The Fourth Fall - Chapter 17 preview (Patreon)

The duelling grounds were expansive, warded and protected against even the strength of a Nascent Soul cultivator if necessary. Yet, only the more basic of protections were activated, glowing formations to block edged cuts and blade projections. After all, the cultivators that were gathering at the bottom of the hexagon-shaped duelling arena had already agreed to constrain their attacks and strength to the Energy Storage realm.

Yang Mu, standing beside Fairy Yang could only shake her head a little as she listened to her sister's subvocal complaints.

"Crazed sword cultivators, always looking for a fight," Fa Yuan was muttering, gesturing down at the quartet who were discussing the extent of the sparring session and limbering up. Even if En Lai and Wu Ying were the first combatants, the group could tell that others were already drifting over including Elder Hsu of the Verdant Green Waters.

"It is how they expand their dao, after all," Yang Mu pointed out placidly. Her gaze lingered on Wu Ying, grateful that she had been invited over at his request now that matters had moved on from the wedding. That was still happening, of course, though only the closest members of the courts were involved in those matters now.

Later. Later would come the dinners, the celebrations and other, more public, rituals. Even now, various officials were pivoting with expert ease to take into account and subsume the sparring matches into the day's festivities. Yang Mu could not help but admire the professionalism of the group, but then, they were experts that served the royal court of Wei. Antyhing less than excellence would not be acceptable.

"Mmm, but are swords the only way to interest them?" Fa Yuan muttered. "If one only sees the blade, are you not missing the rest of creation?"

"I would have thought that sister has grown used to sword cultivators,' Yang Mu teased. "After all, both Ah Ying and your Master were adherents of the jian."

"They were not sword cultivators though." Fa Yuan jerked her chin forward where the group was breaking up, moving to ascend the platform on their sides. No one, thus far, were showcasing any techniques. "They might train with the weapon, but their focus was never that narrow."

Yang Mu chuckled within, knowing part of her anger was the lack of reaction. While her martial sister - and how strange was that, to acquire one through Ying himself - might not consider herself vain, she had long grown used to the reaction her beauty caused. Finding individuals so entrenched in their respective dao that they had ignored her in favor of a sword must have been liking walking on solid earth, only to find one was on air itself.

Yet surely it must have happened at some point...

Yang Mu kept her face blank as she extended her spiritual aura a little, touching upon her martial sister. Touching upon that connection between them. She felt the connection stretch out, and within her mind and aura, it thrummed. In her mind, in her soul, she felt it twitch and she let herself bask in it.

Perhaps it was her training in formations, but for Yang Mu, these connections were not threads or skeins or weaves, but flowing waves of energy, mixing and interacting with one another. She could not just see the connection that she had with Fa Yuan - one that had grown, not just because of her relationship with Wu Ying but through her own interactions - but also the way the energy of their auras intermixed, the way the wind pressed upon her sister, the flow of chi as the Elder gathered it within herself, the numerous enchantments that criss-crossed her body and the way it interacted.

Opened fully, Yang Mu could not sustain such a sight. For not only did she feel the present but the impressions of Fa Yuan's past, her movement through the surroundings, her words and actions and the way it had interacted with those before. She could sense the echo of potential futures and the current of the present, all of it buoyed by the lapping waters of the past.

Even now, she could not stare at those connections - hah, what a shallow word for what she sought to understand - for more than a moment before she had to shut it off. But it was enough, enough for her to grasp her sister better, to understand more fully what was happening.

Elder Yang was no more annoyed by the actions of the three sword cultivators than the sun would be by the growing trees not bowing to it. She sought not their approval or their desire, but the appearance of being vain and shallow was a weapon she could wield. An obvious lever, displayed for some to depress.

Politics, for the one who woul one day take over, perhaps; for the Right Guardian.

"Ah Ying is quite urbane, it is true," Yang Mu murmured. "And I must admit, I am grateful for his wider... attentions." She let a slight hint of lewdity into her voice at the last, a trace of amusement. She received the crinkling of amusement in Fa Yuan's eyes that she expected, noted the reactions of others who overheard their low-voiced - but not screened - conversation. Saw those who found amusement, who looked disapproving or disgusted. Marked it for her own notes, as did Fa Yuan she was certain.

And then, there was no more time for idle amusements for Wu Ying was on the stage and crossing blades. The man - the boy - grinning with unrestrained pleasure, as the first flurry of strikes were complete. She recognised his opening move, the Dragon unsheathes its Claws, the way he shifted and fought. A series of direct strikes, with minimal feints and an overbrearing posture that twined and rotated, utilising his footwork and angles to get around his opponent's guard.

"Long family style. Original form," Fa Yuan muttered, recognising the style as well. "First and second form."

"Yes. He is holding back a little, then?" Yang Mu muttered. She knew some might consider mentioning it, without screening her words for privacy, to be giving the game away. But even the least adept martial cultivator could compare Ying's reputation to what he showcased now and find it wanting.

Not that there was not a crispness, a fluidity and elegance to his attacks that a mere Energy Storage cultivator or one who had never reached the Heart of the Sword could achieve. Then again, his opponent was just as fluid, just as striking; though their styles contrasted.

The Whispering Green Blades were a sword school that had once eschewed violence when at all possible. It's Master had been a Sword Saint, one whose understanding of the weapon had grown so great that it was said, those in his presence had to guard their auras and themselves, or be cut apart by his very words. When he had lived, such was his reputation that he had mediated between differing sects on the regular, his presence and his words slicing through bones of contention with a single strike.

His sect had continued that tradition, even perverted it some said, becoming mediating swordsmen who travelled the kingdom of Wei to enforce peace. Though they had studied the sword, it was only to aid them in negotiations. Their sword style took all that into account, often receptive and defensive, parrying Wu Ying's thrusts and nimble on their feet while only occasionally strike.

Yet, each time that En Lai did attack, his lunge, his thrust was so blistering fast that it forged a band of blade intent that projected ahead of his attack and kept moving long afterwards to strike and wear against the formation's defenses. The attacks were not consciously drawing upon his killing intent, but were incisive in their motions in of themselves.

"A little. But so are they," Fa Yuan said. "In both cultivation and style. For this, I believe, was the original style."

"Ah..." Yang Mu frowned, for she wondered how much either party could learn when they held back.

Perhaps the thought was echoed in En Lai's mind. Perhaps what had transpired in the flashing of blades, the quick passes that never touched either party was but a prelude, a minor warmup for both. For the next moment, the man began to speed up. Qinggong techniques activated, drawing qi into the surroundings as he began to strike more often now, following up his attacks till Wu Ying was forced to ward himself.

Parry, parry, thrust, cut, thrust, sidestep and cut.

The pair were beginning to push the upper limits of what an Energy Storage cultivator could do, even with their cultivation and energy levels suppressed. Yang Mu knew that Ah Ying was struggling at this, lowering his cultivation level to the appropriate amount. It had been many years since he had done so, and he had for many years, been both soul and body cultivator. Knowing what was an appropriate power level was difficult.

In that sense, Yang Mu felt that Ying was handicapping himself, lowering his own speed and reaction times further than he should have. He tried, of course, to make up for it with technique. But here, he met his match.

En Lai moved with ever increasing speed but with near flawless technique. His strikes homed in on Wu Ying's weaknesses, coming in at odd angles that forced the wind cultivator to shift and turn, blocking off strikes that would have struck at him. None that would have been fatal - the Long family technique was not so poor - but damaging nonetheless.

Some of the difference was the difference in body types and cultivation levels, for En Lai was faster and stronger than Wu Ying now. He moved into minor gaps that exploited the gaps in pacing, but much of the difference came from the levels and refinement of techniques. The original Whispering Green Blades style was one created by a Sword Saint, refined over years and decades of use and training. Impartation of the base body of knowledge had seen some degree of degradation over the years, but only mildly as it was a young sect, not even a couple of hundred years old.

Wu Ying's own Long family technique though, it had been passed on over half a millenium. It's original teacher had died, many years ago, and the technique's heart and soul had degraded. The teaching's faded as disciples died or added their own intrepetration to the technique, making adjustments and alterations.

Even he had made such adjustments himself, from the style his own father had taught him. Minor alterations, minor changes from techniques copied from his father unconsciously only to realise later, it had been altered due to his father's injured body, altered because of wounds and mortal failings. Altered to fit Wu YIng's own body, his greater strength, his speed, his longer arms and tendency to step to the right.

Dogma in form and style could kill a style, kill a fighter just as easily as imperfect technique.

A flash of a blade, a beat against the air. Then, a blade hovering before Wu Ying's throat, a weapon a mere arm extension away from lodging in his neck.

Yang Mu felt her hand clench against the railing, marble cracking under her grip. She saw the blade, hovering in place. Threatening him. She saw, most of all, his grin. Wide and filled with joy, his eyes sparkling. And she could not help but mutter, softly, under her breath. Exasperated.

"Sword cultivators."

Of course, Sister Yang nodded in agreement.

***

Wu Ying grinned, stepping back as he nodded to his opponent, his sword coming up to guard once again. He spoke, eyes sparkling as he readied himself for the next clash, "Well done! It seems that the Whispering Green Sword Sword Saint's style is everything I have been told."

"Cultivator Long's family style is direct and imperious," En Lai replied. Minor praise, only offered for courtesy's sake.  Wu Ying understood. After all, it was nothing before the other's.

Ah, to have studied their techniques before... For a moment, Wu Ying regretted the lost opportunity. He let himself feel the emotion, let it dance through him and then he pushed it aside as he raised his blade in silent salute.

The past could not be changed, the future always a moment away, forever unreachable. The present was all that he had, and in the present, he would test his own style against theirs. Test, and perhaps improve it.

The Wind caresses the Cheek, a block that came down from a raised hand, as light as a feather in motion to stop a thrust at his face. It transitioned as he rolled his hand over and swung his hand back to the outer line, returnining a cut at his opponent's face. He felt the atack meet naught but air as his opponent collapsed downwards, scrunching into their chest as they stepped in, a passing lunge as his opponent drew their jian back close to their face, opposite hand reaching to palm strike down his center.

Stomach, hips, groin. It mattered not, the attack would do damage well enough, injuring, disrupting balance or causing pain. Wu Ying stepped upward, turning as he did so as he rose in the air, dancing on the wind for all of two steps as he followed his opponent, utilising a draw cut with the tip downward. The Dragon dips its Brush caught a strand of wayward hair as the guarding hilt of his opponent's attack rose to block.

Faster, even as Wu Ying dropped to the ground, the pair moved, fighting in the tight constraints of a few feet, at the distance where the jian was ever so slightly awkward. Neither opponent willing to allow the other to breakfree, following with quick lunging steps or pivoting bodies, their weapons never touching for more than a moment. The light chime of blades striking one another filled the air, like golden bells in a temple. Ritualistic, solemn, graceful.

No overbearing attacks, no empowered strikes that crashed through badly held guards or caused nervous fingers to weaken. Wu Ying found himself smiling, wider and wider till he was grinning, eyes lit up with deep joy. To find another fighter with the Heart of a weapon was a joy in itself, but to be pushed to his utmost in a display of skill and technique, to learn of his own mistakes and misunderstadings, to see it exploited by another who knew him not.

A new view, a new vision, shadows cast upon the edifice of his mastery.

Joy, unbridled, sparked in his eyes. Without conscious thought, he began to speed up, matching his opponent's own continual increase in tempo. Eyes met over blades, understanding flowed between the pair of blademasters as they tested themselves and their styles to the limits.

Reaching, reaching, reaching for that sublime moment, for that unattainable goal of true understanding of the jian. They already knew the weapon in all its form, could hold any weapon and utilise it to its utmost with just a touch of the blade. Sense of the Sword was the first step, that they understood the jian. Broad and stubby, long and slender, in-between. They understood the two-sided straight sword, in all its form.

Then, the Heart of the Sword, where one saw the weapon for more than the weapon itself. More than the mass of metal and hilt and blade, saw what it meant to the world around, to those who carried and wielded it. Not just as warriors, not just as gentleman scholars or where it was displayed, a trophy for better times or old glory. They understood the weapon, its place in history, its heart - and in so doing, gained a trace of its dao. Able to wield their very body as a sword themselves, taking on aspects of the weapon.

Here, his opponent had taken it further. Subsumed that understanding into his dao, such that their aura glittered and throbbed, cutting at Wu Ying's own wind aura, slicing it apart as they contacted and fought. Sharp as a blade, a razor that could part flesh and leave behind only memory's kiss, before all split.

And finally, the Soul of the Sword. That sublime confluence of intent and souls, where one no longer was seperated from the weapon, no longer needed a style or technique to display the full might of the weapon; for one was the sword itself. Where the Heart of the Sword user might borrow the strength or flexibility or sharpness of a blade, making their bodies the weapon, an individual with the Soul of the Sword was the weapon in its entirety.

Some such Sword Saints no longer carried the weapon, no longer feeling the need to utilise a weapon. Others carried dozens, hundreds, calling them forth to wield with a flick of their hands, moving them with intent and will as much as spiritual aura and chi. For there was no difference between them and the blades in hand or floating alongside them - or carried by another.

In his opponent's hands, the jian that sought his body danced. Wu Ying saw the edge, the tip come, sensing the blade through his weapon, his aura, through the wind that surrounded them both. Understanding where it might be, by virtue of angles and shifts in body weight, in the turning of an arm or shoulder or wrist. He danced, ever so close, allowing the blade to come within mere cun of his face.

And sought, in the flickering dance of blades to sense his opponent's. To not just see the blade, to hear it hiss by his ears and whistle as it cut the air, to feel the thrum of parting motion as it sliced past his neck, to not just catch hint of sword oil and smoky metal and wrapped leather, but to be the blade.

An impossible task, for him, for his opponent.

Yet, they danced, moving ever faster, seeking that moment and that convergence of souls.

***

"Raise the formations, raise the formations!" A panicked official, standing outside the ring was shouting, the calm and collected referee long gone. Eyes wide, sweat pouring from his face, he regarded the ever faster moving pair within the ring, their bodies only blurs to the mortal watchers. Each attack, each motion sent shards of blade intent striking outwards, lining the straining formation as the glowing yellow runes flickered and brightened with each moment.

Scrambling officials and formation masters below worked to enact the stronger formations, pushing in spirit stones and casting the sticks to take into account the ever evolving chi fluctuations of the environment. The group spoke swiftly, some pushed aside others who stood in the way, a few sitting cross-legged, arms extended as they poured chi directly into the formation and altered enscriptions to enable the usage of further layers of protection.

All the while, a wind howled around the stage, a gale that caught at hats and fluttered robes while leaving the watchers, a bare twenty feet away barely touched, only the barest rustle of disarrayed stray hairs a mark of the passing wind.

"It seems Ah Ying is having a little too much fun," Fa Yuan muttered, annoyed.

"Mmm, he's containing himself a little at least. But his opponent has surely reached his limit," Yang Mu replied. For it was clear now, neither party were speeding up any longer, both matching one another in reflexes and strength.

"He'll lose, again," Fa Yuan said, softly. "The Whispering Green Blade style is well known."

"Maybe." Yang Mu was more doubtful. For the technique might be more refined than Wu Ying's, but it was still wielded by mortal man. It had been created with a single user in mind, and while it was broad and deep enough to take into account a variety of body types, of cultivation levels and inclinations, it was still, in the end, optimised for its creator. Add in the gaps in understanding that occured over years, over teachings and in individuals and what might result might be a significantly weaker application.

"We shall see..." Fa Yuan muttered, eyes narrowed.

Yang Mu saw it too, for the battle, like a musical piece was coming to its crescendo. Even for cultivators, there was a time and phase when a battle would naturally break apart. When techniques could no longer be utilised, when arm and leg and body tired, mind coming to a standstill unable to find the solution to the next motion. A time, when the pair would step apart.

Or one would be struck.

When it ended, it happened so fast that Yang Mu had to play it ver in her mind, retracing the final few passes.

Rather than a sword stroke, the ending had been preceded by a foot sweep. Ying's lower foot swinging wide, preceding the blade. A raised foot to dodge the attack, a blade turned to block the coming cut. Then, Wu Ying had collapsed inwards, bending his body and arm while putting the weak of his blade into the block so that his own attack fell into the void of his opponent's strong of his blade.

Only for the attack to be deflected by a sweeping arm, a collapsing defense as his opponent fell into themselves while offering Ah Ying their elbow. An attack that Wu Ying had to receive or...

Break apart, pushing away with his foot, flowing backwards to avoid the sudden riposte that chased him all the way via blade intent till he parried it. On the other end of the stage.

Apart, and having utilised his Wind Body and qinggong methods to completely avoid the attack. But breaking the unspoken rule, moving faster even than his opponent and their attack. Thus failing, and losing, showcasing some of his true ability at last.

As, Yang Mu assumed, they had planned and desired.