The Third Realm - Chapter 29 preview (Patreon)

Hours of flying through the air, hours of fleeing through the night sky, the wind at his back. He kept running for three days, leaving behind the ice palace he had spotted, the dragon and the wisps of heavenly chi that he had sensed.

Three days, without eating, without sleep. He fled, from fear, from shame, from chastisement. From his own failure whilst headed towards a future of his own choosing. And then, it was over and the chi within his dantian had dropped to a level that he could no longer sustain his movement.

The landscape before him was a brilliant white speckled with streaks of blue and green, the packed ice beneath the snow appearing and disappearing as the wind blew. A frozen tundra of naught but frozen water, shaped into hills and gullies, pressed tight over centuries of snowfall.

Seeing no difference between one spot from the next, Wu Ying fell to the earth behind a slight rise in the ground. A flicker of his hands had formation flags planted around him, heavier landscape totems drawn from his World Spirit Ring added a moment later as the flags were blown off course. Two rings, then. One of the totem, then another of the flags to stabilize the foundations and environment around him.

Seated in the center in the ocean of calm, Wu Ying extracted simple travel rations, consuming his first meal in days. Water taken from the snow around him dealt with his parched throat, the unnatural cold of the Dragon King’s dao no longer permeating the ground.

Bodily requirements dealt with, Wu Ying began the process of cultivating. Again and again, he turned over his experiences in his mind, focusing upon the cold of the wind, the dao of the Dragon King he had glimpsed and the traces of the celestial that he had noticed.

In time, when his dantian had filled, he stood up. He moved, passing through the four forms of the other winds by rote before focusing upon the final two. The north wind, his attachment to it and to the lands around, the sights of the massive creatures that padded through the frozen tundra, the herds of antlered deer and the monstrous beasts that stalked them.

A land that was primordial in its making, unchanged for centuries at its heart. Closer, in conception to the earliest portions of the Dao perhaps, a time when man dared not venture north. And yet, venture they had. Tribes, eking out their existence in this harsh environment, growing close to it, growing strong within it. Forming their own bonds of civilization, their own languages and custom.

Snow packed around the formations that ringed him, the drifts collecting higher and higher, eventually blotting out the sun as days went by. Wu Ying meditated, moved and eventually, soaked within the ice itself, carving a hut tub made of ice with formation markers to hold it together. Then, in the ice cold water, as it threatened to freeze solid with each moment, armfuls of herbs were added, many of them herbs and vegetation taken from these very plains.

The cold became a facet of his existence, soaking deep into his bones and marrow. It warred with the warmth of the southern wind, the tempest of the east, forcing a stillness that threatened death. Only the ever present whirlwind of chi within his dantian, within his very meridians kept him warm as the chi was drawn within and then expelled, empowering his very existence.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. Occasionally, explosive winds generated from Wu Ying’s movements within, his practice of the wind body forms would throw aside the accumulated snow, exposing him to the elements and sun once again.

Time passed, and once more, he lost track of time as he fell into a cultivation frenzy, eking the barest scraps of knowledge from his encounter. Eventually, his movements, like his mind, grew sluggish, his progress slowing. Yet, he persisted, his mind and will so frozen and entrenched in its routine that he could not break free of his routine.

In the end, it was the lack of sustenance in the north that broke him free. Even his vast stores from his storage rings, aided by the World Spirit Ring could not sustain him forever. The World Spirit Ring itself, still in its nascent stage of growth had begun to wilt, the sun and warmth within dimming. Winter – a true winter – had arrived within and many of his plants wilted. Some, the most sensitive began to die.

Without food, without sustenance, Wu Ying was forced south by the unbearable harshness of the north. In leaving, he walked forth with a deeper, an almost perfected understanding of the northern wind; one driven deep into the marrow and organs of his body.

Unbeknownst to him, he left behind a tale among the northern tribes. Of a demon from the south that came north, wearing naught but silken rags and the furs of his slain enemies. That visited the dragon king of the north and was imprisoned for his temerity. Of a location that was cursed, the demon trapped by the great dragon king and where it attempted, again and again, to free itself, sending ice and snow into the air.

You could tell this location from the others, by the way the winds moved, irregularly, unstably. You could sense its presence, as warmth from the south and a harsh dryness that sucked all moisture from one’s face robbed you of your footing. And most of all, by the smells – unusual, floral and pungent. A reminder of a warmer, alien world.

***

Never ending winter gave way to summer, cold ice giving way to grass and rocky lands. The wind blew, and Wu Ying traced his way down south, the wind guiding him east with each gust. The western wind, laughing at him all the way pushed him onwards during the day, the eastern wind beckoned him at night. Ocean wind, the taste of salt and sand, seaweed and fish.

Disparate nomadic tribes, all of them tied together by bonds of blood and familiarity became city states filled with individuals, their control only able to extend a few dozen li from their walls. Fields, golden with stalks of wheat swayed as Wu Ying passed, farmers working them diligently.

Travel south came with certain perks. Cultivation resources more familiar to him began to appear, along with manuals, scrolls and treatises on soul and body cultivation. His long delayed research into the intersection of body and soul cultivation began again.

Up here, the cities he found were dominated not by sects but by clans and families. Pulled together into temporary, shifting alliances to rule a city, a region, a people and as likely to part and crumble at the most minor of pressures.

Wu Ying met with families which held themselves to the standards of the jianghu that he knew, living, training and cultivating at a remove from mortal society. Protectors for the cities against demonic and spirit beasts as well as antagonistic tribes, bandits and the occasional city state.

Those, he treated with fairly.

Temporary business arrangements, to acquire or trade scarce resources for the creation of alchemical pills for the family patriarch and their members. Access to their private library’s, each of which contained the details of the lower levels of their family’s styles and treatises about Body and Soul cultivation. Lessons on family sword styles and sparring partners to hone the edge of his own studies.

Across the blade, Wu Ying learnt a lot about those who controlled these mini-kingdoms. Their family styles dipped deeply into the elemental features of cultivation with strange, esoteric elements in play. Blood, bone, ash and clay had made their presence known in his travels.

Now, a new opponent stood before him, crouched low. Hands were held wide, much like the wrestling men of the north had once stood, barehanded. The cultivator that stood before him was no wrestler, instead green tipped claws shone against darkened, scaled skin.

A slight twitch in the back foot, muscles bunching beneath loose silk trousers was all the warning that Wu Ying received. His opponent lunged, claws flashing upwards to strike at the blade of his jian. A shift of his blade upwards brought the shaft of the blade out of reach, even as the tip stayed on line to pierce his opponent’s body.

Twisting in mid-motion, the cultivator slid under the blade as though it lacked bones. Scuttling forward the aid of a lowered hand, the cultivator pivoted on its lowed hand, throwing a dual-kick at Wu Ying.

Forced to move, Wu Ying slid around the attack, his own blade coming in a retaliatory strike against the exposed legs. Blade bit into silk, parting the cloth with ease before it struck chi hardened scales beneath. Bouncing off the semi-real defensive projection, Wu Ying’s jian whipped around with the momentum, striking a follow up claw strike aside.

The pair dueled back and forth, the scaled-cultivator’s own superior defences allowing him to take risk Wu Ying dared not. Instead, Wu Ying met the challenge with superior positioning and speed, striking constantly and punishing mistakes with bruising blows and the occasional whipping kick.

Neither party leaked true killing intent, the dao’s they held close within their souls or wielded the greater, more concentrated chi of their cores. Not only was the training grounds of the family they were within not rated for such violence, the terms of their spar precluded it/

Another half-dozen passes, Wu Ying’s breathing slow and even. A smile lit his face, for whilst he detested combat, the violence and the killing; the art of the blade itself held a strange joy to him. Not for the art itself but for the motion, the memories it engendered within him. Long hours with his father beside their residence, copying his motions as a child and basking in his approval. The bloody and exhausting work to eke out a clean touch, the matches against other members of his village. Even the time he spent in the Sect, crossing blades with his Master; winning an approving nod or facing his blade again and again through sheer stubbornness.

It was the memories, both good and bad that provided joy to Wu Ying in the blade. Oh, there was a simple joy in the physicality of the motion, in competition that he would never discount; yet he had seen true obsession and genius in Pan Chen. And in that blinding light, all else were but shadow puppets.

Another parry, this time followed by a close envelopment. He caught the wrist with his blade, pulling it close and levering it downwards. At the same time, he stepped backwards, the point of his blade sneaking under the armpit as he did so, his opponent’s balance for a brief moment disrupted. The motion came to an end with the blade tip against the soft, vulnerable tissue, his opponent balance precariously on one foot.

The pair froze, yellow pupiled eyes meeting Wu Ying’s own placid brown ones. The cultivator snorted and then, with a quick shudder and twist, tore his hand free from the grip. Core energy leaked as he did so, leaving Wu Ying gripping green scales that shattered and dispersed as the chi broke apart, his opponent retreating to a safe and respectful distance in the meantime.

Then, he bowed.

“The point is yours, Cultivator Long.”

“Only by merest thread of fortune, Patriarch Ding,” Wu Ying replied, bowing to the man. He watched as the faux-scales broke apart, the green skin fading back into the Patriarch’s own pale skin, revealing a much younger man than would be expected. He looked barely into his forties, though Wu Ying knew age was a tricky subject with cultivators.

In this case, Wu Ying knew, the Patriarch was just over ninety years himself, stalled in the middle stages of Cultivation, his outer Core layers patchy and fragile.

“You are too humble, Cultivator Long. Few are the students of the jian who have advanced as you,” the Patriarch replied. “Your jian is nimble as your feet, a silverfish darting through the corals.” He grinned, wide, and if his teeth were a little sharper than normal – so was his entire clan’s. “You have left me much to think about on my own poor techniques.”

Wu Ying murmured further bland assurances, the pair layering words of praise and dissension till courtesy was satisfied.

“Your style is still in its infancy, but it is remarkable still,” Patriarch Ding. “What did you call it again?”

“A Wandering Dragon,” Wu Ying said, a little embarrassed. He had named it in a moment of enlightenment, and dared not change it. Yet, to call it that out loud…

“A good name. Powerful techniques, subtle and elusive but striking and fast when necessary,” the Patriarch said. “You showcased the first major strike, earlier when you arrived. But the second…”

“Is not done,” Wu Ying murmured. He had to admit, the first movement, the first strike, the one he had borrowed inspiration from was complete. Or as complete as he could make it now. There were portions that he could not grasp of it, but he had learnt in his time in the far North, whilst meditating to contain it. To hold the damage to only a small area and thus reduce Heaven’s rebuke as well.

“When it is, I am certain it will be worth observing,” Patriarch Ding murmured.

As they took their seats on the table set aside for them, midday sweets and snacks displayed for their pleasure, Wu Ying considered how best to broach the question.

In the end, it was Patriarch Ding who did it for him. “You have been extremely courteous, to have held back your curiosity till the day of your leaving. But ask.”

“Sir…”

“Ask. All our guests do, eventually.”

“Then, at your behest. A lizard?” Wu Ying said. “It is… a strange and unusual elemental affinity.” Wu Ying shook his head. “A bloodline, I could understand. A bloodline is easily understood. But you were insistent it was an elemental affinity, not a bloodline. How is…lizardy, an element?”

The Patriarch smiled then, and picked up his cup. It was not tea, but a sweet drink made from the delicate petals of local flowers and sweetened further by the addition of honey. It was, Wu Ying had to admit, an acquired taste and so he only copied the motion a little.

Funny, that he should miss good tea.

“For the courtesy’s you’ve shown and for the herbs you provided for my son, let me relate it to you as my own father did me.” Patriarch Ding said, before he raised a finger. “Indulge me, yes?” When Wu Ying nodded in agreement, the Patriarch continued. “Tell me, what are elements?”

“The elements, they are… they are the things, the objects that make up existence,” Wu Ying said, caught off-guard. “They are the keys to existence. All things are made up of the elements, and in their interactions, all things can be explained.”

“A very classical answer,” Patriarch Dinge said. “Did you know, that some hold that the five classic elements are the only elements there are? That all others, like your wind and our lizard, are but interactions between the five elements?”

Wu Ying nodded. He had read that. In fact, “Isn’t that generally accepted? My wind is but fire and wood, interacting and consuming one another. Heat, another elemental by-product.”

“Yes. Every element, explainable by the interaction of the five. Yet, we label and parse it out, the families vying for control and for dominance with their styles and the elements. Blood being weaker than water, except when dealing with individuals. Cloud and mist, arguing with steam, for which is truer and stronger? When one or another is but a matter of… temperature.”

Wu Ying blinked, as Patriarch Ding grew heated. “We argue and debate and write stern letters to one another, and when it’s not enough, we fight for real in arenas like the one we left. And when that is not enough, we send our children to settle scores.

“Yet.”

“Yet?” Wu Ying said.

“Yet, is this not all but parts of the Dao?” Wu Ying could hear the capital letter in the final word. “We struggle and grasp at the Dao, seeking to break it apart, such that we might but ascend.”

“Because no mortal can grasp the Dao. Not in its entirety,” Wu Ying said, then quoted. “The Dao that can be named is not the Dao. The Dao that can be explained is not the true Dao.”

“Exactly! Even brief moments of enlightenment have been known to drive some, the unprepared, the young, the fragile; mad. What more could grasping the entirety of existence do?” Patriarch Ding continued. “And if the Dao is all things, and all things are the Dao; then the elements are of the Dao. Yes?”

Wu Ying nodded in agreement, understanding of the man’s point arriving before it was spoken. Even so, he stayed silent out of respect.

“If the elements are of the Dao, and all are within, that can not all things be an element?” Patriarch Ding said finally, triumphantly.

Even though Wu Ying had arrived ahead of the Patriarch to the conclusion he was being led to, he was unable to refute the man. Perhaps a more studied scholar might have been able to do so. Perhaps by calling into question the definition of elements. Or naming some esoteric concept, like time.

Yet, Wu Ying was no scholar. He might play at it, but in his heart of hearts, he was but a simple farmer. And a farmer saw the world as it was, not as he wished it to be. The earth gave of its bounty or not, and the tax collector cared not for finely tuned definitions of coin and tael when they came to take their share.

“And so, an element of the lizard,” Wu Ying said. “The results are… impressive.” And he meant that, for the results were. A strange fighting method, a skillset and cultivation tomes that were perfect for a family. Even if… “But it also challenges the common beliefs.”

“Truth,” Patriarch Ding grimaced. “I thank you, again. Few enough are willing to treat with us, in fear of angering the other families. And though few would take our heretical manuals, if we grow too weak; our demise is guaranteed. Survival for me and my family is balanced, on the knife’s edge of cultivation.”

An old sorrow, a buried grief flickered across the man’s face. And suddenly, Wu Ying understood. How a man who was as smart, as dedicated to improvement as the Patriarch had shown himself to be could have made the mistake of pushing his Core into its current state.

Sometimes, the things you did for family, you would never do for yourself.

“A fair trade,” Wu Ying said instead of his realization. A hand raised, pointing to where he knew the library stood. “Knowledge for herbs. A fair trade, in all viewpoints.”

Patriarch Ding chooses to accept Wu Ying’s words. “Where do you go now, Cultivator Long? Where does the wind blow you?”

Wu Ying considered his words, lifting his head a little to feel the wind on his skin. In the end, he gave the only answer that he could.

“Wherever the wind wills.”