You cannot temper the dead… then those that remain?

Ahead, the senior made a small show of discarding his seeds. A flick to drop them into the chasm, and then-

He vanished with no residual Qi, or passing of [Dao]. The remaining members of the Clouded Court Squads, similarly gone. Where their once-occupied ground was void of traces however, a solitary incense stick was set to smoke in place.

The third to move, Fu approached the chasm, wary as he put his eyes to use upon the wall’s mural.

Diagrams, to be sure, styled with the same faceless silhouette as both the [Stifling Streams Revolutions], and the [Wind Phantom Strides]. As his sack had been returned to him, he wondered if a comparison might shed light on his task.

But for now he navigated the monolith, completing a rotation. And another. Committing the poetry he read to memory. “The silence of one’s Qi is not the silence of another, yet does it not share a truth? That it need not be tended?”

Hushi wilted beneath his douli, informing Fu that a matter of words and insight would fall solely to him.

He cleared to a space as empty as he might find, eight strides from a crowd that had entered a meditative state in order to find their meaning. Of no poetic mind, Fu decided to try and copy the motions instead.

Perhaps, an [Epiphany] would come during demonstration.

The first was an arching of one’s foot, wherein the pads of one’s feet were used to move, transitioning then, into a series of steps. A continual process of movement between figures, ascending in placement. Queer, in that the limbs were… mundane. In truth, by the last, the depictions of this silhouette looked to be walking with no discrepancy than he might now.

A fact confirmed as Fu completed another rotation, doing just this. And another. Pushing his thoughts further towards the poetry.

Silence of one’s Qi? How is Qi silent? When is it silent? Is it not always, no?

Cultivators were moving to his right, descending into forms reminiscent of the murals. The same arched feet, a crook to their spines. In a way that was nothing less than spying and plagiarism, Fu watched on for inspiration.

Much to the chagrin of those who caught him. Periodic flares of Qi rose about these cultivators. Short-lived, but growing in frequency.

Qi circulation is necessary for this, such is the nature of…

Fu shook his head. Nothing upon the wall stated that this was an [Art]. Or that it required Qi to activate. Techniques were not always Qi-dependant, as he knew by his [Wind Phantom Strides]. For the patterns he used therein agitated Qi to perform in certain ways. Discovered by souls more ancient and knowing than he.

A technique then? Not an [Art] to be called on… Ah, it will do no good to guess.

Revelation lay in the doing, and so, he did. Attempting the movement for a count of ten, inaccurate minutes.

However his only reward was a slightly aching sole. [Control], he found, lent well to this. His body was well able to contort and bend to how he saw fit. A willow-like existence, and a prerequisite for the aerial inversions and twists of his chain techniques.

Yet such flexibility had not delivered the [Clouded Ghost Arts] to him.

It was then that the incense stick fizzled out, dispersing the last of its wisps.

Fu’s mouth went dry with anticipation. One heartbeat passed. Two. Three. The tension thick about all.

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What announced itself was a noise previously unheard to him. A clunk. As though the bow of his boat had run aground, snared by sub-surface stones. And in the same fashion as this evocation, Fu staggered at an impact that trembled through his feet.

Do great [Spirit Beasts] move below us?

The chasm ahead became a beacon for many gazes, as no doubt this was a chief concern.

One more heartbeat.

Two.

A cut-short third, as the very walls of their circular arena launched inwards at no small speed. A move of little ambivalence, as how could there be a thing to guess?

[Half Cloud Step] had Fu fly towards the chasm, streaming by the surrounding cultivators as they were caught stalling. Fear, shock, and other detrimental emotions - now a root to tether them in place.

Not what he should focus on, he knew.

Though telling.

Giving him much to think upon as he plunged the hook of his chain into the mural’s wall. A countermeasure to slow his sudden arrival to the darkness below.

🀦

Five others arrived on the suspension of stone where Fu currently waited. A final few, as these cultivators were not the first to tread here.

A ring of stone ran three strides around the monolith’s base, separated from the arena above by a distance of at least one full li. Manageable, should any have to climb it again. But up was of no consequence when faced with the below.

For that struck true awe, and truer oddity.

Dull illumination marked the passing of shadows upon cavernous walls. Slight things, in labyrinthian passages that snaked through the earth itself. A scene not unlike the splay of Hushi’s arms were he to lay flat upon stone, if on a terrible scale.

“A network of tunnels,” broke a woman to his left. Her Bond, a sapphire serpent, shed a dim glow at her neck. “A test of our navigation and resourcefulness.”

A second voice joined, under Fu’s suspicion of a fabricated deepness. The false embodiment of a swollen Yang affinity. “Fairy sister,” he began. “Toil would not suit your alabaster skin. Allow me to guide you through these passages and we will both have seeds in abundance.”

“Oh senior brother,” fawned the woman, now changed to bashful. “Would you truly deliver me from this?”

The man puffed his chest, blind to all that those around could see. “Yes, sister. A man’s honor is his shield.”

“Then, might you see where this slope takes us?” she gestured, and indeed, Fu saw her alabaster-like skin pass to where they might descend. The lip of their stone ring fell away to an incline, segmented into yawning passages not a handful of feet below. “The darkness… it frightens me. Why not mount the walls?”

“Sister,” the man nodded.

Fu could only watch the exchange. As though a fish had entered a net without it once being cast.

She manipulates him… exploits him. None but a child would fall for this.

The man, fashioning himself as forthright and honourable, cast himself to the passages’ walls with no trouble. He walked down at a crouch, indicative that he was attempting the [Clouded Ghost Arts].

After twenty strides he looked back. “Sister. The way is clear.” But this was no small noise, echoing across the caverns.

Hushi squeezed in alert, and in turn, Fu pushed out his [Senses].

Distant noise, like footsteps carried back from the furthest reaches. A flare of shadows crawling at the light’s edges. Naturally he put his focus here, as did the others.

Birthing surprise when the puff-chested cultivator ahead loosed a cry.

Fu tensed, readying his chain. But he could see nothing that might have caused such a reaction. Feel nothing. Not a disturbance of air, nor a single sound but the man’s alarm.

“Sister, brothers!” he called, enveloping himself in a corona of green [Poison Qi]. “Foes race by!”

In passing seconds the stationary cultivators all saw this to be true. Shrouded, leathery forms streaked through the air to tear multiple chunks from the man’s flesh. Rapid things, in flight, casting no sound in their assault.

And many.

At the moment that Fu had decided to cast his chain, the man toppled into the nearest passage, picked clean of flesh. Now as silent as his aggressors.

A shame for the poor man. [Spirit Beasts]. They- they do not follow into the passage to ravish him further.

“Would any others care to help this poor, defenceless sister?” asked the woman cultivator. “No?”

Of the others there, a shared laugh rose. “He was a fool, to think you defenceless.”

“Her wiles are of no fox, brother,” spoke another, grinning. “I think a frog might have had him do just the same.”

“Do you mean to call me a frog?” The woman dropped down into the passage, quick to loot the man’s body. “Such insult deserves fair recompense.” She then stole off, displaying a pilfered seed between her fingers.

The Sect, no, the Clouded Court has not visited to judge this. I expected as much, This trial is each man and woman for themselves.

Fu eyed the others, putting his chain on half-display. “Brothers,” he said. “I take my leave. May you walk an interesting path.” And with that, he leapt into a passage below.

🀦

Moving towards the light sources seemed the clearest route to success. As such Fu and Hushi crept through the passages with this goal in mind. He saw no seeds on his way, no plants from which to harvest them, nor passing cultivators that he might… avoid.

But in many long minutes of creeping his [Senses] did react.

Perhaps it was the strain of muscles after his own attempts at the [Clouded Ghost Arts], but he was certain that figures moved ahead.

Ahead

, where his passage now widened into a rough diamond of junctioning routes.

So he stopped dead, an arch still to his feet. These caverns were no hand-hewn thing prone to smooth surface and unobstructed passage. This muddied his sense of the place, for rocks and eroded wall might well be figures, crouched such as he was.

Fu swept a thumb of stone, casting it into the junction. A light noise followed, and a slip of a foot. He went stiller than still as a curse surfaced, prefacing its owners movement.

“Fuck,” it spat. Still some shape in the gloom, but almost traceable. “I know you’re out there. Can smell you. Like old fish.”

Cultivation had improved his base senses, yet not to the degree where Fu might cut through this dark as easily as if it were day. He could only wait, and guess as to what was to come.

A man. Old sounding.

“Don’t make me wait. Your years will be mine, one way or another.” The figure swept to each of the junction ends, noisily. His voice was a croak, and taunting. “A swift death comes to those who make it easy.”

Years?

Fu was silent against his rock, focusing all his effort towards [Senses]. The noise of the man’s footsteps seemed… purposeful. As if-

A [Spirit Beast] was padding its way towards him, he could hear the drag of its belly against the loose ground between steps.

With an impression, Hushi slunk forth. He pulled himself atop the rock just as Fu cast another stone. The man snapped to attention, following the sound. A show, he realised, as the [Spirit Beast] stayed its course.

Until Hushi flew out.

All eight arms ensnared the creature, a stout lizard caught unaware. Fu bolted across the rock, secure in the knowledge that Hushi’s grip would not let up. “The seed,” he demanded with utter guesswork. “And your Bond will go unharmed.”

The man met Fu with a heavy dagger. A clash of metal against his chain’s hooked head.

“That is not my Bond,” he laughed.

Fu pushed out with the [Dao of Suffocation], swamping his [Intent] over the area so he might feel for more enemies. Sure enough-

His foe disengaged, pushing his own [Dao Principle] out. Their [Intents] were matched evenly, and their [Might]... The man was fleet, or accustomed to the darkness at least, for he gained much distance in a single bound.

Sand materialised in the air, glowing a muted shade of amethyst pink. A deluge. It poured from the air itself, swamping Fu as he rolled to the side.

“Hushi!” he called, and his octopus responded with his own [Dao of Suffocation], tightening and felling the [Spirit Lizard] almost within a heartbeat.

A cry sounded at another junction, but Fu ignored it in favor of his chain. He lashed out in the dark, where it was heavy amidst this storm of sand. Gathering and pooling on the floor, on himself, on every surface so that his footing became quite unsure.

His [Intent] hit upon another presence in the sand, something he knew by the shape of its fin as it broke through the gloom.

An amethyst [Spirit Shark]. A fisherman’s bane, however rare it was to see any body part above the waves.

Fu leapt above it, despite this, impressing to Hushi his intentions.

Two landings, and two leaps followed, keeping his foe at bay. The [Stifling Stream Revolutions] cut his chain into a vortex, and the octopus capitalised with his fluid motion. He jetted and danced, driving under their foe’s guard to rip the dagger from his hand.

While the fisherman broke his foot into the [Spirit Shark’s] gills. The beast clattered through the sand, smashing itself on the junction’s walls with a resonating crash. But Fu let it writhe, and somersaulted back to its cultivator.

Without his weapon the man took up a defensive stance. “We’ve no seeds. Only the strong possess them. But- if you’ve sense, you’ll listen.”

Nearing him, Fu impressed upon Hushi to be at the ready. “Speak.”

“We’ll come to an agreement first, master cultivator,” he said. “I’ll-” The speaking continued as Fu felt more of the… [Dao of Sand] build behind him. Paving a path for the recovering [Spirit Shark] to surge.

At a mental nod, Hushi jetted forth to bind the man’s limbs. Pinning them in place as Fu plunged his hook into the man’s throat.

“Can you find the truth of this, brother?” he asked. Fu then turned, leaving his Bond to search the man for a seed as his attention went elsewhere.

Where is the second cultivator?

Fu’s search took him through the dissipating wisps of amethyst caused by the [Spirit Shark’s] death. It was-

The same cheapness.

The same absence of thought as his first kill had provided. The woman in the Thousand Shore [Mystic Realm’s] [Reliquary]. The few that followed before his departure.

Those that stood in the way of his family’s freedom.

He found the second cultivator rolling on her back, spasmodic and nigh sobbing behind a rock much the same height as his had been. Fu came to a knee by her side. She was in clear pain from losing her Bond.

A lunacy-driving sort.

“Who are you people?” he asked, hoisting her to sit.

She wheezed out an insult. Dribbling a trail of spit that held no more strength to shoot forth than she did to stand. “Kill me,” she gurgled. “Bastard!”

“Tell me what I wish to know.”

The woman’s head lilted, but Fu steadied it. “Without my Bond I’m dead anyway! The other prisoners will- Swear that you’ll kill me. Swiftly, yes? I’m to be no one’s entertainment!”

Fu grimaced. “You have my word.”

“You seek the seeds,” She pushed her brow to the far wall. “The only way is to take them from the strong.”

“Strong, and prisoners? Then this is a prison? You walk free, I see no bars.”

“Free. Free to be preyed on. Free to-” Some surge of pain overcame her, having her tongue loll. When she recovered, the woman was freshly moist with tears. “Here they trade years for the lives of your fellows. Your initiates. Between the [Spirit Bats] and you… you blind bastards, it is a death sentence.”

“I do not think killing should shorten a sentence.” Fu let the woman’s head go. “A prisoner you may be, but this creates a worse breed, no?”

“Shut it, bastard. Worse breed,” she spat. “Sect fools. Fed from the golden spoon. Don’t pass judgement on us, you’ve known comfort. Learning. Opportunity. Beast shit flows from your mouth, to think yourself right to judge us.”

Clear that the woman was beginning to rave, Fu frowned. “Ah. Gratitude. This information will be helpful,” he said, thumbing his chain. “And, I was a fisherman.” Then Fu emptied her throat onto the sandy stone below.