Another lesson in the haste of cultivators came not an hour later, leading to Fu and his compatriots separating, splitting into both separate directions and separate divisions.

A modest tour had shown them to a sparse barracks, a series of raised courtyards, and a length of wall where many ministerial offices held residence.

Now, he and two others were in the care of a scholarly woman, who was in the process of placing paper talismans upon their wrists. A prick of his own blood rolled down the center, freshly drawn, and an exchange of Qi was undertaken before its removal.

“Reveal your [Ink],” she spilled, her tone indicative of one who had repeated this exact moment thousands of times before. “Vice Officer Gan has this as law. Thus, shed any doubts you might hold.”

Holding no such doubts, Fu called upon the full splay of his [Ink].

Characters pushed out in their usual teal and gold, and the scholar before him was shown to be reading it. This had him shuffle a mite, realising how bare it laid him to have someone know his all. And perhaps, worse, to show no sign that it was particularly impressive.

“Focus on the sensation on your chest,” she continued, this time addressing all that stood with him. “Conjure it forward in the same way as you might your [Ink].”

Fu reached out with his senses, touching upon yet another foreign [Array] in his body. As he did, parchment unfurled, though grey in hue.

“Above you will see the outstanding balance owed this [Season]. Below, the total owed, and below that, the Merit Points you will accrue should you live long enough to do so,” explained the scholar. “As Hopeful, you will receive two meals a day, the barracks of the squad you shall be placed in remain free, and a single [Qi Condensing Pill] upon receiving your wages. Standard training shall also commence a week after your arrival, in the interest of conserving both resources and time. Any further purchases must be done with Contribution or Merit, and at your own discretion.”

One of the cultivators beside Fu scratched at his chin. “Senior sister!” he yelled, far louder than was necessary.

“Hopeful Zang Ce,” she answered. His name a weary curse, yet one that stirred more emotion into the doldrum of her rehearsed words. “The [Green Blight Valley Mystic Realm] is a shared venture granted by the Cloudy Serpent Sect, and we are joined by both sister and lesser, relative Sects. To reduce the shame you might bring upon us through affiliation, you will address those you see by their rank. Note the embroidery. Sect, Vice, First, Second, Third, and so on. And bear the assumption that all you come across are outer disciples. I trust your ability to count will keep you from offence, no matter how meagre.”

“Senior Third!” came his second shout, punctuating a low bow.

A sigh told him to “Speak.”

“I have [Spirit Cores] gathered from my previous visit to the Thousand Shore City [Mystic Realm], where might I exchange these?”

Following the same weary tone, the scholar’s expression turned flat. “The Contribution exchange for this area of the fortification is further down this wall. Here, you may exchange both of your currencies, though only one of your former group has garnered any Merit Points thus far. Such things are to be done in your spare time, however, and already, orders await.”

She led them for a further hundred paces, where they ascended around the gargantuan fortification by way of an external staircase. Much of their new home had been previously obscured, and to walk showed the full splay of its glory.

The fort, Green Blight Bastion,

as it was explained, was but one of eight similar fortifications that ringed the nomical valley.

Though Fu could not see this.

A thickness of green fog swamped the lands below, and their ascent showed it to reach but a single pace above the gate’s base, wisping at the walls to rise no higher. The same scene reflected along each of the ten or so li until the fortification’s end, showing naught but a ridge beyond it, and a distant silhouette beyond that.

“Five out of eight bastions are claimed, and staffed by our affiliate forces. Here, closest to the [Paifang], the Cloudy Serpent Sect holds majority,” the scholar explained, stopping before a decorated board at the edge of a vast, mountaintop courtyard. “You will notice it sparse at the moment, and that is due to the time of day. The [Green Blight] descends early in [Spring], and our forces, both debtor and those regimented, are blocked from return until it subsides after noon. A routine you will come to know well.”

Fu now held many unfamiliar terms in his mind, and was about to inquire on them when Hushi impressed his own curiosity. As did the Bonds of his fellow cultivators.

An ambient pressure of Qi had risen, approaching from a staircase that linked this courtyard and the perimeter wall.

And there, did a group descend.

Awe hummed in Fu to see them. A retinue of thirty, each in seamless step with their comrades, battered and bloody.

Yet imposing.

It was unknown to him why he felt this sudden surge of respect, as by now he had crossed paths with many cultivators.

Still, the heraldry of their Cloudy Serpent Sect was emblazoned upon each hanfu to mark them as his seniors, and his eyes went further, to their sleeveless clothes, and to the shoulders that bore silken sacks.

One to a man, and more to their Bonds. A range of forms, and to Fu’s note, not one serpent among them.

To either side Fu’s companions bowed, and he followed suit. Quite willingly. And he stayed low as these cultivators filed past, with but one remaining. Hushed tones were exchanged, that, and the occasional exclamation that granted their words volume.

“[Foundation]? Here?”

The scholar calmed whomever she spoke to, continuing for some time.

“Rise,” came an instruction, which, when followed, showed a woman of some unparalleled beauty.

Slight of frame, and brows at a height of Fu, but a marvel. Silken hair, the colour of [Spring’s] first shoots, and a set of eyes to match. His heart was forever closed, and for this he did not need the [Dao] to swear upon to mark as true.

Yet she was striking.

Perhaps this is why she scowled at him, and repeated her question in the face of his slack-jawed stare.

He jerked, twice, first upon realisation of his folly, and the next when she palmed his closest hand. “Rough. Calloused. You are barely beyond your first [Node],” she said, moving on to Zang Ce. “You, you are softer. I expect you shall die first.”

“This lowly Hopeful is grateful for senior Fourth’s time!”

Third. This fellow might yet get himself killed before whatever orders are given.

The Third Officer spoke with a gentler touch upon meeting with the remaining refugee. “Ah, but here stands a thorn among flowers. Two [Nodes] open.” A pace back had her address all three, swift enough that it revealed the [Spirit Beast] hidden below the trails of the sash at her waist.

It was a rounded creature, and skittish, given how it rolled back to safety as the first lick of sunlight landed upon its plates.

“The sea is not to be measured. A foolish saying. As it stands, you are both a detriment and a danger to my brigade. Little better than the debtor trash we must protect.”

Fu noted how she let that hang in the air, though it did not bother him. He was well aware of his limitations.

“I am Third Officer Zhiyuan, and I lead this fortification’s Nineteenth [Winter] Brigade. The unit to which you are now assigned.” This beckoned a bow from those she addressed, but she continued throughout. “To say more is both beneath me, and a waste of my breath. Corpses regard information with such little value. Now, douli,” she snapped, singling out Fu. “Let us see how well you deal with rope.”

🀦

The peerless void of green fog, the Blight, came.

Rapidly.

Rising as the tide it was at the end of Fu’s desperately flailing arms.

Momentum carried him ever downwards, and it was all he could do to clamp tight his mouth so that none might enter. Then, the rope went taught, heaving into his gut to snap him against the wall’s surface with a sudden bash.

[Resilience] took the brunt of this full-bodied blow, preventing a snap or breakage to leave a only series of bruises that would no doubt flourish come morning. Still, like a great many things, he would leave that for later reflection.

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The Blight was creeping, hungrily, and so he steadied once more to make his ascent. A seamless knot was around his waist, fastened with an infusion of Qi, either by ability or by some form of [Array], affording the correct amount of desired length as it was required.

Thus Fu placed hand after hand, walking vertically, and found it not quite as burdensome as it might have been without.

Fifty more individuals had also cast themselves over the wall, yet their prowess and balance far outstripped his. They were as the rope, seamless, dancing on this sheer surface of sun-bleached brick as though it were second nature.

Almost insects themselves.

Several vertical paces later and his rope crossed paths with another, where it forked, attaching around his own with a new, frayed edge, only to meld on the far side as not to cause any disruption.

Though any thoughts of how he might have used this to fish Thousand Shore City dry in less than a [Season] were cut short by two bodies.

A debtor descended, laden with a basket and pick. Heavy patter sounded as his feet struck the wall, and the glowing, Blight-tinged crystals he had harvested thus far clinked. He coughed through his mouth-wrap, now a head above Fu, and set about prying free the crystalline residue between the brickwork.

“Junior!” roared the second, the cultivator above.

Fu peered up to notice the drawn weapon, leading him to trace his gaze.

Pockets of brown moved through the Blight below, thrashing the fog with the rapid beat of slender wings. Spindly [Spirit Insects] emerged, erratic in movement, pinging from brick to distant brick on their rise.

A nervous heartbeat trembled in Fu. These gave off the higher sense of power of those he had faced before.

Sweat slickened his palm, the grip upon his chain not as solid as he might have liked.

And then to each side his seniors propelled past, bounding down the vertical surface with weapons raised and Bonds in tow.

This shook him further from thoughts of fleeing, for it seemed that today his feet were treacherous. It allowed his focus to fall upon a kinder voice, one granting instruction as it rushed past.

“Protect the debtors. We’ll handle the rest, but it’s your duty to kill any that make it by.”

Informal, again.

In that slurred speech that Grandmother Hua forbade him from speaking. But it held comfort. Reminiscent of how he would speak with Jing, unburdened by anything but fish.

Hushi expanded with a kernel of Fu’s Qi, spiralling up the attached rope, and the cultivator firmed himself in turn.

You have the way of it, Hushi. Gratitude.

Rather than wait for the first [Spirit Insect] to reach him, Fu drove down the wall, well aware of the roiling blight below. He lashed out, unspooling a half-length of chain to drive at his closest foe, having it fail to find purchase. It fell short, dragged towards Earth as all things did when they dared rise closer to the Heavens.

But proximity had straightened the creature, who no longer zagged and bounced. Instead, arcing to fly straight. Frilled protrusions decorated the front, snapping at a pace to match the beat of its parchment-thin wings.

Inches now, from Fu.

So he rolled on instinct, horizontal on the wall’s face. Coming up… fine. As he might upon the flattened ground.

He withheld his surprise, however, and lashed sidewards to send the head of his chain clean through the [Spirit Insect’s] wings. Having it stutter, all six legs scramble upon the brick, and plummet but a moment later.

In truth, Fu had missed the head. And despite the result, he was not the only one to know it.

“A wingless bird will take flight at least once!” laughed one of his… comrades, a woman, bounding around the wall with her [Spirit Ape] trailing below. “But don’t forget yourself! We’re but an hour into the shift!”

For a moment he watched her motions with a view to copying them. Then turned, and did, levering his attached rope with a palm.

Almost as though he were feeding length to a net.

Fu bounded to meet another two, both sides now less erratic in flight. A sense of Hushi appeared in wordless co-ordination, who dropped upon the furthest with a jet of [Air Qi], tearing free its wings. It left the other, who now contended with his extending chain.

Jerking, the beast suffered a blow to its leg instead. Ripping free to fall below. Yet, unslowed by its loss it gushed upon him.

Those frilled instruments proved to be teeth, and gnawed at his raised arm. Soft, and… moist. Though with a singe to them that spread instantly.

Hives mounted Fu’s flesh, as well as blotches that had him welcome the teeth if only for the relief of itching. All five of its legs scraped around him, manic in his sight, with wings and face, eyes and teeth abound.

Disorienting, but in available range.

Fu suppressed it all, pressing his [Might] into the wall to kick, grasping what space he could, outwards, rather than down. The [Spirit Insect] fluttered in pursuit as he cleared many paces, heedless that he now tugged with that same [Might] to hammer him back to brick.

Toe-first, he splattered through the spindly center, staining the wall a foul brown.

“Twice,” he muttered, not-quite addressing his fellows below.

Fruitless, given both effort and the sickening mass of foes those marked as proper contended with at the Blight’s edge. Hushi, above, impressed warning, though Fu had already turned.

Itchy, but ready for more.

🀦

The bottom could not be seen as dusk winked over Green Blight Valley. Not for the fog, which all assurances told would return in several hours, but for distance. As the depths were far away again as the Heavens were high.

[Spring] here was warm. Late of [Season]. But chilling to the sheets of perspiration upon Fu’s body.

Welcome.

A curse flew from Zang Ce’s lips, followed by an apology in the same breath. A constellation of hives and blotches rubbing across Fu’s guiding hand.

“Gratitude, brother Fu,” he lied.

The connection dropped as their third refugee appeared over the wall, a debtor’s basket slung over her shoulder. A grunt had it hit the floor, and she puffed out singularly before meeting both of their eyes.

No words passed, which Fu, weary as he was, appreciated. An itch held his left side in torment, adding to this. Of those gathered, none were unscathed.

Zang Ce’s strawberry complexion was testament to their toil. Even his Bond, an ivory [Spirit Dove], now bumped beneath its wings.

Standard marching ensued, and the three newest additions to the Nineteenth [Winter] Brigade found themselves trailing. Last, and to the rear of the well reduced debtors.

Clinking dwarfed their footsteps, sounding from the brimming baskets of crystals the entire way until the Administrative Offices. Here, the resources were deposited, and those who carried them disappeared, moving off to tasks unknown.

Fu watched as they vanished. His gut sinking, if only a mite. The link between he and Hushi impressed something similar, prompting a tentacle to cradle his cheek.

I must remind myself that this fate is… it is almost a kindness.

His seniors filed by ahead, tending to their own duties.

A line formed by a booth, which Fu joined in procession. Some rhythmic clunk sounded, and items were shown to be deposited in an exterior box, many, in the case of some. Each did this in turn, gifting all they held from pouches or pockets, proceeding to mount a pile of sweet, Qi saturated gatherings before leaving the side of this particular building.

“The new recruits? Must the rules be explained to you?” asked a leathery old man, as Fu reached his window.

Bowing, with hands clasped, the fisherman nodded. “I would be most appreciative for your guidance, senior.”

“For the outer disciples that make up the ranks of our forces within the [Mystic Realm], a due of four-fifths is taken from their spoils. Sorted here, and converted into the stipend of Contribution Points awarded each [Season]. Different, from the debtors, as their own success is measured in weight of harvest. Failing if they do not meet the minimum threshold.” The old man sniffed, regarding both Zang Ce and the woman as they lent their ears. “Judgement guides the rules for you all, and trial disciples are not permitted the honor of venturing here. Thus, the same rules shall apply to you as they might the outer sect. Four-fifths, with the indivisible added to Merit. Though that is a matter for Third Officer Zhiyuan to conduct.”

In the hours of vertical combat, five [Spirit Cores] had been retrieved, and stowed, by Hushi. Which Fu now poured into the box.

Some [Array] cleansed the ruddy liquids from their surface to keep the container clean, and another effect with some connection to [Air] held all but one core aloft above a hinged bottom. A quick process, where the hinge returned to leave what loot Fu could take.

“You are neither [Formation Realm] as is the rank of this [Spirit Core], nor a holder of a [Poison Affinity],” he warned, having Fu’s eager fingers retract. “Know that you may convert this now, or retain it to trade with your fellows.”

The rest of the Nineteenth [Winter] Brigade had all but disappeared towards the barracks, and though he held his fellow refugees back from rest with his pause, Fu found it better to clarify this while he had the time. “For Contribution Points?”

“Yes-”

“Forgive this lowly junior!” interrupted Zang Ce. “But why can we not use this for cultivation?”

Even Fu shared in the old man’s blank stare.

How did this man survive the Mystic Realm if he did not use Spirit Cores to progress? Drawing in [Poison Qi] would kill him, surely he knows at least this.

“Because you are unrefined, and weak. No [Foundation Realm] cultivator can bear the raw power of Qi without first having reached [Core Formation]. Besides this, the [Affinity] does not match your own.” Disbelief was the mask the old man wore then. “You are either favoured by the Heavens, boy, or are so inept you escape their notice. To have survived what is rumoured to have you appear.”

Fu was thrown by the explanation, and ignored Zang Ce’s further shouts of gratitude. “I will sell this, senior,” he said, and at a parting nod walked on.

First, and absently, he summoned his [Contribution Array]. A name he guessed at.

Thirty points. It is less than the Secretary showed.

Unused to counting more than fish and the meagre tael they would return upon sale, he struggled with the coming mathematics.

Ten would reward me with three hundred… And, yes, I will need seventeen of these cores a [Season] to clear the remainder of debt when my wages are applied.

“Each [Season],” he whispered.

Repayment beyond that, actually brought forth a shudder.

Yet he forced a return to his inner self and old habits of calm, knowing that stress would bring him no closer to his target. Fu maintained this on his way to the barracks, content that his thoughts went to navigating around those who now manned the walls.

Dozens, outwith his own Brigade - those that spared no more attention for him than they might any of their Sect. Those who did showed but a curious peek at his hanfu before addressing the open air beyond the wall.

Then he faced the surprising solemnity of the room where he would lay his head.

Cots, raised as to afford his fellows’ Bonds space to rest beneath, and little else save for the trunks at the tail of each. Upon these, and in the warm glow of lanterns, did the Nineteenth [Winter] Brigade sit.

All quiet, focused, and crossed in the lotus position.

Fu found an empty bunk close to the entrance, quite aware of the noise his movements made when faced with consternate twitches from those around, and settled in to mirror their stillness.

“Listen for the gong,” whispered a man in the adjacent cot. “Next rotation starts in a few hours.”

“Gratitude,” came Fu’s reply, his eyes already closed. Leaden, as they were.

He next drew a breath, and set his mind on the task of cultivation. Hoping, with more than half his being, that his surrounding seniors might share the means to both sleep and progress his cultivation at the same time.

Before escaping a silent sigh.

For dream as he did, one could not hope to fill their stomachs with a single bite.