The Qi of this [Mystic Realm] was of a denser sort that any outside, or so Fu had come to realise.

Survival granted the opportunity to harness it, [Season] dependent, and yet, even then, the ambient energy could be said to be greater than that beyond the [Paifang].

[Spiring] was not to his benefit, but did not rebuff him, though neither did it have the feel of surplus that [Winter] would.

Armed with such understanding, Fu toiled with this latest [Meridian].

Three days it had taken to purge the [Impurities] from his [Channels], steel now, as opposed to the sand that crowded his inner shores as they had before the [Node] was opened.

The gong struck.

Simultaneous padding began, with Fu merging into the centre as he wiped free the sheen of perspiration from his brow. Much as his surrounding comrades did.

His routine ingrained.

Or so he had thought, surprised to feel a hand upon his shoulder as he turned from the barrack’s junction.

“Wall duty tonight,” corrected a woman, her [Spirit Bat] padding a wing in the direction that all but he had taken.

“Gratitude,” he returned, joining the procession once more.

At this hour the Blight’s full reach had subsided, tidal in its nature. This left glimpses of the barren scape below, an arid and deserted land of sparse vegetation. Gnawed, it seemed, more than rotted or inhospitable.

The Nineteenth [Winter] Brigade fell into their stations with practised rhythm, equidistant in their placement atop a protruding battlement, illuminated by the glow that blinked from the fortresses’ base.

A series of Qi-infused crystals, lit from ground to tip, shrugged free dusk’s dim blanket to leave neither root nor brick darkened.

Third Officer Zhiyuan patrolled her subordinates, granting a curt exchange with each, bypassing only three of their number. As was her usual way in all things. Be that greeting, order or acknowledgment.

Despite this, Fu bowed at her passing, returning his attention to the wall thereafter. Not dismayed.

Grotesque shapes picked after the last day’s growth, insectoid scavengers one and all. But this granted time, for their meals were not yet done below, and after their Officer’s passing his comrades settled into a slackness that was as equally practised as their march.

A scroll, in some hands. Tomes. Baubles. Items to while away their time until midnight.

And Zhiyuan proved lax in this, delving into her own pursuits.

Three cultivators ringed around her, palms coiled. They struck with deftness, measured and slow. Actions performed at a pace that might conjure images of oil, so slowly they moved. A deflection came, with their senior advancing an elbow, or a knee, each a harsh angle of defence.

From this he had his final sense of what the night would hold.

Four positions to his right, Zang Ce stood idle. Having neither technique to perfect nor bauble to occupy his time. Wasting the granted chance through no fault of his own.

Fu recalled the [Stifling Stream Revolutions] into his muscles to begin the first set. To see how Zhiyuan practised struck a note of intrigue however. Until now the world of cultivation, the deeper, martial aspects of such, at any rate, had gone unseen.

Something in the way his Third Officer moved. So precise. It conjured a level of proficiency that left him with no doubt she might move at tenfold the speed she did now, when needed.

A transcendence of [Might], the attribute he assumed granted his own speed.

This led his front step to place slowly, and the ensuing strikes were glacial.

Strain rose, both in his [Dantian] and in the burning of his muscles. Unexpectedly. The control needed to pace through these movements threatened to topple him.

Ankles and thighs quaked upon poising himself for the first kick, drawing even Hushi forth from beneath the douli.

But Qi flowed as the octopus drew, a stabilising influence. Enough to fill his [Dantian] higher, and begin the process of his [Air Qi] formed spirals. It did not quench the emptiness where his inner reserves held gaps, but rather supported him with enough to not reduce any further.

Approaching the second turn, he caught eyes upon him, mistrusting. If he had to guess, and raised from the parchment’s lip to regard their junior.

Fu only pushed on in this slowness. Drowning out the exterior world as his spirals launched forth, grinding at his [Impurities]. Well fed, with the passing, pungent breeze that had begun to crest the wall.

🀦

Foolish.

Fu’s thoughts screamed. His leg spurted. Punctured by the malignant stinger of a diminutive [Spirit Scorpion]. Its strike had caught him too close to the gaowan, and was ushered, almost guided by the final blow of his practice.

A dismissive kick while studying the gains his [Ink] provided.

The bleeding subsided quickly, [Resilience] ineffective against the [Dao Principle] inflicted by even this small creature.

Hushi jetted down, belying his nature as octopus to gobble it as a hawk might swallow meat mid-air.

While the puncture smarted it was of little detriment, and Fu uncoiled his chain to face the chittering of untold legs. Enough to have the ground quiver, and the wall’s loose dust dance to their rhythm.

“Nineteeth!” announced Zhiyuan. “Fasten, and descend. [Mind] first, with [Body] to ward you.”

The resounding affirmation came as a solitary bow, quick, but costly in time. Having the advancing chitter mount the wall in the space of these wasted heartbeats.

Fu ripped the closest rope free, looped it around his waist, and pounced over the side in pursuit of the man beside him.

Squelching sounded upon landing, a tug of rope and a tightening of muscle that saw him to his vertical mount. Hundreds upon hundreds of the [Spirit Scorpions] immersed him, as deep as a shallow pool.

The cultivator ahead, his partner, forced from the wall, which Fu copied. They shared a single glance, something akin to trust, perhaps, prompting the fisherman to land first.

His chain blew out with freshly enhanced [Might], a guillotine that cleaved a great circle of space clean. “Hushi!”

Enlarging, his Bond enveloped himself in [Air Qi], setting to work on the rope above. It was then that the cultivator landed to have his own Bond emerge. An unknown sort of bear, seafoam in hue, and pressed tight to his leg.

Together they commanded a thrashing wave, more light than physical, causing the cultivator’s head-placed [Ink] to brighten. The emitted force had them sway further from the wall, into the safety of open air.

But Fu still battled, feeling the strange Qi only paces before it neared him. It came at the end of a cycle, possessed of a strength far greater than he might contend with.

Pimples appeared on his skin, more prominent as it neared. Disparate from the stingers that drove holes into his lower body.

[Spirit Scorpions] mounted, fleeing the gaps created by his inexperience and their sheer number.

Lucid, and electric in motion. Unlike any who were struck by this seafoam wave. For they were limp upon contact, and plummeted quickly after.

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“Hushi, rid me of them!” he cried, now leaping. A single push brought his rope nigh horizontal to the wall’s peak, and his Bond with it. Taught, as the octopus arrived to tear free the half-dozen beasts inching up his body.

Fu looked about frantically, measuring the scene before he landed. Finding all his comrades equally swarmed, yet calm, pouring gouts of elemental Qi scouring the advance. Their escort of [Body] cultivators doing far more than he to stem the tide.

Bending. Leaping. Twisting in air. Acrobatic and lethal, no matter the weapon or Bond.

Worth the Merit they are given. I should think.

So he forced a landing with a tug, battering into the bricks to sweep out with a kick, clearing many. His partner homed in, swiftly, landing in this circle.

“We’ll not earn our fill like this,” he said, informal and brash. Fitting for combat. “Climb higher to scour the top. I’ll need more space to work, but smaller pockets work fine. Make sure they’re clear, yes?”

A bow seemed impractical, bringing Fu to only nod.

What little space he had afforded them was consumed in seconds, returning Fu to his cycling chain. Three rotations came and went, and the beasts skittered in. A wave, chasing his ascent to the peak.

As it did for an hour. And another after that.

It told a scene of continued clashing, but one with a visible end. A cessation to the chittering [Spirit Scorpions], at least where their mass now revealed the bricks below.

Fu’s skin held a filth of sweat and blood. Ingrained and likely impossible to clean. His muscles ached, his joints ablaze. Welts of skin burned from his palm and fingers, prying soft flesh free where his callouses once held.

Yet having him continue, paving the way for Dun, a name his throat was hoarse from calling.

A [Core Formation] cultivator, and one that looked unhampered as he landed in this latest clearing. The seafoam Qi rounded them in a banner at his command, and with time, Dun looked to be weighing him with a look.

Hope held out that it might be recognition of his efforts. But Fu hardly aspired to such things.

Or did he?

“With their number-” And then Dun broke, his face clenched. This show of emotion passed, and swiftly at that, ended with his departure into the air once more.

Leaving Fu to wonder, and strike as he had before.

Much of the combat’s scale shifted then, taking to lean to… In truth, he could only place it as smaller. Changed to… Arts? Though it was more than that. [Dao] surfaced from [Body] and [Mind] cultivators alike.

The reach of Qi simmered, becoming localised, or neat.

Precise. As in practice.

With the enemy host much reduced, Fu pondered if this was the case. Some common occurrence where the threat of death had passed, granting the Nineteenth leave to hone their various skills.

Aching, he took care of another row. Swatted and crushed with an aim realised by the previous hours of toil.

The head of his chain jerked with bloodied flexes and flicks.

Grandmother Hua’s wisdom whispered in his ear.

Crisis is but opportunity riding a dangerous wind.

And Fu came to look upon his own crisis. Or one of his myriad list. “Hushi! We are granted something here. Let us not waste it.”

The octopus said nothing, impressing the barest hint of confusion. Removed, when Fu conjured the [Dao of Reach], and realised as he infused his own.

🀦

Muttering ‘Salt Qi’ beneath his breath produced none of the small vibrations Fu had come to know.

Neither did it reduce the abundance of grit in the over-preserved fish that snaked around the wooden bowl in his palm. Seeping, and corrupting the rice beneath it. An awful dryness weathered his gums, and his throat long after swallowing, but he was thankful despite the ordeal.

A shame, for this fish. To be caught and butchered like this.

Bereft of his possessions at the hands of Grandmother Hua, he wondered in that moment if he pined more for his [Stifling Stream Revolutions] or the various [Spirit Herbs] he had collected in the Thousand Shore City [Mystic Realm].

“Something is the matter, Gao Fu?” Looking up from the bowl, he found Zang Ce to be at the foot of his bunk.

“The fish… I would not make a complaint at a free meal. Only, that I am used to a different sort than this.”

Zang Ce’s Bond hovered at the brim of his own bowl. Beady eyes shown to crave what was within. “A delicacy indeed,” he nodded, mistaking Fu’s words. “The Cloudy Serpent Sect blesses us.” With a wave, he gestured to join Fu.

Which had the fisherman shuffle.

The [Meridian] he had recently opened had left him raw, preventing further cultivation, and conversation was a better way to keep his own thoughts at bay than to lay his head early.

Hushi poked the brim of his midden up, sparing only a cursory glance at present company.

Zang Ce was first to speak, showing himself to be quite excitable. “The [Spirit Scorpions] today were vicious, were they not?”

“They were.”

“But then, was the Nineteenth [Winter] Brigade not more so? Feats beyond imagining, truly, and we are among them. Even if I was but a distant spectator, I felled twenty, or thirty by my own hand!”

Masking the brows upon his face that wished to furrow, Fu feigned some attention towards his bowl. “You were atop the wall? A [Spirit] cultivator?”

All too eager, Zang Ce made to expose his [Ink]. But his fingers refrained upon hearing a scoff from the bunk ahead. “Ah- I am a fish out of water. Believe me, Gao Fu, it is not my habit to go around revealing my navel.” The laugh he produced cracked with nervous energy. “I am a [Harmony] cultivator.”

“You fare better than these fish, I would say,” said Fu, swirling his bowl. With his [Senses] as they were, and recently increased, he decided he was finished. Setting it down.

Small movements, the ruffling of Sect uniforms, the padding of Bonds. These were the sole sounds amongst the bunks.

Unnoticed by Zang Ce, who seemed brimming with words.

Eager to fill the quiet.

“It is another morning with the debtors tomorrow. Facing the Blight. I think I am growing better with the ropes.”

A moment passed, and Fu gained the impression that he was seeking confirmation. “Everything begins hard. No doubt you shall be flying as naturally as your Bond before long, Zang Ce.”

The man laughed, unsure, showing how loose the hanfu upon him was. More a bag, draped over wire. “Kind words,” he dismissed. “Kind words. From what I witnessed, it is you that flies, Gao Fu. Would you tell me? If it is not an insult. Would you tell me what you did before?”

Before.

Soft words, thought Fu.

Unfinished.

“I am a fisherman.”

Zang Ce waited for him to continue. As though there was more to say. “A fisherman? With such robes, and this weapon, and with… is it [Prowess]?”

More of those muted sounds rose. A rustle of opened ears, behind, this time.

They seemed to be waiting as well. For what, however, Fu was uncertain.

So when he spoke, he tried to navigate the subject. Not least to preserve the secrecy of his fateful encounter with Luo. “Fortune had me stumble upon these. A [Reliquary] that was unclaimed. And Hushi,” he gestured. “He has taught me much in the way of [Body] cultivation.”

“A [Reliquary]?”

“A [Reliquary]. Do you not recall the trove that opened near the brigand’s camp? In the meadows?”

“Brigands?” further questioned Zang Ce. “My time in the Thousand Shore City [Mystic Realm] seems to be different to yours, Gao Fu. I was a scribe’s messenger in the before. So I ran, retrieved the debt owed, and returned. You say there was more to the [Mystic Realm] than the [Spirit Beasts] that roamed there?”

Fu had never found it in himself to judge another. Rarely, save for his brief dealings with the Azure Shoal Sect, had he been subjected to acts that left his mind in a place to feel resentment.

And this is not what he felt now, however close.

To see Zang Ce, oblivious to his history, or circumstance, and hear that he had faced no part of the recent trials… it had the salt’s taste surface in his mouth.

“More than I might say,” said Fu. “I should think you are a great messenger if you avoided the troubles there. Or the Heavens smile on you. Well done.”

Another audible rustle.

“Kind words, again,” and Zang Ce looked to be searching for more to say. “Maybe the Cloudy Serpent Sect will have use of a messenger. A-away from the walls. Our meals, too, they must be caught within the [Mystic Realm] to be so fresh. Perhaps you will find a posting as you once did? A Sect fisherman.”

Hushi edged down, a tentacle guarding the bunk-resting bowl. Zang Ce’s Bond eager to peck at any scraps unattended.

Weight rose. One of eyes and further ears. A crack of the wood that supported the thin mats upon which they slept. Small shifts that heightened [Senses] revealed.

“A return to fishing?” said Fu.

“Endorsed by the Sect, yes? If you are no martial warrior… is it not simpler to play to your strengths? To do what you know? My legs are eager to feel the beat of paved streets beneath them, much as I am sure you long for the sway of waves beneath yours.”

Qi quivered in Fu’s [Dantian], if just a mite.

“Though these are the words of a man less fortunate than you, Gao Fu. Here you sit, armed, looking to be laden with treasure. I- Apologies. I forget myself.” Zang Ce rubbed a palm across his eyes, seeming no better for it. No more aware. “Heavy eyes have me place us as old friends, and not as the fresh comrades that we are. My hope was not to insult you.”

After withdrawing his palm, his gaze, heavy indeed, drew in Fu’s robes. Then the pouch, and chest-strapped chain.

“No need to worry. Old… this is half right, and friends, this will come in time. A familiar face sheds most troubles, no?”

Zang Ce lifted his eyes to nod, forcing a smile. “As you say, brother Fu. Those are words I welcome. We might begin to earn Merit as comrades, as it has yet to be rewarded. Or perhaps we could hunt for more of these [Reliquaries] together, yes? As friends?”

Smiling to entertain what was less humour than Fu knew was intended, he clapped the man upon the shoulder. “What I stumbled upon was of the [Mortal Grade]. Luck saw me through. A [Reliquary] here… My gut tells me that here, it would be beyond the reach of those who fancy themselves as messengers or fishermen.”

The man laughed. Forced out. “For the best then. Wise. To know what we strive to be in this Sect. I am grateful for your insight, Gao Fu.”

Fu dipped his head. “Sleep well, Zang Ce. Tomorrow is another day.”

“Yes, yes it is,” came the hollow reply, his guest delivering a shaky nod. Zang Ce made off to his bunk but a beat later, the [Spirit Bird] at his heels. Cawing in supposed hunger.

Change fostered within Fu’s [Dantian] during the passing of minutes. As though what rested there was on the precipice of a mighty cliff.

Or the edge of a vessel, a breath parting he and some raging sea.

Whether through [Control] or [Might], or [Insight], these attributes still unexplained to him, Fu’s hand caught a nut that had been cast in his direction.

The source, a stern-faced cultivator that regarded him from across the row. This stranger dispensed a nod, and his eyes held an emotion.

Dull, and foreign to Fu.

“For the salt,” he said.