The Third Realm - Chapter 4 preview (Patreon)

The child prodigy was truly a child. Standing four and a half feet tall at most, barely under Wu Ying’s armpit, he was a well proportioned kid with his hair tucked into a high hat. He had been chattering away, excitedly, with another girl child till Wu Ying and his escort of the Fourth Uncle arrived into the empty training courtyard. Set aside and a distance from the rest of the village, it was a perfect location to work upon new techniques – away from prying and curious eyes.

Once the children realized who had arrived, the other child was sent away and the child prodigy – Pan Chen – transformed, maturing in the space of seconds.

“Expert Long, this unworthy one looks forward to your instruction,” Pan Chen said, bowing low.

“No need, Cultivator Pan,” Wu Ying said. “I am grateful for the chance to meet one so skilled at a young age myself.”

“Student. Or apprentice,” Pan Chen replied immediately. “If you would take one as unworthy as myself as your student, that is.”

Wu Ying paused, running the options of what he should say through his mind. The role and responsibilities of official student and teacher were expansive. It was not just a mere form of address, as the way the Fourth Uncle had stiffened and glowered at the youngster, showcased. As the saying went, “A teacher for a day, A parent for life[1]."

On the other hand, Wu Ying had to admit, having a student who reached the Soul stage of understanding of the sword would bring much prestige to him. And safety. A small, greedy part of him desired the benefits taking the youngster’s over-elaborate courtesy would bring. Taking advantage of his naivette…

Wu Ying regarded that small and mean and greedy part of himself for a long period. Time seemed to stretch as he considered that portion of himself. For a time, he assessed it and his own desires before he blinked and breathed out, allowing the greed to flow back into its corner.

Such an action, it would diminish him. Diminish his sense of worth, the hard rock of honour he had built his own ego upon. He would not grasp at such small markers of reputation, not hide under the uncertain shade of obligation.

If perhaps his choices were foolish, so be it. The journey to immortality was a fool’s dream anyway. And he, a true fool.

Seconds, long seconds where the Fourth Uncle grew redder, caught in the binds of hospitality and courtesty while the blades of future disaster and foolishness closed on him. Seconds, while Pan Chen shifted from foot-to-foot, waiting for an answer.

And then Wu Ying spoke. “No, Cultivator Pan. I will not take you on as a student. For I am not ready to take on a student. Nor have I judged you, sufficiently, to do so.” He leaned down and then, deliberately, reached out and ruffled the child’s carefully maintained hair. “Choosing a teacher should not be a matter of whim or courtesy but of deep and certain thought.

“For a bad teacher will lead you wrong and set you back. And, truthfully, I would be one for you.”

Pulling away from Wu Ying’s hand, Pan Chen glared at the other man for a second at being condescended to. Shame at being rejected disappeared under the petulant rage of a child, smothered only by the hard won control of martial arts and cultivation.

“I apologise for disturbing Expert Long.” Pan Chen’s voice was high, rough as contained emotions leaked around the edges.

Coughing into his hand, Pan Hai stepped forward and gestured to the open courtyard. “Perhaps we should start now?”

“Of course,” Wu Ying said, hiding his smile from the glowering child. Irritation would go away, but shame could scar souls. “Is there a way that you prefer to learn, Cultivator Pan?”

Pan Chen glanced at Pan Hai, seeking confirmation. When he received it, he offered Wu Ying a half-smile. One that Wu Ying noticed had a hint of mischievous malevolence in it.

“Would Expert Long show me your style first? In its entirety?”

A good enough starting point. “Of course.”

Unsheathing his blade, Wu Ying strode to the center of the courtyard. Smooth, stone paving stones beneath his feet, the open air courtyard allowing his friends, the winds, to come in and play. Whispering secrets of dalliances and napping bear-kin. He acknowledged their secrets, before dismissing them from his mind.

And spoke, softly but loudly enough for the others to hear.

“Long family sword style – first form.”

Stillness.

Then, hand on the hilt of his sword. The Dragon unsheathes its Claws. The first motion of the form, a sword draw. Step forward, twist the sheath and blade as he drew. Cut and end with sword on the high outer line.

Thrust, transitioning forwards. Twist and cut, disengage, block. Wu Ying flowed through the motions of the form. He chose to showcase the original form, as it had been taught to him by his father. Without adaptations for Wind Steps or the Seven Gales, without adding in the Shen Kicking style or any other adaptations he had created.

Falling into familiar patterns were easy, though Wu Ying noted the most minute of hesitations, as movements or transitions he had altered caused him trouble. When he was done, he had returned to his starting position, his blade sheathed.

“Beautiful. Expert Long truly is an expert in the jian,” Pan Hai praised.

Wu Ying smiled and offered a little bow, but ignored the courtesy praise. Instead, he watched the slight frown on Pan Chen’s face. And like a good teacher, asked. “What is wrong, Cultivator Pan?”

“It’s not very good, is it?”

“Ah Chen!” Pan Hai said, scandalized. He raised a hand to strike Pan Chen on the back of the head but stilled when Wu Ying raised a hand. Remembering he was but an observer here.

“Why do you say that?” Wu Ying asked.

“That’s not the style you use, not anymore. It’s something you learnt, but that’s not your style,” Pan Chen explained. “I’d like to see your real style. Not this.”

“Truly, one with the Heart of the jian,” Wu Ying said, offering the kid a half-smile to show no offence had been taken.

Taking position once more in the center of the courtyard, Wu Ying half-closed his eyes. He breathed in and out. Settled his nerves and soul. Found the rhythm of the blowing wind.

And moved.

***

No hesitation, no breaks, no gaps At least, none that he did not know of – that were still transitions that were being perfected. In the course of altering the style to suit his own body of knowledge, there were gaps – options that Wu Ying tested and discarded. Not many, of course – two or three in the entirety of the first form. The rest were smooth motions, transitions between flowing kicks, elbow and fist strikes to thrusts and cuts.

Elegance in motion, efficiency in every action. A myriad range of options opening and closing with each raise of an arm, cut or thrust, the sinking of a foot or the tilt of the body. Angles that were created and denied, feints and false openings in equal measure that could transition to other motions.

A form was not a static thing, not in the mind’s eye of an expert. Each motion was but a prelude to dozens of reactions, each action an invitation to an opponent. The final result, whether a string of cuts like the Flashing claws before Dinner to a series of circular blocks or disengages like Cloud Hands were all dependent upon an opponent’s reaction.

What differentiated a good style, one that was an intermediate or peak battle technique from a poor beginner or novice one was the range of options and reactions provided with each action – or conversely, the range of options and reactions denied to an opponent.

The sun rose, the clouds drifted and leaves danced in the wind as Wu Ying found a peace in the sword and his forms that he had been unable to locate as a child. Hours every day, spent practicing the sword long before his friends rose to see the morning. Early hours, when the sun was barely more than a sliver – for they were peasants and the day started when the dawn began.

Oh, how he had fought and screamed and complained, sometimes out loud and later, after learning his lessons; in his heart. He had hated his father for the strict discipline, the endless hours of repetition of each motion, each form he displayed. Talent replaced by sweat and tears, blood and blisters till he got it right. Only to do it again, the very next day.

Peace, from the knowledge that he was doing a job well. Not perfect, though he chased that elusive concept. Peace, from repeating actions that had been drilled into him from hours of practice, peace wrapped in the alloy of fond memories.

And then, it was over and Wu Ying was standing in the same spot, sword sheathed.

His audience were silent, even as Wu Ying approached the pair. Biting his lower lip, Pan Chen was looking at Pan Hai who, after shaking himself a little, spoke softly. “Hah. I apologise, Expert Long.”

“For what?” Wu Ying said, frowning.

“I had doubts about the need to have a stranger showcase their arts to Pan Chen. I did not believe that revealing our secrets to you was appropriate. And yet…” He gestured. “It seems the world is wider than even I expect.”

“It was a small thing…” Wu Ying said, waving his hand dismissively. “A minor modification of my family’s style to suit me better.”

“Minor perhaps, but even though I am not well versed in the jian, I too can tell it suits you better. You truly are at the tipping point to achieving the Heart of the sword, are you not?” The last question was more rhetoritical.

“It seems so, but still. I cannot seem to find my way there.”

Pan Chen, shifting from foot to foot, spoke up. “Can I?”

“Can you what?”

“Try it?” He gestured at the training ground. His fingers danced across the hilt of the jian he wore, the weapon shortened to suit his size.

“My style?” Wu Ying hesitated then shrugged. “Go ahead. Stop when you are uncertain. Don’t try to push ahead or else you might learn the wrong thing.”

Pan Chen was not listening, as he strode into the center of the courtyard. Wu Ying sighed, but knew better than to argue with the child. He was a kid after all, literally. Better for him to learn. Prodigy or not, children were prone to rushing.

Standing in the center, Pan Chen closed his eyes for a brief second, centering himself. He breathed in and out, and then began.

At first, Wu Ying watched him for the basics – his sense of balance, the linkage between his body and weapon, the angle of his cuts and the speed of his thrusts. In no time at all, he understood that such basic lessons – important though they might be to build the foundation of a swordsman’s skills – were wasted on Pan Chen.

He was perfect. Or at least, so close to perfection that Wu Ying could not see the difference. Someone with a higher degree of combat skill, of experience or a sense of the weapon might be able to do so. He, in the end, could not.

No, once he gave up on the idea he could teach the other anything as mundane as that, Wu Ying watched Pan Chen as he flowed through the Long family jian style. Through the first portion, the second, the next.

He flowed through Wu Ying’s variation of the form, never hesitating, never stopping. One motion after the other.

Until as suddenly as he began, he was done.

“Well done Ah Chai. You copied the style, perfectly.” Pan Hai sounded just a little smug.

“He did not, actually.” Wu Ying murmured, too awed to be irritated. He had met many prodigy’s in his life – Gao Chen, Li Yao, Tou He, even his martial sister Fairy Yang. But this level of genius, it was on an entirely different level. “Descendent of an immortal indeed.”

“What do you mean, he did not copy it perfectly?” Pan Hai replied, sounding incensed.

“I did not, Fourth Uncle,” Pan Chen replied. He bowed to the other man and then turned to Wu Ying, a considering look in his eyes. “Did you see?”

“I did. I saw, though I’m not sure I understood.”

“I didn’t.” Pan Hai crossed his arms.

“He improved on my own variations,” Wu Ying said, still sounding amazed. He understood some of what had been changed, the why. Some changes had clarified ideas that he had begun to explore, others were new concepts he had never considered. “Returned some to the original.”

“And, were they better?” Pan Chen asked, suddenly a shy child asking an adult for his approval.

“Mostly, I think.” Wu Ying admitted as much, though a part of him believed that the majority would have been for the better. He was just uncertain.

And a little ashamed, if he dug deeply enough into his own emotions. To be shown up by a child…

“Let’s talk about what you changed, shall we?” Wu Ying said, offering the boy a smile.

Wu Ying acknowledged those petty emotions, and then discarded them to the side. Let them wither and die. He had much that Pan Chen did not have.

Like height.

***

It was towards the end of the day, after hours of discussion with Pan Chen that Wu Ying chose to extract the urumi from his Spirit Ring. Pan Hai had wandered off not long after it was clear that the pair were ignoring him. They had soon passed the Fourth Uncle’s knowledge of the jian, delving deep into forms and variations, testing both theory and practice in the ring. The pair barely noticed being left alone, only pausing to eat and stretch.

The moment the urumi – the strange, flexible sword Wu Ying had purchased – made its appearance did Pan Chen hurry over. He gripped the weapon carefully, testing the blades weight and edge, perusing the grip and the steel’s flexibility. When Wu Ying showed him the manual, he traded weapon for document without a word and began to flip through it all.

Bare minutes later, he was done and had taken the weapon away from Wu Ying as he returned to the training floor. Wu Ying hastily moved back, even as the child gave the oversized weapon for him a few experimental flicks.

He started with small motions, moving his hand up and down, sending the blade ripple with each motion. Eyes narrowed, Pan Chen began to make bigger, bolder motions, flicking the weapon so that the blade never touched the ground. Then, he began to swing it sideways, angling the blade.

Static at first, then around his body, weaving a defensive web of swirling metal. It was familiar, in a way, as the rope-dart was a weapon that moved at strange angles. But the urumi’s blade was sharp, inflexible metal and it danced in silvery, angular languor with each motion.

In the web of twisting steel, Pan Chen began to smile. He moved, soon after, stepping outwards from within the web, ducking and jumping, kicking and punching as the flexible blade moved with him. Wu Ying recognized some of the forms – pictures from the manuals given life – as Pan Chen traveled, moving faster and faster.

The air cracked and hissed as metal whip sung through the air, tiny gusts of wind broken and torn apart, while others were generated. In the cyclone of destruction, the blade end would dart outwards to strike and be pulled back moments later, the wooden posts torn and struck repeatedly.

Beautiful violence, a dance of destruction and grace.

Something stirred within Wu Ying, as he watched a child with the Spirit of the Jian interact with a weapon that was not the straight sword. He saw, in his motions, a beauty, an elegance that he had removed from his own consideration. That his father had never imparted.

For them, the sword was a weapon, a tool for killing and defense. A burden to be trained in, to continue their familial heritage. He found peace, tranquility in the motions, security in his knowledge. But in the way the child moved, the joy he took in exploring and learning a new weapon; Wu Ying saw the unalloyed joy and innocent, the beauty of the weapon.

Yes, the jian was a weapon, it was a tool of violence. Swords were not axes or spears, that had been created for another task and then turned, eventually to the killing of fellow man. A sword was meant to kill other humans, to drive them to their deaths.

But even so, there was no reason there could not be beauty to the weapon, to the forms itself. There was no reason why in the act of practice, one could not find its elegant seduction.

Enlightenment, for Wu Ying realized, he had not embraced the entirety of his weapon. In so doing, he had blocked himself from achieving the Heart of the Sword. And only now, watching the other, did he begin to set his own feet on the path.

“You’ve understood something then, Expert Long?” Pan Chen said. So serious, unlike the child that he was.

“I have. And you? Have you found a new love?” Wu Ying nodded to the weapon in Pan Chen’s hands.

The child looked down, gave the weapon a little shake, then shrugged. “No. It’s fun to play with, but it’s not the jian.” He smiled. “But there is much to learn to from different weapons after all.”

“So I’m beginning to understand more truly,” Wu Ying said. He offered Pan Chen the manual. “A gift, for showing me the path.”

Pan Chen grinned then, taking the manual without inhibition. “Thank you, Expert Long!”

“Now, it seems dinner is about to be served. And you are still young enough to need a good night’s sleep.”

A deep frown crossed the kid’s face, going so far as to pout. He sighed deeply, but nodded as he went to pack up. Not a moment too soon as Pan Yin arrived, ready to convince the pair to come for dinner. As Wu Ying had sensed.

Smiling at her minor surprise, he too helped set the training grounds aright before they left. It seemed that this exchange of skills was going to be as helpful for himself as they had promised.

Perhaps even more so than they suspected.


Footnote:
1 一日为师，终身为父- famous proverb about the importance of teachers and the gratitude one must show a teacher. There’s a corollary one where to find a good teacher, one must spend a long time searching. And the teacher, the same verifying the quality of their wannabe student.