Chapter 726 (Patreon)

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1srLBGx572_lPRjgm3th_t66XLnFBnDc8RaHMoaaQeyM/edit?usp=sharing

The battle was going to shit, but Jorani had a plan.

Course, these battles always started with a plan, scheme, or strategy in mind, and they rarely ever worked out as intended, but he had a good feeling about this one and felt it worth a gamble. A tricky thing, gambling, especially when betting something as precious as human lives, because it was all too easy to get hooked on chasing the thrill of victory rather than the payout itself. He’d seen it countless times before, rogues and bandits losing entire fortunes they’d just looted only to go out and risk their lives to accumulate more wealth to try and win it all back. Good fortune rarely lasted a lifetime, and for most, winning big only meant they’d have more to lose when their luck ran out. In his transition from street rat to forest bandit, Jorani never got sucked into the allure of dicing, horse-racing, archery contests, or whatever vice the others were into that week, but only because he was too miserly to risk his meagre savings. The pickings were few and far between, and the pauper in him hated not knowing where his next meal would come from, so he always kept what little earnings he had stashed away for a rainy day.

Then Mister Rustram got promoted and left to run his own retinue, so Jorani was given command of the old one, a promotion which came with a sizable pay bump and an unwelcome association with his second-in-command. The vile and villainous Old Bulat, a man probably younger than Jorani, was a burly man almost as wide as he was tall, one who looked like he could eat Ral for breakfast and still have room left for dessert, because there was no way anyone could get as large as Old Bulat without adding dessert to every meal. Granted, he’d turned most of it into muscle after coming back from retirement, but the man would never be anything short of hefty even if he ran for a thousand years without stopping. Remarkable as his transformation might’ve been, Old Bulat was always calculating the odds, though he rarely used any sort of math Jorani was familiar with. “Bet against the man,” Old Bulat would say, “Not the dice. The dice will do as they please, but the man? The right man’s a mark just beggin’ to give ye coin.”

Words of wisdom, or at least so it seemed at the time, which was always the problem with Old Bulat. You never knew how wrong he was until things went to shit, which they did more often than not, except Old Bulat always came out smelling like roses. After a few bad bets which cost him a veritable fortune, Jorani finally figured out that he was Old Bulat’s mark and quit wagering in the man’s games, but the damage was already done. The thrill of the gamble had taken root in Jorani’s souls and gave him a mighty thirst for action. Oh how he yearned to hear the tumbling dice, stampeding hooves, or even the clickity clack of the shuffling Mahjong tiles, a game he’d always figured was for the rich and mighty, except he was one of them now and had the coin to spare. What was he saving it for anyways? Retirement? Hardly the most sound investment for a man in his line of work, since a soldier in war time didn’t have the best odds of surviving to a ripe old age.

That’s how Old Bulat framed it, which made sense at the time, but then Jorani put a bit of thought into it and realized how full of shit the fat man really was. It seemed silly to save up for a retirement which might never come, but if Jorani wanted to ever be anything besides a soldier, then he’d need coin to get out. If he just gambled away his sizable salary month after month, then he’d have no choice but to keep soldiering on until his luck ran out and he went the way of the soldier at the pointy end of a Defiled spear, a self-fulfilling prophecy as it were.

But now, he was not just a soldier anymore, he was a commander of five-thousand men, one addicted to gambling their lives away and none too good at it either. Cept this time he had a plan, a good one even, and he figured there was no better time than right now to test it. “Centre, fall back fifty paces,” he commanded, and Silva Sent the orders out, even though Jorani could’ve Sent it himself. “Left and right flanks, press in hard.” A basic maneuver to encompass the enemy forces, one Jorani’s counterpart responded to by flaring out on either flank to delay the advance while his centre pushed in. A standard counter to a standard move, so far, things were going well, though one wouldn’t know it from looking. Despite having inherited a crack fighting force that’d been through the Father’s Maw and back, the warriors of the bossman’s retinue seemed wild and reckless compared to the disciplined forces they faced. Try as he might, Jorani couldn’t keep his lines neat and orderly in the chaos of battle, unlike the enemy forces who fought shoulder to shoulder with barely enough room to swing their weapons. Which they didn’t. Swing that is, each one armed with spear and shield instead, which they used to great effect by attacking with measured thrusts while hiding behind a wall of steel that only a Honed Spiritual Weapon could cut through.

Time and time again, Jorani’s soldiers threw themselves at the enemy forces to no avail, his numbers in the centre steadily dwindling as his opponent held the flanks and advanced, but he treated the losses as the price of baiting the trap, one which would pay off in spades if everything went according to plan. He needed the enemy to over-extend, but the enemy commander was too cunning to do so without reason, which meant timing was key here. Watching with bated breath, Jorani almost gave the order three times before deciding to wait, and then almost missed the perfect opportunity as the enemy vanguard got a little overeager and broke formation to try and finish his centre off. “Split the flanks,” he said, and this time, Silva looked to him in question before passing along the order. “Half from each side fall back to collapse on the centre. Hit them hard and fast, wholesale slaughter.”

A big gamble, abandoning the flanks to hammer the centre, as it could all go pear shaped and end with his forces surrounded on all sides, but he had faith his superior Warriors would hold the line and deal with the centre in good time. Understanding his intentions, Chey held the left flank while sending Ral to spearhead the charge, and the big guy crashed into the centre like thunder on a dry summer night. On the right, Wang Bao held firm while Ulfsaar fell back to meet up with Ral, the two mighty behemoths making short work of their foes with axe and staff respectively. That was Jorani’s advantage here, the superior quality of his troops, which he needed to use in order to overcome his opponent’s first-rate discipline and impeccable formations. Even under the weight of so many attacks, the enemy centre held firm and formed up in a square, buying precious seconds which turned into agonizing minutes as both forces teetered on the brink of victory and defeat. It all came down to this, because if the centre held, then Jorani’s flanks would soon be overrun, but if the centre folded, then the battle was all but won.

Both sides took massive casualties as dead and defeated filed out of the battlefield, some grumbling and others laughing at a match well fought, but Jorani could not afford to let his focus slip. He still had soldiers in reserve which he sent to shore up the flanks, sending them on circuitous routes to try and hit them where it would hurt the most, but his enemy matched his movements and probed his weaknesses as well, so there was no advantage to be gained. After a long, hard-fought battle, the horn sounded to signal the end of today’s match, and Jorani was left staring at the battered remnants of his retinue and yearning for the sweet taste of victory which had just been denied him. Then again, he hadn’t lost either, as the enemy lines were just as ragged and sparse, with only a few hundred ‘survivors’ in total on both sides being cheered on by their ‘dead’ comrades on the sidelines.

At least the troops were in good spirits, as these ‘tactical maneuvers’ were a lot more fun than the endless, monotonous training exercises they’d taken the place of. Tomorrow, they’d go back to marching and drilling, but today, they got to sweat and spar on the battlefield in a massive, chaotic melee with no threat of death or dismemberment. There were bruises and broken bones aplenty, but those were all either easily fixed or good practice now that the bossman’s Panacea Healing method was so widespread. Though the soldiers were all free to rest and Heal up, Jorani still had his part to play, so he marched over to the staging table with Old Bulat and Silva to shake hands with his opposing commander. “Thought I really had ye this time around,” Jorani began, shaking his head with a wry smile. “Gotta say, ye turned them Stormguards into somethin’ fierce in so short a time.”

“Not fierce enough,” Mister Rustram replied, though Jorani noted the man’s aide and second-in-command were both beaming from the praise. “You really should have won, but Lixian here lucked out and took Ulfsaar out early, else the centre would’ve collapsed much sooner.”

Was that what happened? Damn it, Jorani had missed seeing Ulfsaar exit the field, though it could be forgiven considering the sheer number of bodies streaming off the field at the same time. Eyeing Mister Rustram’s second more closely, Jorani took stock of the grizzled Lixian, who had the worn, weathered look of a farmer or sheep-herder who spent his days out under the burning hot sun. It made him look much older than Jorani, but there was a good chance Lixian was only in his early to late twenties. Commoners aged faster than Martial Warriors, and the Stormguard only formed their Cores recently, just over a year ago in fact, which made his achievement all the more impressive. Ulfsaar was a Domain-capable veteran who ranked amongst the strongest Warriors in Jorani’s unit, and even he would think twice before engaging the berserk half-bear in single combat, but Lixian here had done it, all while looking like he’d be more comfortable leaning on a pitchfork than standing at full attention with spear and shield in hand.

Despite not having seen the fight, Jorani had to give credit where credit was due. “Damned fine job out there,” he said, offering his hand for Lixian to shake, and Mother bless the poor man, his eyes went so wide he looked ready to bolt or bow as if Jorani were a proper noble or something. It took a little doing, but any man who could face off against Ulfsaar wasn’t lacking in courage, so Lixian eventually found his bearings and took Jorani’s hand in his own. A cold and clammy handshake ensued, but firm and unyielding at the same time, which told Jorani that Lixian had seen some shit before and would bounce back from his awe soon enough.

“Got lucky, m’lord,” the gruff man said, unwilling to meet Jorani’s eyes after a lifetime of subservience. “Hit him while he weren’t lookin’ is all.”

“That’s how I’d hit him too,” Jorani cracked, chuckling all the while. “From a hundred paces with a crossbow if I could, but you? You were right there innit and didn’t just hold yer ground, ye went in on Ulfsaar the Voracious and brought him down. That’s somethin’ to be proud of soldier, because between you and me, that man scares me more than most Defiled.”

That earned him a grin from the plucky fellow, which made him look like a fresh-faced kid barely old enough to marry, as well as a subtle nod of thanks from Mister Rustram. The Stormguard were lacking in experience and confidence, which was the whole point of these tactical maneuvers, mock battles to help put them through their paces before crossing blades with the Defiled. It wasn’t as good as a real battle, but the Enemy wasn’t so obliging as to send their troops out piecemeal so Mister Rustram could blood his new retinue. Then again, the Stormguard were hardly strangers to the battlefield, as they were Irregulars one and all, mostly volunteers who took up arms against the Enemy before even Forming a Core, which took more courage than sense.

“You’re not giving Lixian here enough credit.” Appearing out of nowhere, the bossman joined their conversation without so much as a how you do, looking regal and magnificent in his blue and white outfit, an embroidered affair full of animals aplenty. Hard to imagine this was the same sickly man from just over a year ago, but here he was, hale and healthy as can be, larger than life yet still humble and gracious enough to look Lixian in the eye and shake his hand. “I remember you,” the bossman said, emanating an Aura of pride and gratitude. “I remember what you did during the withdrawal from JiangHu, and it is my regret to have not remembered sooner.” Breaking eye contact from Lixian to let him weep tears of joy unnoticed, the bossman turned to face the others and said, “You all know he served as an Irregular during that battle, but what you don’t know is that this man was among the first to come to my aid. A commoner with nothing more than a crossbow and dagger, he sees a force of Demons break through the Death Corps lines to charge headlong at my carriage, and what does he do? He charges right at them to save me. No fear, no hesitation, just grit and courage, so how can he balk before a mere Ulfsaar?” Turning back to Lixian who was all but glowing with pride, the bossman grinned and continued, “I owe you a debt of gratitude, you and all your comrades who came to my aid. Without you, me and my loved ones might well have fallen that day, and I cannot thank you enough.”

“No, no, this lowly one does not dare.” Were it not for the bossman forcibly holding him upright, Lixian might well have dropped to knees to grovel in the dirt. “Legate has done so much for this lowly one, more than this lowly one can repay in a thousand lifetimes.”

“Wrong.” Raising his voice so others could hear him, the bossman declared, “Everything you’ve accomplished and attained was done through your own efforts. That is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Take pride in yourselves, for you are not just Warriors now, but men and women who stood up for a cause even before you had the strength of arm to defend it. Hold fast to those convictions, for they have brought you far and will continue to guide you ever forward along the Martial Path.”

Conviction. Faith. Two words that seemed similar, but the bossman lauded one while deriding the other. A strange man, Falling Rain was, but genuine through and through, and everyone present knew it. The proof was right there before them, in his words and actions both, the former laced with emotion and the latter, sincerity. Turning to his Death Corps Guards, the bossman motioned one forward who approached with a Runic Shield in both hands, which he then presented to Lixian. “Take it,” the bossman said, his hand still firmly gripping Lixian’s right arm to keep him from kneeling. “I see you have a Spiritual Spear already, so I hope this shield will serve you well.”

That wasn’t the end of it either. The bossman had a few more Runic Shields to hand out, some of which went to Jorani’s retinue, and plenty of Spiritual Spears, most of which went to the Stormguard. It made sense since Jorani’s retinue was pretty heavily equipped already, especially once you took into account stuff like chariots, bows, catapults, and what have you, so there were no hard feelings on his side. Instead, he joined Mister Rustram to follow the bossman around and watch him mingle with the troops, his familiarity with the Stormguards no less than with his old retinue. When the bossman found the time to get to know so many new names and faces was a mystery to all, especially considering most of the Stormguard seemed just as surprised to learn that the Legate could identify them on sight, or even reference Irregulars who died during that same battle, but all this was part and parcel of the bossman’s considerable charm.

He even knew Yazhu, the Stormguard Banner Bearer, was the first to sound out the rallying cry to which Lixian responded, a secret the man himself had never once divulged. Odd that, but hardly out of the ordinary for a man of miracles like Falling Rain.

Being the busy man that he was, the bossman didn’t have much time to spare, but he took a moment to pull Jorani aside for a private conversation. “Good work out there, pushing Mister Rustram to his limits like that. Aren’t many who can in these maneuvers, where strength of arm matters less than cunning of mind.”

“Thanks bossman.” Not content with the results, Jorani shook his head and muttered, “Should’ve had him though, even with Ulfsaar going down early. That damned checker-board formation is a tough nut to crack, but I’ll get it one of these days.”

“Just remember,” the bossman began, still friendly, using his Legate’s voice, “You won’t be fighting Mister Rustram out on the battlefield. You’ll be up against the Enemy, and you’ll need to adjust your tactics accordingly. Your gambit would’ve cleaned up against Defiled, but I’d advise you take a little more caution and be more risk averse when facing the armoured Chosen.”

Caught like a kid with his hand in the candy jar, Jorani dipped his head down and nodded like a chicken pecking grains. Damn Old Bulat and his gambling ways. No more wagers for Jorani, not anymore. “Got it bossman,” he said. “Will adjust accordingly.”

“Not saying you shouldn’t collapse on the centre when facing Chosen,” the bossman clarified. “It was a good move, but only if Ulfsaar’s boys had their chariots instead. Anyways, I’m setting out for the Central Citadel first thing tomorrow morning by ship, and I’d like you to come with. I’ll be meeting up with certain people, and I want you to be seen by my side so they can familiarize themselves with your face. As my second-in-command, there will be times when I send you out in my place, and I can’t have the nobles ignoring you while claiming ignorance of your station after the fact.”

“Sure thing bossman.” Immediately, Jorani knew something was up, and not just because the bossman was a terrible liar. If this was the case, he’d bring Mister Rustram too, but the bossman made no mention of it, nor had he ever sent Mister Rustram to do any politicking before. No, he had his Consort Zheng Luo for that, which meant the bossman needed Jorani around for other reasons that he’d rather not say. No matter, as Jorani wasn’t going to call the man on his lie, nor did he have any pressing matters keeping him here in the Northern Citadel. Instead, he spent the rest of the day training with his troops and arranging for Old Bulat to watch over them in his absence. When it came time for dinner, Jorani headed back to his barracks suite which he lived in alone, and used his personal stove to cook himself a delicious meal, chicken soup with turnip, cabbage, and lotus roots to pair with stewed pig trotters.

Just as he was about to sit down and eat, a voice sounded out from behind him, one Jorani had hoped to never hear again. “Well lookit you,” GangShu began, plopping himself down at Jorani’s table and helping himself to the bowl of soup. “You’ve come up in the world since I last saw you. Done me real proud.”

Much as Jorani hated to admit it, his head swelled at the sound of GangShu’s praise, because even if the man was a shitty father, he was still blood of Jorani’s blood. There was something primal about wanting to please your father, and even though he would think twice before pissing on the man if he were on fire, Jorani still yearned for GangShu’s approval. In fact, he was so pleased he didn’t even mind sharing the soup, and instead grabbed another bowl for himself and one for Daxian who was lurking nearby. “Might as well join us,” Jorani said, much to his older half-brother’s surprise. “Set this to simmering this morning, and it won’t keep till I’m back, so gotta finish it one way or another.”

Nodding his head a fraction of a centimetre in barely acknowledged thanks, Daxian accepted the gesture and dug in without a word. Telling how the man sat across from their sire rather than beside him, but GangShu didn’t seem to care. “Yea, about that,” GangShu began, pausing to drain his bowl with a slurp before filling his bowl yet again. “You should watch yerself when ye go. Yer Legate got some schemes cookin’, and it don’t bode well.”

“What do ye mean?”

“Case ye haven’t noticed, he’s been buttin’ heads with Shuai Jiao for awhile now.” Crunching on chicken bones and lotus roots both, the Ancestral Beast heaved a tired sigh and set his bowl down, which was the first clue Jorani had that things were not as they seemed. This was the first time he’d seen the old bastard since the battle of Sinuji, when GangShu left alongside the Abbot and Guan Suo to battle it out against three Enemy Divinities. Guan Suo died from his injuries and the Abbot would’ve died if not for the bossman’s assistance, but it seemed as if GangShu still had yet to wholly recover. “Yer Legate’s on the warpath,” GangShu explained, as if this were news to anyone in the Empire. “But Shuai Jiao ain’t one to fall in line. Couple days ago, the Legate quietly ordered Central and South to begin mustering their forces in SuiHua for the western offensive. A direct order, mind you, one that’s gone unheeded, so now the little dragon is of a mind to set the Commander General straight.” Meeting Jorani’s eyes, GangShu pursed his lips and added, “By any means necessary. Ye get me?”

“Not even a bit. What are ye goin’ on about?”

“He knows I’m back,” GangShu explained, and the pieces fell into place. “That’s why he asked ye to go with. He wants to drag me in again and use me as a deterrent against Shuai Jiao. Yer Legate’s got a half-dozen other Ancestral Beasts to call on, but he ain’t gonna let me rest and recuperate, no, he’s gotta drag me down into the mud with him, because he knows I ain’t got a choice. I gotta throw in with him, because his protection is the only thing keeping me rivals from comin’ a knockin’ while I’m down and out. The treaty ain’t what it use to be, and there are plenty lookin’ to profit amidst disaster.”

“No.” Shaking his head, Jorani put aside his bowl of soup and crossed his arms in a huff, his appetite soured by GangShu’s accusations. Everyone knew there were tensions between the bossman and the Commander General, but things could hardly be as dire as GangShu made them out to be. “That ain’t the bossman. He wouldn’t force ye to fight like that.”

“He would and he has, and I can’t blame him for it.” Shaking his head with a wry chuckle, GangShu helped himself to a pig trotter, and for a minute or two, the only sounds to fill the silence were those of his lips smacking. “Yer Legate’s playin’ his part better than anyone thought he could, though I still don’t understand why he’s chosen this hill to die on. Retaking the west sounds nice and all, but what’s the point? If he wanted to distract the Enemy and buy more time for the Empire, I’d understand, but he’s planning an all-out offensive to sweep the Defiled out of the province fer good.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Unable to help but sound defensive, Jorani asked, “What? Ye think we should just let the Enemy have the West fer good now? Turn a blind eye to all the suffering the people of the west are goin’ through?”

“In a word? Yea, that’s exactly what we should do.” There was no heat in GangShu’s tone, no passion burning in his eyes, only tired resignation from carrying a heavy burden he would rather not bear. “Ye think me cruel, but the west is lost. Ain’t nothing we can do for them, not anymore. Anyone still there has been under Defiled rule fer two years now, so even if everything goes as planned, it’d only mean an earlier end to their misery. Great for them and all, but at what cost? I’ve been around a long time, and care little fer mortals in general, but even I shudder at the thought of putting millions of innocent prisoners to the sword. Retaking the west will not end with a glorious celebration, but with the greatest purge the Empire has ever seen, one to dwarf all others, a fact yer Legate seems to have overlooked. He almost broke watchin’ one purge, a tiny one affecting a few thousand at most, if that. How ye think he’ll handle overseeing the greatest purge in history? Or how his soldiers will handle having all that blood on their hands? How many prisoners are there? How many traitors? Millions, easily, and that’d only be the start. Nah, best to leave the West untouched and hold our ground here, but Falling Rain thinks he knows better.”

Taken aback by GangShu’s concerns, Jorani had to fight the urge to laugh in the man’s face. As if the bossman would ever allow a purge to happen on his watch. Anyone who knew the man would know he intended to save the people of the West, but only a few people knew he possessed the power to Cleanse those poor souls of the Defiled taint, just like he’d Cleansed Jorani some years ago. No wonder the other commanders were dragging their feet, they just didn’t know what a miracle worker the Legate truly was, and he had yet to share the news.

“Nah,” Jorani said, elicit a look of surprise from GangShu and Daxian both. “Ain’t gonna be no purge, and ain’t nothing bad gonna happen. Just trust the bossman, he’s got it all figured out, because he does know better.”

Jorani could almost see the pieces falling into place behind GangShu’s eyes, which widened in comprehension after some seconds of thought. “Something to do with the Elemental Spirit? Or maybe the little friend he made out on the Azure Sea?” Seeing as he had no idea what that was, Jorani could only shrug in ignorance, much to GangShu’s disappointment. “Ye don’t know, yet yer still so sure there won’t be a purge? Seems strange is all.”

“I just know.” Shrugging again, Jorani reached for his bowl again, having recovered his appetite alongside his good mood. “If the bossman ain’t said anything, then it ain’t my place to wag me lips, but trust me when I say things won’t play out the way ye expect. If ye don’t trust me, then ye can just stay here instead of followin’ us to the Central Citadel. I’ll explain things to the bossman, and he’ll understand. I doubt he’s draggin’ ye into things like ye think, because he don’t operate like that. Never has, and never will. If he wants yer help, he’ll ask fer it, plain and simple.”

Trading a glance with Daxian, who remained indifferent to it all, GangShu sighed and ate the rest of his pig trotter, bones and all. “Hope yer right, kiddo,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I really do, but I can’t say I’m confident. Either way, yer Legate’s got a lot of convincing to do if he intends to retake the West, and I’m pretty sure he ain’t heading south to ask nicely. Don’t matter much since my hands are tied, so just know me and mine will be close by during the trip.”

“Yer rivals really that bold as to try and kill ye outright?”

“Nah, but they ain’t against takin’ hostages.” Offering a pained grimace in apology, GangShu explained, “Some think I dote on ye, what with the Runic armour and whatnot, so they figure I’d come out to save ye if ye were in any danger.”

Jorani would’ve laughed if it wasn’t so serious, because he found it absurd that anyone would believe that GangShu would risk his life for anyone, much less a son he barely even cared about. “Well shit.” Heaving a sigh, Jorani glanced at his set of Runic Armour which he kept locked away in the closet, hardly the most effective deterrent to Peak Expert thieves, but considering the bossman’s reputation, there were few thieves foolish enough to risk his ire. If he’d known how much trouble it’d bring him, he would’ve flat out refused to wear it when it was first offered to him, but it was too late for regret now. It would prove precious little protection against the might of a Divinity, but Jorani would wear it anyways in the days ahead.

After dinner, Jorani parted ways with GangShu and Daxian to head over to the Brotherhood encampment, where the monks were gathered for their nightly routine of showing off their handiwork before consigning said works to the fire. There was something poignant about watching such beauty be destroyed, but it also added a pressing need for Jorani to come watch every night, lest he miss out on seeing those precious and short-lived works of art. It took a lot of effort on the bossman’s part to convince Monk Happy to carve all those names into the Tombstone of Heroes, since taking part in the creation of such a monument might be seen as pursuing permanence in legacy, but after a lengthy discussion on the topic, the Brotherhood concluded that so long as Monk Happy retained his anonymity and carved in a legible but unembellished font, then no harm would come of it. It made sense in a way, given how the monks destroyed their artwork to avoid yearning for permanence in fame, which was one of the three poisons. Jorani could see how a permanent stone marker might well be construed as just that, but it still seemed like a silly matter to lose sleep over.

That was the Brotherhood in a nutshell, so focused on getting the details of getting their Noble Eight-Fold right that it ate into the time needed to pursue it. Trial and error was unacceptable when it came to their Dao, because every step had to be taken with the Right View. In contrast, the bossman believed that the destination mattered less than the journey itself, a sentiment Jorani agreed with. Just because you had a set goal, didn’t mean there was only one way to reach it, for all paths lead to the Dao in the end. Right View, Right Intention, Right Speech, and so on and so forth, those were merely guidelines to live by, not hard rules to stubbornly follow without thinking twice.

Take the Right Livelihood for example, which dictated that one should live a life free of harm brought about by one’s decisions. This meant abstaining from eating meat, crafting weapons, or utilizing anything that had been produced through slavery or other means of coercion, which left the Brotherhood precious few options to work with after leaving their hidden monastery in the Arid Wastes. Everything they used had to be procured by hand, because otherwise, there was no guarantee that the products they needed were wholly free of harm. Thus, rather than buy vegetables at market, or even visit farms to procure product off the vine themselves, the monks insisted on foraging for their own food in the wild, which meant they had precious little to eat here on the border between West and Central. Despite subsisting on grass soups and tasteless tubers, the monks refused to stray from their beliefs and buy a cabbage or turnip from the market, even though the bossman went to great lengths to show that the farmers living along the Western were under no compulsion to work.

A statement the monks clearly didn’t agree with, as they believed the debt incurred by the farmers to purchase their lots of land was coercion, plain and simple. It was in a way, but hardly any harm considering the bossman wasn’t charging interest on a debt and had structured payments in a way that the farmers would never have to part with cold, hard coin. All they had to do was farm, and even then, if their crops took blight or rotted in the field, nothing would come of it since payments were a percentage of the harvest. The only issue would be if the farmers abandoned their plots of land, at which point the bossman would simply reclaim the land and sell it to someone else, but even this was enough for the Brotherhood to write off the farmers as under duress.

If that was the case, then the entire working sector was under duress, since you gotta work to eat, but no amount of arguments would convince the Brotherhood otherwise.

A stubborn, stuck in their ways bunch, the monks of the Brotherhood, but they made some beautiful art, which Jorani appreciated and mourned as the night wore on. Once the last monk’s artwork had been destroyed, Jorani approached Monk Happy and Monk Bones to let them know about his plans for the next few days, as well as his strange encounter with GangShu, mostly because he just wanted to talk about it. Monk Happy stayed silent throughout it all, listening intently until Jorani had little left to say, ending with, “So er... yea. I dunno when I’ll be back, if I even come back at all. Chances are we’ll head straight fer SuiHua from the Central Citadel, so if I don’t see ye, then I just wanted to say me farewells. Give me best to Asmani and the rest when ye see em, and err, well... farewell, I guess.”

“No need to bid me farewell,” Monk Bones said, sucking his teeth in minor annoyance. “I’ll be coming along with.”

“As will I.” Shrugging, Monk Happy sighed and added, “Whether the rest of the Brotherhood accepts him as Wisdom or Junior Brother accepts his place with us, this monk cannot sit idly by in good conscience while matters of grave importance take place. GangShu is correct; Junior Brother is done ‘asking nicely’, and while this monk cannot claim knowledge of his intent, this monk knows that nothing good will come from conflict between the Legate and Commander General.”

Stomach roiling with worry, Jorani swallowed hard and wondered if maybe things were more serious than he thought. Surely the bossman had some plan in mind, something to win Shuai Jiao over without butting heads with the man. There was no way he’d risk falling out with the Commander General just before a major engagement, one that needed the support of all three provinces to succeed, so with that in mind, Jorani headed home to rest his head and woke up bright and early to catch the ship.

And upon arriving at the docks in full Runic Armour, he felt the world crumble away beneath his feet as he spotted a familiar face waiting to board the bossman’s ship. “Siyar,” Jorani said, hoping against all hopes that his fears were for naught. “What are ye doin’ here? Got a message fer me or the bossman?”

“Nah,” the hardened killer replied, standing at what appeared to be ease but with one hand always close to his sword. “The bossman asked me to come along with. You too huh?”

“Yea.” Hard to believe that Siyar was coming along for the same reasons, or at least not the ones the bossman admitted to. Resisting the urge to close his eyes and weep, Jorani scanned his surroundings and found several more familiar faces waiting nearby. Some stood out at first glance, famous figures like Colonel General Nian Zu, Lieutenant General Akanai, Major General Baatar, and other notable Warriors, but it was the figures who didn’t stand out that scared Jorani so. Some were sailors, and others were dockworkers, and still some posing as generic soldiers alongside Siyar, but none of them were members of the bossman’s retinue. Though Jorani had only seen them once or twice before, he’d marked their faces as ones to remember, because they were fanatical members of the Aspirants, the Bloody Confessor’s former base of power. Most telling of all was the presence of the spymaster MuYang, disguised as a porter moving cargo aboard the ship wearing a fake beard and dirty eye-patch. The presence of these disguised fanatics alongside the heaviest hitters the bossman could call upon only proved that he was on the warpath, only a war of a different sorts. Though done in service to the war against the Enemy, the bossman was prepared for a war in the shadows, which was exactly where a stone-cold killer like Siyar excelled. Try as he might, Jorani could think of no other target at the Central Citadel besides a particularly stubborn Commander General who refused to support the bossman’s efforts to retake the West.

Mother have mercy on them all if their conflict should come to daggers in the dark, but Jorani could see no other explanation. The bossman would try everything short of bloodshed to accomplish his goals, but if push came to shove, then perhaps as early as tomorrow morning, the Empire might well be mourning the loss of yet another Colonel General.

Chapter Meme