Any of middling talent could spin a few coins from spirit stone. Yet the difference between deep pockets and true wealth is the difference between Heaven and Earth.

Quality.

A freshly bonded pauper might chance upon the minerals required, push her Qi into refinement and find herself a bowl of rice richer for it.

One stone is enough for flavour. Two, three, four, for nourishment.

In lower grades.

One thousand times would accumulate into the middle grade.

A further thousand refines this to high.

Again to peak.

Once more to divine.

The conversation however, remains the same. For the bowl I might buy would follow the trend.

One stone for its purchase.

With an ocean of Qi between them.

- ‘Refining One’s Wealth,’ by Sect Leader [Avaricious Stork]

A mountain had risen in Fu’s gut, bulbous and bloated. Still, the taste of sesame-fried dumplings lingered upon his lips, and he succumbed to it again despite the regretful gluttony of their celebrations last night.

“Hushi, I find myself wishing you were a swine this morning, that my stomach could have more of this meal.” An [Art] of digestion would indeed be of use, as would the [Dao of Consumption] yet he held no insight towards gaining either.

For his part, the octopus only continued to foist stray granules of rice into his beak.

Here was the nourishment of what Zhu had first spoken of. The bloating of his [Dantian] that accompanied such Qi-rich foods. One method, he supposed, of how cultivators beneath the [Tyranny of Seasons] might replenish themselves.

He put no thought to the cost, or the means of payment, and alleviated himself from the shame that another could feed his family more readily than he. Grandmother Hua’s position as [Cherry River Sage]... with this in mind he held little doubt as to her prodigious fortune, and thought no more on it.

While he had not assigned his time as such, today was set aside for Yuling. With Yuqi already set off for her studies and Feng proving his diligence in the same regard - now under the tutelage of Master Bhaswar by grace of his stupendous victory in the tournament, his eldest could command his entire attention.

Thus the morning had been filled with his daily exercises, his practice of the [Stifling Stream Revolutions] and study of the [Wind Phantom Strides’] second tome. A conceptual exercise, given his weaponless state.

And the hours had passed for a count of five until he had realised that dawn had long passed, illuminating the clouds beyond their window.

To his pride, Yuling entered from the external door. “Good morning, Father,” she said, bowing as was proper, whilst the staff within her hand stood firm.

“Daughter,” smiled Fu. “Where might you have been this hour? Am I to be suddenly thrust into a world of betrothals and courtship? Surely my Yuling would not be indecent to have spent the entire night outside?”

“The space within our apartment is not adequate for training, and I would not wake the household,” she denied.

Unable to bring his daughter to blush, Fu’s smile slightly dampened. “Diligent, as are all my children. Is your training complete for the day?”

“Only so much as Father will allow.”

“Yuling, I would not impose,” frowned Fu. “If further training is what you seek, then I will accompany you.”

Yuling looked abashed. “Ah, Father- my words were chosen poorly.” Again, she bowed, and did so swiftly as if to rectify a mistake. “My intention was to invite you, not rebuff you as my foolishness has led you to believe. This time, I cherish.”

Fu lifted his daughter from her bow. “As do I. Come then, if this is the shape of the day. My daughter would know best.”

🀨

The Divine Clouded Mountain held all, if Fu was to be certain. Where industry in Thousand Shore City was in districts, holding amenities of use to a population with mortals as the majority, this was amplified here.

A common aspect was missing, for a citizenship of cultivators held precious need for the myriad vendors that lined his old home’s streets. But in this Fu saw no replacement.

Stalls lined those streets that allowed them, and roasted chestnuts field the air with a fugue of their own. Layered shawls were pressed on more exquisite shelves than the base wooden tables he was accustomed to, and [Autumnal] wares were hawked with a respectful neutrality to those that passed by.

Treasures, however, and no mortal scrapes.

Yuling’s march was arrow-like and true, and more than once was forced to slow as Fu distantly perused that which he passed.

Silk, spun from a [Spirit Worm] of clear [Light Affinity]. The clasped bands that might decorate one’s hair, a [Starbright Ore] the frame within which their variety of jewels were embedded. From these, to all between.

Myriad, and endless in spectrum.

“Quality,” he spoke beneath his breath.

This caused Yuling to turn, and Nuwang to curl around her legs. “Father?”

“The Golden Merchant canton holds different values,” he smiled. Then he gestured a hand to a collection of stalls. “In Thousand Shore City there would stand a fish vendor in opposition to our own. There, a wine seller, spilling mortal grapes from a musty barrel. This corner, a vagrant would loiter.” The destination was reached in five more strides. “And here,” he smiled, and fell into silence.

A plaza stretched before their feet, lit enough even at this early hour to hold the descent of clouds at bay. These paper lanterns surrounded a central ring of marble, and held simple viewing stands around the perimeter.

“A district for merchants has a thing of this scale as an afterthought, no?”

The gun in Yuling’s grip tapped down, and she held back from approaching the few cultivators that assembled ahead. “Grandmother once named it the Jianghu,” she said. “The Rivers and Lakes. Meant for the martial flow that reaches all corners. Her words that followed were choice and scathing, as none now call it such.”

“The Jianghu.” Fu felt the word around his mouth.

“Our circumstances would be known as entering the Jianghu, but she fell quiet in her explanation.”

“Amituofo, Gao Yuling!” was the call that broke their conversation. In a few strides the pair were cast under the great shadow of a looming [Spirit Fish], a ray, and one whose surface crackled with vibrant dandelion arcs of lightning.

Fu had witnessed a handful of [Spirit Beasts] whose cultivation had progressed enough for speech, though the voice had come from above and not this oceanic hulk.

Yuling dipped her head as a cultivator leapt down, showing the speaker to be a Vajra woman of an age with himself. A beauty, as most were, yet with an intensity of passion that almost growled as her smile was brought to bear. “Gao Yuling, and the peerless father!”

“Senior Sruti,” greeted Yuling, ignoring the comment. “I hope you have been well.”

“Amituofo. In the mere hours since last you visited, yes,” laughed Sruti. Her [Spirit Ray] drifted into a gentle rotation above them, seeming disinterested. “Come, come, you wish for use of the training space, no?”

A pleasant smile, and it catches like fire.

The two were ushered to the ring with few words, and Sruti jerked her head to the collection of youths some few strides away. “The hopefuls arrived earlier, yes. Gao Yuling, see if you cannot persuade them to wait. A spectacle would do well to humble them.”

“As you wish, senior,” and Yuling crossed the distance with Nuwang in tow.

“Amituofo, this is a sight Gao Fu. See how your daughter commands them,” said Sruti, and turned bodily to observe.

Commands?

“She holds such sway?” remarked Fu, Hushi unlidding the douli.

In no short order he saw what Sruti had indicated. At Yuling’s approach the youths turned reserved, quieting, albeit with some expectation. Smiles rose quickly, and an exchange began where Yuling would speak and the six or so cultivators nodded so fervently that Fu thought their necks may well snap clean.

“Master Sruti-”

“Amituofo, such respect!” she laughed. “Sruti, for a friend.”

Fu took this in stride, just able to parse the informality. “Then I am but Fu, for a friend,” he returned. “Might I ask a question?”

“You might do what you wish, friend Fu, my ring is bound only by the conduct of sport. We are all equal below the [Dao].”

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The mundanity of her monastic robes said as such, sleeveless and of plain tan colours, which was disparate from the profundity of power he could sense her to hold. [Core Formation] held a spectrum, from his own near-achievement of it to the heights of Cheng Rao at its peak.

Struti’s peripheral power however, transcended this.

“Yuling frequents your ring often? Her diligence has me proud, yet it is said that too much salt ruins the stew.”

“Amituofo,” the Vajra nodded. “This stew has only but touched the stove. Concern as this is touching, Gao Fu, and this eighteenth-rate daoist finds it refreshing. Amituofo.”

Eighteenth.

Fu clasped his hands in small respect. “If a man did not accept our equality under the [Dao], he might offer greetings to so profound a master.”

“Amituofo, this man might stay silent, and find that the winds still blow despite it,” offered Sruti. “The ring is set,” she grinned. “Come, come.”

Yuling had mounted the ring ahead, and stood ready with gun in hand.

“The father goes weaponless,” whispered one of the youths.

“Truly, he must be as peerless as sister Yuling maintains,” said another.

Repressing a smile, Fu wondered on peerless. Had his daughter created a fantasy around his skills? It no doubt helped her ingratiate herself with these scions to do so.

Ah. Yuling will lose face if my technique is lacking. Yet, if I beat her too readily then she will be likewise brought to shame.

If he could, he supposed, knowing well the talents of his children.

At centre stage, he fell into his stance. “You may choose the form of this, daughter,” he said, spying Nuwang, apprehensive at the edge.

“A martial contest, Father, if this is acceptable. Uncle Hushi and Nuwang will spectate.”

Fu unslung his douli, and the octopus promptly moved to the ringside, slinking to rest on one of the lantern-poles. “Begin when you are ready,” he called.

In three steps Yuling was upon him, her gun battering sidelong. The [Might] behind it was one of physical force, and less imparted to swiftness like his own. So he stepped from its path, swatting the staff’s tip to the marble with a slap.

Yuling readjusted, timing three jabs, and a rotation of her weapon. The butt flashed around, now inverted to swing from below, and this Fu stepped back from as well.

They flowed, and he noted her increasing speed.

The motions became less repetitive, and her staffwork ever improved. This exchange passed ten blows, then twenty, progressing beyond fifty until Fu saw that his avenues were slowly closing. Her staff was a blur of rotation, dogging him with increasingly precise blows that would respond to his previous movement.

A quick improvement. I am impressed.

While not forced to, Fu spun from the next, hammering his foot down atop the staff to clamp it tight against the ground. “My daughter is fierce,” he said.

But Yuling said nothing, and yanked the gun free from his clutches.

Quiet determination was painted across her features, pristine now and yet to be strained. Her grip then shortened on the staff, and clutched tight to her waist in this next advance. She swept at Fu, not only in strikes but in her practised step.

A set flew out, low, high, a twist, a backwards stride that jabbed as her free arm lifted. It seemed wasteful to Fu, though he knew well the peculiarities of martial styles. The free arm descended with a mite of haste, where dominant arms were exchanged to thrust the gun ahead and have Fu deflect with an open palm.

“Father, I request that you attack,” she called, flowing to a stop.

With guilt plain for all to see, Fu dipped his head. “If you wish it.”

The [Stifling Stream Revolutions] were bastardised in the coming moments. One kick from his style that was prefaced, and then punctuated with mundane strikes. He struck only at the incoming staff, and only ever in deflection or defence. A swat, a hook to dislodge it from her grip, or pin the weapon to the ground once more.

He had not the heart to strike his daughter once.

And yet… and yet the frustration boiled behind her implaccable face. In minutes recesses that only one who had looked upon it for moons upon moons might see. She bore neutrality in eyes, in lips and all.

But her nose was revealing, shared with her mother.

Beyond flaring nostrils widened by the exertion of breath, a twitch. Mei’s sign that spoke of rare bottlenecks, interruptions to her insight. Steamed plaice, when the ginger was too rich but her kindness would not sour Fu’s efforts in cooking.

His periphery beheld Sruti, this stranger of vaunted insight. Her gaze weighted, if mirthful and expectant.

Fu did not have to guess why, for this bout would do Yuling no favours such as it was.

“A greenhouse flower fares poorly in the rain,” he said.

The gun smashed down from on high, bent like spry willow from the trunk of his daughter. Her hand came alongside, clawed and horizontal.

One pace took Fu to the side, and he struck at her elbow with a speed that he knew she could not counter. But the blow was not delivered to full effect, and rather slapped her skin with enough force that she recoiled in pain.

A sting, all he could bring himself to muster.

He allowed the staff nearer, having it pass within hairs of his face, his arms and chest. Close enough that her peers would see the effects of her training, but fruitless, slowing as Fu stuck again and again.

Until the eleventh blow came in as many minutes, and he put himself distant from the clash. “The results of your training are clear. Well done, Yuling.”

His daughter’s staff wobbled against her weight, if only for a moment. And in this moment came a muttering that Fu’s [Senses] caught well enough, try as his daughter had to mask it. “Still I am lacking,” it dispersed, hissing into the clouds above.

Fu moved to Nuwang, and put himself to a knee. The [Spirit Lion]’s desire was clear, for even with his approach her attention was half-stolen by her cultivator. “See how far you have come in a mere three [Seasons],” he said. “What joy it brings to think how much further you will go.”

Nuwang uncrossed her paws, and her head dipped.

“Yet that joy must be tempered,” he continued, now grim. “For I am told that Feng will try his hand at cooking this evening, and I have never much enjoyed the taste of uncooked rice.”

🀨

Dinner was a quick affair, and blessed were the Gao Clan for the [Resilience] of cultivators.

“The teapot, Gao Feng. Water is not so easily burnt,” hummed Grandmother Hua, the most vocal of all.

Feng rushed to appease his elder, and in doing so had the teapot’s handle creak under his strength. It was a sound that brought all to cringe, fearing the reprisal of what might become of one that stood in the way of Hua’s indulgence. “Here, Grandmother,” he said, too loud for the confines of their apartment, and poured a steaming blue liquid into her waiting cup.

With a look that would have mountains shrivel, the tea was sipped.

“Adequate, Gao Feng,” she dismissed, and in strange happenstance remained silent as she enjoyed the brew.

On previous visits, and these previous nights, Hua had led much of the conversation. She would have the youths recite their teachings, or ask pointed questions that would relate to all they had learned.

Yet here she sat contemplative.

Thus the four chatted on small things, and whiled away the minutes and hours, content in company. Feng spoke of his day’s learnings with Master Bhaswar, and the scriptures of master’s past whose prose he had him learn. These were met with myriad hums, though if Hua wished to voice concerns, she did not.

Yuqi shared small rumblings from the library, and her empathy showed with words of concern for the proprietor. A [Mystic Realm] some few hundred li away, now closed, and how this increased the price of his wooden bindings.

For no base material would do for his craft.

Mundane topics that ended with Yuling, her fingers quietly stealing across tender skin.

“...and forthright to a fault. I would not soon introduce you,” smiled Fu. “Zhu’s fondness for spirit wine transcends that of even Jing.”

It was Yuqi that put a hand on his wrist, chipper despite the topic. But it broke as her eyes stoked with remembrance, and after a span of breaths Yiji approached the table. A box within his maw.

Fu took it as it was nudged into his waiting palm, surprised a second was then placed on the table before him. One narrow and long, and the other squat. He thumbed the edge of the first, finding it to be a strange and supple leather where the latter was as bright as [Spring] bamboo.

“Yiji and I retrieved your weapon from the smith after training, Father, I hope you do not mind,” Yuqi said. “It seemed prudent with how little time we have with each other.”

“Gratitude, daughter. Most thoughtful to preserve what moments we have. The second box goes unexplained however.”

“A gift,” broke Feng, and in matching suit with his siblings he set his gaze downward.

“A gift?” asked Fu. “What gift is more joyous than the days I have spent here? It is appreciated children, truly, but you should not trouble yourselves such as this.”

Considerate, are they not? But a waste when they have their own needs.

The bamboo box had been pushed halfway across the table when it was addressed by a low hum. “The children are free to spend their allowance as they wish, Gao Fu,” said Hua, and stared him down until his fingers pulled it back.

He detached the lid, and drew out a folded bolt of mahogany-coloured fabric, which he stood to place against the length of his body. “A set of hanfu,” he said, catching the trousers as they unfurled from the bundle.

“Do you like it Father?” chirped Yuqi, grinning.

Stylised fumes were patterned across the torso’s base, done in purest white, and with sharp contrast to the brown upon which it was set. A heavy thing, he mused, if soft enough to be mistaken for a thick curtain.

“A wonder,” he said, and his tone was true enough for one who counted clothes and accessories as frivolous. Fu paused as he unwound the top of his uniform, despite seeing no change on the faces of his children.

Changing before them… it seemed improper now. For those that had shared but a single room within a boat, privacy was no near luxury. He left however, and returned soon enough in his new clothing.

“It fits well,” he said, knowing little of how to act.

“The pattern?” asked Yuqi.

Fu walked his fingers to the base, and saw it inverted. He noted how the fabric did not swish, and clung well to his body. “The subtlety of it suits me fine. A good choice.”

Lacking the same subtlety, Yuqi put her hands on the stoic Yuling. “Apologies sister,” she laughed, then turned back to Fu. “We warred with designs, but Yuling won out with the same musings. In hindsight, it is better that you do not the wear the gold and teal that I had picked.”

“Gold?” he smiled.

“Feng wishe-”

“Children,” hummed Hua, pushing them to immediate silence.

The hands clasped upon Yuling fell as if weighted, returning to Yuqi’s lap. In the background, Paxing grumbled, and even his eldest put on a grimace as this solitary word.

A sombre mood arrives.

One by one, harkened by Hua’s interjection, the children stood. First came Feng, who approached his father in a low bow. “When next you return…” he trailed. “May you walk an interesting path, Father.”

Yuling joined him in similar fashion, her bow more pronounced. If regal. “You may leave all in my care. May you move swiftly, Father.”

It was Yuqi’s full body hug that brought home what was to happen next. Of a tightness that threatened to crush any mortal’s lungs. Fu clamped back, uncertain if the wetness he felt was only the lash of Yiji’s feline tongue. “It will not always be so, will it?” she half-pleaded. “Our father, the passing ship.”

“Oh sweet Yuqi. These few days are a grain of sand in the immortality that we might all spend together. Think nothing of my absence,” he smiled, cupping her moistened cheek in his palm. “For you will no sooner notice it than I will return.”

A final hum separated them, and they strode off into their quarters with but sparing glances behind.

“Two days did not include the time to travel,” he said, addressing Hua.

“It did not, Gao Fu.”

But in place of a frown, one that might have spread with the reduction of this precious time, he felt only the most immense gratitude. “Grandmother, I offer whatever my thanks are worth.”

Hua’s affirmation came in slow nods. “The lifting of my kin’s spirits are thanks enough. Bah. See here, oaf, you drive me to mortal sentimentality. Were I millenia younger a tear might crest my withered cheek.”

Of course, no such withering was present.

“Ever am I humbled by your talent,” he continued. “To have a [Heritage] readied even with my shortsightedness in concepts. Might I know where I am to travel?”

A stranger hum, then. “The [Constellation Seed] you are to claim is intermediary. Alignment with your path factors little, if at all.” She gestured then, her brow angling in such a way that attention was pooled to the tabletop. There, a pair of tokens sat, crimson and round. “For the [Spatial Array].”

Fu nodded, and disappeared them into his storage while he waited for Hau to continue.

“The [Mystic Realm] is heist as much as [Trial], Gao Fu. My breath would be wasted to speak on the wariness you must employ as your talents, while mild and lacking, are suited for this. Know only that claiming victory here will paint you with a brush on par with this Sepulchral Sabre Sect, should you do so poorly.”