The Third Realm - Chapter 22 preview (Patreon)

Days blended together. Wu Ying rarely saw Khan Erdene. She spent many of her days in her ger high above. He had no reason to ask what she was doing, for the constant pull of chi towards the ger spoke of her cultivation. Such was the strength of her soul that it created a minor storm as they passed, the stone turtles trundling along; the massive gers taken apart and put together every sunrise and sunset with startling efficiency.

Weeks passed, his days varying only mildly in routine. In time, when even Wu Ying’s prodigious memory began to strain at the sheer amount of new information fed to him – new words, new plants, new fighting techniques, new ways of living – the translator arrived with a simple document.

Surprised at the presence of the sheepskin scroll, Wu Ying took care whilst pulling it open. To his surprise, he found the cultivation exercise within was written in his own tongue with only a few grammatical mistakes.

“This is for me?” Wu Ying said.

“Yes. My apologies for taking so long, Cultivator Long. Transcribing the exercise into your language was a little more of a challenge than I expected. Your language is… complex,” the translator, Oktai, murmured. “Many words, saying the same thing.”

“True enough.” Then, amused, Wu Ying added. “Wheareas you all just add to your words, to make them easier(7).”

“Of course, that is how it is!” Oktai said.

Whilst they had been speaking, Wu Ying had been reading, reviewing the scroll. He got to the end and frowned, turning it slightly to show Oktai as he spoke. “This exercise…”

“Common among our children,” Oktai said. “We do not have the luxury of your paper. And even you are running out, yes?”

“Among other things, yes…” Wu Ying admitted. It was not as though he had kept that much paper with him. It was not, after all, his dao to be a scholar. “Is this how you all remember so well?”

Oktai nodded. “Partly. But also, you southerners are lazy. What you write, you think can remember for you. And so you forget. We do not have the luxury. What is said, we must remember. What has happened, we hold dear within our mind. In that way, our ancestors, the spirits of the past and the land live.”

Smiling a little, staring down at the document, Wu Ying could not help but wonder if the man – their people – had it right. How much better would it be, to remember all the good things that had happened? To pass on the stories from one generation to the next, and know it would be remembered properly.

How much of the knowledge of his own style had been lost, changed, by words passed from one generation to the next? Forgotten during nights of revelry or altered through imperfect understanding? So much he had – his father had – to recreate. Their heritage, broken.

And then, he remembered other things. Of desperate battles against Dark Sect members. Of lying in medicinal baths, his skin, his bones and muscles sloughing away, being replaced by the minerals and materials within. The transcendant pain, the terrifying fear of a Nascent Soul beast stalking him through weeks in the wild.

Perhaps memory, littered and broken as it might be, was also a gift.

“I shall leave you to practice, yes?” Oktai said, drawing Wu Ying back to the present. “No class today. For we arrive.”

“Arrive?” Wu Ying said, surprised.

“To summer pastures.” Oktai frowned. “Did you think we travelled constantly?”

Embarrassed, Wu Ying chose not to answer. He had thought, with the moving giant turtles and the efficiency they packed and unpacked every day that the tribes were truly nomadic.

Laughing at the foolish Southerner, Oktai walked out. Leaving a rueful cultivator and a new cultivation exercise to practice. One that would improve his memory and recall when properly attuned.

***

Squinting at Oktai, Wu Ying let out a low growl as he was led through the cluster of huts to lunch hours later. The tribe had reached their summer pasture grounds and was now a flurry of activity. Old fences, left alone for a season had to be checked and repaired, gers had to be set-up in their appropriate positions and stone turtles chivied to move to rest in their allocated positions before food, stored in storage rings and trundling wagons were brought out to appease them.

All around, men, women and children scurried. The vast herds that made up the livelihood of the tribe were being driven to graze a distance away as their fields were checked over, while grass was cut down and bushes pulled apart. Old fields, meant for a season of planting were also inspected, and it was in that direction that Wu Ying was being led to.

A few cookfires were lit, but for the most part, the tribe was eating on the move; wind-dried meat wrapped around warmed bread in one hand as holes were dug, posts were tested and goods carried. Dust churned through the air as it was kicked around, spotty tufts of grass and weeds kicked apart as the clan moved through their usual resting grounds.

In the fields, far less extensive than what Wu Ying was used to, the smell of old compost; left over the seasons to care for itself was rich. Tribesmen and women worked turned the compost pile over, checking to ensure it was well kept for while others tore into the earth, pulling apart leaves and breaking hard soil.

“Your help has been requested here, Cultivator Long. You were once a farmer, no?” Oktai said, gesturing at the workers and then pointing to a plot of land left all by the lonesome. “The tribe could use another field.”

Wu Ying snorted, but nodded. He did not bother asking for tools from the tribe as he wandered over to the plot, eyeing the ground between. He ensured there was sufficient space to walk – or lead cattle or a horse – between the fields before he began, conjuring his own hoe from his spirit ring.

If he smirked a little when others noticed the quality of the equipment he used, it was minor and petty on his part. Then again, so was asking him to break in new ground. It was the most backbreaking of work, for with each swing, new rocks and old roots stymied the way.

Breathing slowly, letting his chi circulate through him and down his hoe, Wu Ying worked the land. He projected a tiny thread of sword intent into the hoe, using his chi to wrap it in protective energy and the sharpness of the blade held in his heart.

Each swing cut through earth and roots with ease, no more difficult than flesh. Ripping out the soil, multiple feet deep as his movements projected his chi within; Wu Ying churned and turned the earth. He knew he would have to return, breaking up the chunks of earth he tore free, clearing out roots and rocks, but that was for later.

For now, he dug, his mind and body one.

Doing what he knew, what he had been taught to do. Growing and treating the earth, improving the world, one swing at a time. And if the wind blew harder, the cold north wind giving way to a more imperious one, he only barely noticed.

***

Late evening, the sun beginning to set finally on the early summer days as Wu Ying edged backwards on hands and knees. His fingers plunged, again and again into the soil, striking and breaking apart clumps and ripping out roots and rocks. Each was tossed aside, forming a small pile as they landed in the heap he had started. Multiple yards away, gentle roots would be taken by gust of winds to float over, rocks arcing in a direct projectile.

An entire li had been cleared, from one side to another, an outsized field. Yet, without the need to worry about drainage and flooding, Wu Ying had chosen to clear it on a larger basis. Eventually, of course, it would need to be watered; but such concerns were for later.

Perhaps an Earth Cultivator, a true farming prodigy could have done better and faster work. Wu Ying understood his Senior had the ability to sink his chi within a field, to find the problem spots and twist it apart, pulling aside root and earth through spirit and energy alone.

That way was barred for Wu Ying, through lack of experience and knowledge and base nature. Yet, he would not have it any other way. Digging his hands into the earth, pulling and sorting with the barest touch, it was a reminder of work of who he had been – and who he was.

All the while, the Never Empty Wine Pot method – modified – worked, pulling at the core of chi around him. Earth and wood and wind – oh, the ever present wind in the steppes, that never stopped gusting it seemed, no matter what time of day it was – churning through and around his aura, drawn within and processed to become his own. His chi reserves grew, his dantian filling such that Wu Ying knew, soon enough; he might be ready for another layer.

“The sun has nearly set, Cultivator Long,” Oktai spoke up, interrupting the cultivator.

Wu Ying blinked, extracting his hands from the earth and rocking back on his heels to stare at the translator. The man offered him a grin, bushy mustache rising up a little as he gestured back to where the clearing had transformed, the village appearing as though by magic. More buildings, more gers than ever seemed to have been built, such that it was very much a small village. The herds themselves had been led into their fields, some uncomfortably close as broken fences were still to be fixed.

“So it has,” Wu Ying said, staring up at the multi-coloured sunset. He drew a deep breath, the strong hint of churned earth and dust, the whiff of unwashed bodies and a herd of animals ever present. Certainly more noticeable than the rice fields he was so used to…

But familiar in its own way.

“And dinner?”

“Served. They slaughtered a few injured sheep, so there is much meat to be had,” Oktai said. “Or there was.” Amusement glittered in the man’s eyes. “Now, there are but scraps.”

Wu Ying laughed, ruefully. “I might have gotten lost in the work.”

“And the stonemasons will thank you for it tomorrow,” Oktai replied, his gaze tracing over the high pile of rocks that Wu Ying had created in the process of clearing the ground. “Though perhaps we need not locate such small stones.”

A shrug answered his words. “My father always said, if you do something, do it well. Then you need not do it again.”

Oktai smiled at that. “My father had a similar saying too.” His smile widened further. “Though it involved more swearing and hitting.”

Wu Ying nodded. There had not been much corporeal punishment in his home, though it was not unusual to see others he knew walking gingerly after a caning. Mostly though, he had ended up being put through an extra hour or two of sword practice. After all his chores were done.

Admittedly, even now, looking back at it, Wu Ying was not certain if he would have preferred getting a quick caning. He might have benefited from the hours of study with the weapon, but it also meant he lost out on many nights catching tadpoles, chasing down grasshoppers and just lounging near the river with a fishing pole with his friends on those few times where none of them had chores or cultivation practice.

“Tell me, tomorrow. What are the plans?” Wu Ying asked curiously, his head turning a little as he felt a shift in the flow of external chi. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the largest turtle, at the ger that he could barely see from his position and the small series of clouds that had formed around the animal, all whilst he had been caught up in his own actions.

“Yes. The Khan enters her summer of secluded cultivation once more,” Oktai replied. Then, a little flicker of a smile on his lips as he continued. “Elder Ogdai asks that I mention that she can still sense us all, and all attempts at escape or violence.”

Wu Ying snorted, recalling the trio of elders hard at work attempting to deplete the stores of airag by themselves. He could not recall which one was Ogdai, but it was not as though he had planned on running. There was much to learn here still, even if he was being kept captive against his will.

Gesturing for Wu Ying to follow him, Oktai led the way back. After a moment, he chose to answer Wu Ying’s initial question. “More of the same. The fields must be set-up, the protective enchantments refreshed, the spirits appeased. There will be little time for frivolities.” He gestured back to the field. “There, you will be best.” A little smile. “After all, Running Southerner, you cannot ride.”

“Ah, but I kept up well enough with your riders, no?” Wu Ying said.

“Only so long as they chose not to call upon the spirits.”

Oktai’s words were an answer to a glimmering question, one that had slowly been pieced together over the weeks. The spirits the tribe spoke of, that lived among them. They were as real as the demonic beast and spirit beast Wu Ying was used to, though lesser in their strength. In this land, they clustered and grew strong; floating in the nether.

“Tell me, Oktai. Why the lack of spirits in the south? I sense them here, everywhere,” Wu Ying said, gesturing around him. He could swear, he could feel them laughing at him as the wind stirred. “Why not where I’m from?”

Oktai pursed his lips, not answering him for long moments. Eventually, after they had crossed another field, he spoke up, his voice hesitant. “There are as many answers as there are seeds on the wind. Some believe that you southerners are the true barbarians, having killed or driven out the spirits from your lands. Others feel that we are blessed, and thus you are not to be derided but pitied.” He turned towards the turtle for a second, before he continued, slower. “The Khan once said she believes that the spirits are but different in your land. Instead of moving alongside your people, they hide in the bodies of the beasts and plants of your land. It is why your books are so filled with plants, and why our land is missing so many such items.”

Wu Ying nodded, listening to the man’s answer. In the end, he could not help but ask.

“And what do you believe?”

Oktai shrugged. “I think it matters not. The world is as it is. We have our spirits, and you have your lands. Such concerns are for cultivators above me.”

Nodding to a passing couple, Wu Ying fell silent as he considered it. He debated, for a moment, trying to test the theories. Perhaps capturing a spirit, or bargaining with one to speak with him. There were tales, sung late in the night of spirits who had the mind, the strength to speak direct to cultivators. Similar, in a way, to his own connection to the wind; though more directed and available even for those without a dao and body connection.

Then again, did he care? Curiosity was important; but angering creatures that were existing without harm seemed foolish. Was there a point to such knowledge? And if there was no point, what was the goal of such pursuit?

He was no scholar after all. The furthest thing from it, sometimes he felt. The knowledge he searched for could not be found in any hidebound book or dusty scroll. The wind blew, and Wu Ying went, and in that going, his dao and his path became clearer.

“Come, think later. Enjoy, for boodog is a rare treat(8)!” A hand shoved a plate, piled with meat, rice and vegetables at him.

Automatically, Wu Ying took the plate, inhaling the smell of roasted and stewed meat, the hot stones that had been shoved into the inner cavity having steamed and cooked the meat on the inside whilst fur was burnt off on the outside before it crisped, fat embedding in the meat within along with the animal organs of the goat that had been reinserted. The resulting stewed meat was a highly flavorful product, having been stewed in the animal’s own fat and juices. Smell alone had set Wu Ying’s stomach rumbling as he took a seat with a smile.

Perhaps it was time to put such thoughts aside. At least for the next few days. He was learning much, from just listening to the tales told late at night or in ger’s as children sought the blessed return of the nightly void. Better then, to wait and study rather than rush ahead.

After all, he was in no rush. And the wind that blew through the steppes whispered of a world yet unseen.

Footnotes:
7 - So, Monglian is an agglutinative morphology in which a variety of suffixes are added to a word, changing its meaning. Korean, Japanese, some indigenous languages in America and Turkic languages are all similar, where words add on to change the meaning. It can make words easier to understand by breaking down the word individually, but also leads to very long words. And can be complex for those not used to such construction.

8 - These days, boodog is made with potatoes, onions and other herbs. Modifying the recipe here, just ‘cause potatoes really don’t show up in China till much later.