The Fourth Stage - Chapter 27 preview (Patreon)

“You’re looking better,” Yang Mu said, nearly a week later.

Wu Ying had conducted the first of his classes that day since his bath. Rather than stress himself too greatly, he had quizzed his students about the plants and herbs that they were meant to have studied. It had been quite relaxing really, though from the sweating faces of the cultivators as he forced them to cultivate and answer his questions while holding their auras tight, it had only been so for him.

That there had been fewer students, leaving only the core of the group behind, he had been surprised to find. Still, the six that remained seemed to have bonded during his recuperation. Fixing the fields had, obviously, been a good team exercise.

“Thank you. I’m feeling better,” Wu Ying said. He still grew exhausted easily, he knew. Even walking the length of the mountain was a struggle, and deep set aches within his body kept him from moving quickly. Much of the damage done to him had been papered over by the chi that coursed through him, but there were numerous minor injuries that were slowly healing.

More importantly for a cultivator, he found his meridians damaged. They were strained to the utmost and even now, wielding his chi for anything but gentle cultivation sent shards of pain through him. It was, also, why their current dinner was being held in her place of residence, being lower on the mountain and closer to the school.

“Your students have been working hard. So hard that it’s been commented upon by others,” Yang Mu continued. “Rumors of their Master and his own work ethic are circulating as well. How their Master would run a dozen bags of rice up the mountain each morning before martial classes, work long hours gardening and then, late into the night study cultivation texts and meditate. Or, how he challenged numerous martial prodigies to battle in the rings, only to lose as often as he won. Only to return months later to take them on and win.”

Wu Ying grunted. “It was never a dozen bags.” He held a hand up, stacking them one on top of the other quickly before he turned them sideways, mimicking the tipping over of rice bags. “They’ll fall down if you go more than a half-dozen straight up.”

“Oh, you tried?” Yang Mu said, amusedly.

“Once or twice,” Wu Ying grinned. “On a dare, mostly.”

“I also note you didn’t contradict me on the issue of your duelling history.”

Wu Ying grunted. “Master Cheng always felt the best way to improve was via contesting those better than oneself. Preferably only slightly better.” He reached up and touched his temple, his voice grown vague. “I used to take the bouts I watched or participated in and replay them in my mind, building a figure of whot hey were and how they fought and then practice beating them in here. Once I thought I had a methodology, I would practice the necessary steps.”

“Did it work?” Yang Mu asked, intrigued.

“It did. Mostly.”

“You said, used to.”

Wu Ying chuckled. “It was – it is – a skill I’ve let fade. When one challenges new creatures and new opponents anew each time, it is difficult to build a decent model. Some of it is still used, an understanding of familiar styles or positions, a recognition of familiar themes and tempos and follow-up techniques during a battle; but it is often second nature now. The skill itself is more of a duellist skill.”

She shook her head, a smile on her lips. “Always with a technique to improve oneself, you have, Ah Ying. But it explains much about your martial prowess.”

“I’m… adequate.” Wu Ying said, then waved her down before she could contradict his false humility. “I’m quick and I adapt well, and my ability to read opponents allows me to gain an upper edge so long as I can survive. And the wind is very good at surviving.”

Then, his voice grew contemplative as he spoke. “But I’ve met others more dangerous than myself. A General who took on three Core Formation cultivators, suffered pain and humiliation and still nearly won. My Master, whose dedication to the blade dwarfed my own. A boy who understands the soul of the weapon I carry.”

“Oh, my. Three.”

“Three who stand above me in skill. Others like your parents or Beggar Soh are…” Wu Ying shrugged. “Well, stronger by virtue of being.”

“I don’t see you placing me among those three either,” she teased.

Wu Ying snorted, refusing to rise to her provocation. Instead, he asked, “And you? What have you been up to? I know your classes continue to be well attended.”  Though, he had already received a letter while he was recuperating gently enquiring about the Honored Elder’s continued presence in their sect.

“Well enough.” She looked pensive then, as she spoke. “You know, I spoke with your friend, Cultivator Lin. She mentioned the cost of your baths.”

“Did she?” Wu Ying said.

“She did. She mentioned also the dearth of appropriate Spirit Cores.” Yang Mu leaned forward. “Wu Ying… she’s not going to have enough in a year. And that’s assuming she can take all that are here. And that’s a big if.”

“I know,” Wu Ying said. “I plan to…”

“Do something foolish like track down a Moon-aspected Core Formation beast yourself and defeat it?” She sounded thoroughly unimpressed.

“Offer a sect assignment and external gatherer request.” He offered her the most innocent grin he had.

Eyes narrowing in disbelief, he made sure to keep smiling. He truly had been intending to use other resources, though she was not wrong that doing it himself had been part of his backup plans.

“Well, if you are making it an assignment, that’s even better,” Yang Mu said, satisfied.

“Why?” even as he asked, he had an inkling of the answer. Dreadful as it might be.

“It’s about time for me to get going. Or soon enough at least, in a few months at most.”

“Do you have to?” Wu Ying blurted out, then winced before he added. “Not that I’m trying to tie you down-”

“I would never expect the wind to.”

“- but your presence, it’s… nice.”

“Nice, is it?” she teased.

“Do you expect me to say that I long for your presence every time you leave, that my heart aches for the merest scene of you, that every whiff of jasmine or lilac reminds me of you or that I cannot see a wine pot and remember moments of pleasure and decadence together? How, each cup of wine that I drink is less sweet without you?”

She blushed.

“Because I cannot.” Wu Ying waited a beat, for her eyes to widen, before he continued. “For those are but mere shadows of what I feel.”

“Oh Ah Ying, you know I don’t want to go…”

“But you’re like me. You have much to see and you left your parents to see the world, not spend years tied to a single sect. No matter how large or illustrious,” he said. “Go. See the world, experience the wonders there is. Make trade deals and fleece the unsuspecting.”

“I would never!” Yang Mu said, but then after a moment, she reached over and gripped his hand. “I’ll make sure to send what you need back. Rely on me, will you?”

“Of course. I’ll be counting on your support then,” he said. “And on your missives.”

***

Wu Ying sighed, heavily, watching the young lady disappear down the river. She could have flown, he knew, but taking the boat was both poetic and practical. Unlike him, Yang Mu sought to expand her trade and information networks. The captains of these vessels and the cities she would journey through would be the linchpins of her trade empire.

Even now, he was not certain what her dao was. New experiences, new people, new empires? Something to do mercantilism perhaps? Or was it the experiences, the negotiations and trades that she sought understanding from? Or the people who she interacted with, allowing her to expand her mindset?

An unknown, even now, but he was content to leave it be. He knew who she was, and that was enough, was it not?

It was, right?

Turning away from the troubling thoughts of understanding, of grasping an individually fully and whether one could ever do so, he found himself traversing the backways to his own residence. It amused him, a little, that there were such pathways, landscapes filled with steep cliffs or trembling trees that were traversable only by those with sufficient qinggong techniques and a friendly element that might chart the way through.

It also amused him, to know that such movement probably annoyed the Guardian whose spiritual aura swept across his more than once as he climbed. That the other man chose not to confront him was tacit approval in Wu Ying’s mind that he was allowed to make this journey. After all, why would he not? The formations knew who he was now, he carried an updated sect token and most importantly, he was one of the seniormost Elders in the sect.

That thought nearly made Wu Ying stumble and fall. He had known that, of course. Hard not to, when others greeted him as ‘Department Head’ or ‘Head of the Wandering Gatherers’ or ‘Honored Department Head’ or any of the other dozen variations that were utilized to showcase their respect for him.

But he had not actually considered it, not in the way that it had just struck him. That he was, for want of a better word, an honored individual within the sect. Oh, there were political maneuvering, individuals attempting to showcase or designate themselves as more important than him. Most prominently, between himself and Elder Kim of course, but other departments from the blacksmiths to the painters all wanted to peg their standing.

A foolish endeavour in Wu Ying’s view. He had declined or otherwise allowed himself to be designated as lower in standing than all the other Heads. The battle for egos, for standing, it was a passing matter. Useful to pass the days and months if one had no further path to climb, but for Wu Ying, it was but a distraction from more important things.

No.

He landed gracefully on stable ground, a rocky outcropping from which a nearby tree jutted out. Around him, sheer clifffaces and below the myriad bamboo trees that climbed. His meridians ached a little from the strain of his qinggong techniques, but the wind aided most of his movements such that climbing was easier. Simpler.

On stable ground, a hand against hard stone, Wu Ying let the enormity of his climb crash over him. He had risen, higher than he could have ever expected. Yes, he was a Core Formation cultivator with an elemental body nearing immortality, a stage that set him nearly as strong – if not stronger – than some Nascent Soul cultivators. He stood upon a different stage than ever before.

He knew that. He understood that.

But to find himself also perched upon an entirely different stage in the Sect itself, when he had first arrived as nothing more than one of the many nameless outer sect cultivators? That was a shock. A twisting of understanding of who he was and where he stood in the world.

Under his fingers, the firmness of unyielding rock. Next to him, the howling of mountain winds. Below, climbing bamboo trees intent on growth and above, the clouds and the heavens themselves. Here he stood, one small step away.

Would he soar or plummet?

His heartbeat sped up, his throat grew dry. Fingers clenched around unyielding stone, finding cracks and digging in deep as fear thrummed through his body. Ground that had felt so firm became precarious now, bare inches separating stone from air.

No wonder so many Elders clung to the cliff, not daring to take another step.

He had climbed so far, achieved so much. He was the infamous Verdant Gatherer, his tale told across dozens of kingdoms. Tall stories of his exploits battling monsters, stealing from sects and courting beauties suffused the very air. Now, sect members – outer, inner, Elders and even core members – all bowed and scraped, offering him courtesy at the least, respect by most.

If he progressed not at all, he would be one of the most successful, most powerful cultivators in the kingdom. He could, he would, be feted wherever he went.

It was all as insubstantial as air.

What mattered such admiration, even among semi-immortals? In time, he would pass on. So would all those that feted him. They might be longer lived than the mortals they sneered at below, but they all too would fade. All these honors, all these words of respect were but like the passing wind themselves, easily betrayed by events and time itself. His contributions discarded and forgotten, just like his own Master’s once he too passed.

To allow himself to be seduced by such status would blind him to his own path. He would no longer wish to climb higher, instead clinging ever more desperately to the regard of fools and the unambitious. In time, remorse would creep in and he would find, like so many others, only regret to nurse him through the days.

The only option, the only way forward, was to treat it all like so much passing wind. To let it no more matter, than the icy regard of the north or the clammy grip of the east. And to take a leap of faith, to trust not in others but his own path.

To finally, take a step off the cliff.