Fu wished for the safety of his rope, as the slight ledge of a trail they now tread was so thin that his feet were more often over empty air than upon the ground. His belly, close against the rockface with each sidled step.

He mused, more to rid his mind of plummeting thoughts than from necessity, that such a number of cultivators in ascent must look strange from afar. For any who might stand in the canyons below, or further, would see them as scuttling insects.

Termites ascending a mound so vast the top seemed unassailable.

“Hushi,” called Fu “Are you well?” Receiving a gentle tap upon his jaw from the douli, hung at his back as not to rub against the stone.

His Bond travelled most lavishly, sprawled wide and joyous. Immersed in the richness of [Air Qi] that such a height granted. It was a mood Fu shared, as he felt all the more vital to be in his element.

Though this ascent of hours ended upon reaching a plateau, where many paths, and many of their comrades converged.

But there were few huffs of breath between them, and propriety was held at the moment they emerged. Appearing before Senior Cheng Rao with gasping breath would be shameful.

Thus the Cloudy Serpent Sect held this stance. For minutes, at first, and then a span longer, waiting in supplication. Poised in tedium behind a senior that showed no interest, nor inclination to turn from anything but the sight before him.

Wisping Blight. A tide of which lapped upon the crest of the approach he faced, a rising expanse in the shadow of their destination. The Bastion, where green fumes fonted, and streamed down each edifice.

Fu had spied it upon kneeling, as he was sure that all around him had, and in this waiting it crept. Edging, to have sweat cool his spine.

If in droplets alone.

Here was more meaning, he felt. Seen in how the Blight shied from Cheng Rao in fright, not only in space, but in where the weight of his gaze fell. So it passed, and so it spilled from the danger of this senior unto the lesser ranks of the Sect.

Uncertain.

As though a fearful nest of serpents set about coiling between knees, and arms, trepidation in the tendrils that seemed to stall in judgement by each lowered head.

Dispersing at the first step to cascade by, and inflict itself on the canyons below.

Senior Rao had begun his ascent, measured in his stride. For moments at least, as each pace drew haze in its wake, and azure blots in mild number where his [Spirit Peacock] was shown to roam.

A palpable tension shifted through the disciples as they watched the Bond turn, separate from its cultivator, to strut with the same vindication. With meaning and profundity.

Drawing such silence that a singular tap of claw deafened, and [Senses] played no part in hearing the ruffle of its train.

Yet [Insight], and Fu’s perception of the [Dao] showed him to the sigils upon that trodden ground, and while he was impotent to resist what might come, he knew it would. Therefore he exhaled into stillness, and emptiness of mind.

Which held little merit as the land itself warped, though he embraced it all the same.

A change in the earth ahead showed great steps to rise, meeting, and ending at the base of stone bannisters that had not stood there but a heartbeat before. And this change continued at each passing of the [Spirit Peacock’s] strut until what remained was no barren ascent, but an approach that might befit a monastery or Sect.

One leading to the venerable senior, and his distancing form.

Yet such was the respect held that none among the disciples would follow, nor made to break the silence. Which surprised Fu, for the meaning was clear to him, and in his mind so too should it be clear to his betters.

Are staircases not built to move upwards?

So he spared a glance at his comrades, first to Xianyi, and then to Adhrit and Long, seeing there that they were not eager to confront this. Which was almost enough to unfold a sigh, for it showed how far below he was in understanding.

The inference of instruction, which Cheng Rao’s leadership had them follow, was better saved for those such as Yongwu Long who was well versed in Sect life. Or for the Adhrits of the land, the Vajra, and those that named themselves daoists, open to ponderance and able to see clear the way in how the Fathomless [Dao] might manifest.

But now the Blight’s edge trickled upon the periphery of their safety, and none yet had made to move.

Not among the true officers and disciples, and certainly not among the Hopefuls. It had Fu wonder, and against his nature, he stood.

Oddly, he did not view Cheng Rao as a malicious man, despite all he had seen. From the killings within the Bastion, to the allowance of death upon ridge and canyon, he held in no doubt that these were vicious things.

Further yet, he had no intent to distinguish himself, seeking to stand first to face whatever trial blocked their passage with bravado, and arrogant stride. Rather, Fu was wary of the [Contribution Array], and how standing still would see him no closer to ridding his children of hardship.

Thus he approached, passing through rows to reach the front. Where his feet took him further, and to the base.

Though a rising murmur soon passed behind, and a voice broke over his far shoulder. “Hold now,” it said, and a woman parted the crowd to meet at his side. Warning there, in both tone and how Hushi’s gaze was met close by her nearing [Spirit Serpent]. “I will move first, to ward harm and hardship from this junior.”

“Senior sister’s benevolence is a treasure,” said Fu, and bowed as the disciple set her foot upon the first step.

He expected a spectacle to unfold as sole met stone, and was relieved as none came. In fact, the woman ascended with no visible trouble, calling more of the Sect to follow in the same fashion.

Few did not brush by Fu, or move him aside with demeanour alone, though a notable sum gathered at his back with no intention to gain his position. Save for Long, who did so with a passing whisper.

“Glutton,” he chuckled, showing no signs that he might elaborate further.

🀧

The sun soon appeared queer in Fu’s eyes as it held its watch no higher, nor lower than when he had begun his ascent. Blight still plumed, and the same shade washed over Cheng Rao’s staircase beneath the Bastion's imperious stance as it had before.

He had made progress, he was sure, and hours had passed. Though he could not dismiss a feeling of wrong.

“Hushi,” he called, and the octopus slapped once in response. What suction his arms had caused feeling of a deeper sort, as though pried free after a length Fu had not realised. Almost raw when they peeled back.

Fu touched his own cheek, gingerly, and called to his Bond again. Noting a distortion in how his voice now sounded.

Even more, as Mei spoke. “You were no fitting senior.”

And upon the vacant staircase, darkened, musted blood dropped from the gouge where neck met shoulder.

Below, Fu’s foot caught the stone’s lip to bring him to stumble. An impact no less than the thump within his ribs. “Mei. You cannot be here.”

“Tell me, senior Fu,” she spat. “Why can I not?”

A cold grew.

First in Fu’s gut, and then at a creep up the stem of his spine. But all this while he held his gaze true, meeting a milk-white stare. A void where her passion had once danced. “As you have passed, Mei.”

“Passed?” The chill amplified, and clutched most to the skin-inlaid serpent on Fu’s arm. “It was no less than murder.”

“It was.”

“It was,” Mei screeched back. “Negligence! To dismiss the role you had in my death. To collar yourself to those that delivered the blow.” The apparition raced then, making for Fu with an aura of violent [Intent] about her body. Touching upon his skin with the same feel as one plunging below icy waters.

Fu clutched her in his arms, tightening an embrace despite this. “Peace, Mei. I know well the part I played.” The cold intensified once more. “I know that you should stand here, and that I would not without your guidance. Remorse I hold within my heart, and guilt. And shame, in knowing the debt I owe you holds no equal under Heaven, and yet cannot be repaid.”

He placed her at an arm’s length, and though improper, held a palm to cup her face. Dew upon his own, moist, where Mei’s was dry and lifeless. When his wrist came to wipe this stain, he found her to be gone.

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As were the stairs, and the Bastion’s shade, and then the memory of why he thought those two things important.

Instead of-

No, Fu held no bearing on what might have come before. A vaguity of sense that Thousand Shore City’s pier was not as it should be. As when he moved beneath the innumerable floating lanterns of the Lunar Autumn Festival, the flames drew closer.

Stars that descended to grant none of their warmth. So he bundled himself tight, making for home with a notion that the snapped threads of his cloak might stave off the cold.

Why a single stride crossed the gap between pier, street and ship he could not say, only that when he arrived there sounded a familiar creak. A pressing of foot upon his deck, and the squeak of worn wood when his weight came to bear on it.

His next heartbeat had it turn to cinders. His step, the epicentre of a blaze that saw his home ash. In charring of sail, and wall, and further to dying embers.

This cannot be.

Fu moved then, possessed by such fear that he could not comprehend, and the cold gripped tight despite the lilting flame upon the boards he tore. Rubble of crossed blackness that gave way to their cabin, littering him in ash, and blurring his eyes to the figures within.

Two upon knees aside the silent third.

Where Fu joined, hollow in his stumble down. “Yuqi!” he burst, fetching up his lifeless daughter. A further cold mounting as she was pressed tight.

“How could you allow this, Father!”

“Why could you not save her!”

“Are we to meet the same?”

And more followed in fiendish chorus.

“My children,” Fu trembled, and drew Yuling and Feng to his chest. Cradling all three of those he had failed.

“Is our sister to die in vain?” questioned his son.

“This Sect, Father! Why do they do this?” spoke his daughter.

And Fu had no answers that might comfort them, no idiom in that moment. The peace he fostered so easily could not come forth, and his inner sea churned so violently that grief was lost below it.

Hostile thought lifted his tongue, and was about to utter words of condemnation, of a vow to bloody the Cloudy Serpents, when Yuling parted from his embrace to have his [Dantian] buzz.

He swept a thumb across her tear-stained face, smudging it into ashen paste. “Where are my children?” he asked.

To which both recoiled, whispering in concert. “Father?”

“Sweet Yuling, and doting Feng,” he sighed. “A day apart was always torture for my soul. But I would know you, and you are not.”

Tears welled in the eyes of both children, and then came a repetition. “Father?”

“[Demons] or Phantoms? I cannot say. Only that I am a Father, and a Father knows.” Still, he pulled tight the pair that bore their countenance, burying their heads in his chest. “This is a falsehood, and a horror, but it is good to have you close. No matter what this may be.” He indulged for a moment longer, allowing his realisation to cleanse the pit in his stomach and the stone in his throat, before standing free.

The chill was banished as Fu found himself at the top of a staircase, and into a [Summer’s] night.

Where he should be.

A line of ten disciples were at rest ahead, folded in their lotus positions beneath the pensive weight of Cheng Rao’s stare at their fore.

But as he moved closer, Fu found it to be vacant.

No eyes followed as he took a seat, and the potency of gaze was instead filled with blots of azure that stretched across his irises.

Meaning shall be the death of me. But I have survived, or passed for now.

He allowed himself a sigh, his breath shaky.

To look upon the corpse of one’s child… That was something he would never revisit. Not in vision, nor reality. It had shaken him to the point of a growing insanity, he was sure, And even now, he reeled upon conjuring that unbidden image.

He set his mind to closer plights, and impressed a question to his Bond. Where it struck against Hushi’s absence of thought.

The octopus was rigid above, and when Fu stole him into his arms, he saw through stirrings that he was still adrift in thought.

In comfort, Fu grasped an arm. Perhaps, more tightly than he had intended.

🀧

Cheng Rao’s silence, absence, or otherwise state of being granted Fu the leave to cultivate, and once Hushi had broken from his vision the pair had taken to it swiftly.

Leading to now, and to the froth of pungent [Impurities] that spilled from his mouth. A new [Meridian] reached, and opened.

Fu did not bask in the newfound power, nor address his increase in attributes, no, first and foremost he rocked to one side and splurged a pooling of fluid atop the arid ground. A shameful sight to be sure.

But ahead the venerable senior was entranced in azure, and the joined cultivators were too focused on their own paths to notice.

Strange, given how offensive this turgid internal liquid presented to one’s nostrils. He wondered if it would be improper to move, or if decorum would have him sit beside this pile until the disciples were to be addressed.

A sufferance less than what we have just gone through. I suppose I might bear it.

Fu clenched his jaw to look back upon the staircase, and those trapped within. An evocation of dread, there, on the faces of those caught between steps. They numbered less than a dozen now, statuesque, with many feet hovering before the next level. What he must have looked like, he supposed and what the next would soon face.

Towards the creep of sunrise, more faces had joined at the base. Crowds of cultivators in a splay of colour that was not limited to the mere one that heralded the Cloudy Serpent Sect. A warmth of orange, and that of jade, as far as he could perceive across gloom and distance.

Some small part within urged him to warn the newcomers, incurring the wrath of Cheng Rao if only to save the minds of those he did not know.

Yet in this regard he was no fool, and so conjured his [Ink].

Hushi jostled, and Fu peered up at the brim of his douli. Caution was impressed through their link, and a teal arm swatted at the characters for [Meridian].

Wariness going forward. I understand, my [Channels] are as baked as caught fish beneath a [Summer] sun.

Indeed, as the [Ink] was banished and his gains noted, a rawness rung throughout his body at the slightest movement. A tolerable thing, and a pleasant burn for now, but it spoke of the exertion he had placed himself under, and as fair warning to not rush his cultivation.

My cultivation.

It was still a foreign association to him. That Gao Fu, humble fisherman could possibly tread a path of defiance against the Heavens. It was laughable.

Perhaps more so, when he looked about his present company.

Passing Long and Adhrit at each other’s side, and beyond Xianyi, alone, and far separate from the surrounding [Core Formation Realm] experts.

The daoists, technique masters, and the like.

Theirs’ was an unsettling and bewildering gap, as he knew not how far he had to progress to reach them, or even cross between these realms. Tomes and conversation had revealed little in this regard, and the discrepancy between those at [Formation] further added to this. So he took to pondering this.

Interrupted then, in the time it might take a stick of incense to burn. His Bond reacted first, and his [Senses] second, drawn to a dispersal of Qi to their rear.

The Blight’s descent.

A flood of corpulent tendrils swept across the staircase to claim his comrades within, and with a swiftness that had its claws sink deep. He rose, and rounded as many of his comrades broke from their cultivation did the same.

All witness to the [Dao Field], violating the bodies of those who remained behind. Their skin bulged with a tint of green, and there looked to be a scuttling of insects beneath, roaming and expanding. Limbs grew bulbous, and the disciples’ bodies ballooned in foliage, with tearing vines and bark breaking out into open air.

Fu winced, and turned away.

He was unwilling to witness the Blight’s effect, and it recalled memories of the brief taste he had consumed. A scratching of growth at the lining of his throat, where now it brought a great nausea instead.

Sounds carried however, no matter where he looked. Acute through his [Senses], not limited to smell nor hearing.

He pulled a mite of Qi from his [Dantian], travelling inwards to silence the chorus of tearing flesh and garbled moans. Finding that with his thoughts on [Senses], he could use what he had grasped to affect them. Not in any semblance of technique or [Art] but with a small flex of will that allowed him to… see.

To perceive, or to sense another force of Qi at his side, and then more behind. A sliver of what he realised to be another’s [Dantian].

The cost to do so was negligible, which was fitting, for all that returned to him was a resonance of vastness. Reserves of Qi that were far above his own, and identical in hierarchy.

Possessed by outer disciples, once he used his eyes to look upon them.

This sense, or unnamed ability reached no further than five strides, and as such Fu tread slowly down this line, checking those that he passed in turn.

Suns, blaring with the heat of Qi, one and all.

That was until he came upon a more dishevelled man, his fearful demeanour and litany of scrapes a true beacon of one named Hopeful. There Fu found no sun, but a base candle.

Such spying seems improper.

A guilt surfaced the longer he inspected this man, and the act warred against the notion that he would not enjoy such an intrusion were it done to him. Though as seconds passed he did not seem to notice.

Hushi impressed something to him, an emotion akin to patience, and yet so too was it of haste, as though he had been waiting for Fu to access this power. It brought Fu to parse his lips, passing back an apology before he inspected the [Dantian] before him.

A vague impression formed, and it was not as simple as reading a scroll. Something Fu had, likewise, yet to master, and it begged for more Qi to be pulled in order to reveal more. Scrutiny showed a path to form in hazy outline, as though the two [Dantians] spoke to one another, and a count surfaced in Fu’s mind.

Five, perhaps, or six reservoirs of-

Touching upon the man’s opened [Meridians] had the target shiver, and he shuffled uneasily to face Fu’s direction. Avoiding the eyes of the spare few outer disciples in their immediate vicinity to drop his head low.

“A poor joke, junior,” said one to Fu’s right.

A lithe bird of a man, as his hair was decorated with no small array of feathers.

Entering this sense had the voice distorted, so he left, expecting chastisement. “Apologies, senior.”

There was a bristling purr by his feet, and then this senior’s hand clapped upon his shoulder to open up further conversation. “Those above you in cultivation will know should you probe for more than a moment. To know one’s strength, search instead for the [Ink], or their bonded partner.” He looked fondly at the [Spirit Lynx] below, and nodded. “Bad taste to do so to our junior brother here. He has passed senior Rao’s trial, as we all have. Unlike these disloyal dogs.”

Disloyal?

Rather than chase this point, Fu bowed. “This instruction is welcome, and I will heed it well, senior. Gratitude.”

“See that you do. The Cloudy Serpent Sect should not suffer for those wanting knowledge that is easily taught.” The man released his hold on Fu’s shoulder, and to much surprise, gave an affirming smile. “Now focus, junior. Senior Rao grants us another gift,” he said, passing his eyes to the group at the staircase’s base, yet saying nothing else.

Fu saw no gift there but the strangers, noting that these could only be the disciples of the other Sects that staffed the [Mystic Realm’s] Bastions. Then, as the first among them stepped forth, he took to wondering just what manner of gift might be bestowed.