17. The Chosen & The Spurned (III) (Patreon)

Despite its fussiness, the first Kata was a neat technique. It was the first status-type move he’d seen in this world: it buffed the body and cleansed the spirit. There were echoes of the essence of the True Phoenix embedded within—distant, nearly inaudible echoes, true, but it made for a decent move nonetheless.

Plus, it had a nice rustic charm to it. It was like stumbling upon a village of monkeys, and finding they’d fashioned a crude spear out of sticks and twine and stone.

Breathing deep, Dorian cycled.

He stepped out, and flowed.

His move wasn’t accurate. On purpose. He missed steps. On purpose. But as he shifted and spun, his body hummed to the tune of the universe; he flowed as a human body was meant to flow, in full accord with nature. And nature, feeling him as kin, embraced him.

Sunlight seeped into his skin, warming his insides; he felt it in the shadowy nooks and crannies of himself, patching up the rougher, torn bits inside him, flowing like an endless river from head-to-toe. This is the difference between the genius and the rote.

The rote warrior might perform it the moves in the right order, at the right time, in the right shapes.

The genius performed the move to its fullest intent.

[Level-up! Daybreak Lvl. 1]

(Up ‘till 3).

He breathed in and out; a beginning, an end. Every particle of him seemed to vibrate very fast. He drew the cycling into the Vigor Spirit Pill, dispersing its energies into his body faster, and with a firm hand, soaking him in qi. Sunlight and smoke played off each other in a flickering yellow-black storm.

His body was rejuvenating by the second. His talent rose in quick spurts.

By the time he finished the first stance, he was halfway up Level 3. He opened his eyes, and grinned.

This time, there was an equal mix of surprise and jealousy. The hairy Chosen’s mouth formed a small O. Kuruk was staring at him with a gaze laced with pure hate; after his own showing, this must really hurt. Kaya’s suspension of disbelief, which had held the way common glue held together heavy machinery, had snapped; she looked at him like she was seeing him for the first time. All around eyes narrowed, too, yellow with envy.

For his part, Tuketu merely smiled. “As expected,” he said slowly. “This was your first real try, yes?”

Dorian nodded, smiling back. “Yes, Master Tuketu.” His eyelashes fluttered. “How’d I do?”

Translation: this is the part where you give me the good stuff.

Tuketu chortled. “Good.”

Then he tapped his interspatial ring and pulled out a brown-streaked vegetable; it looked like an octopus that’d reincarnated as a plant.

“Hundred-year ginseng,” announced Tuketu calmly.

Instantly, the envy in the the dozen-odd eyes around him spiked.

“To the worthy go the spoils,” said Tuketu. He didn’t turn to address the rest. He didn’t need to. He pressed the ginseng to Dorian’s palm. “Continue your work, pupil.”

He moved on.

Subtle, Tuketu. Subtle. Dorian held the ginseng in one palm and continued the Daybreak Kata, pretending obliviousness. Now three streams of qi—the pill, the ginseng’s, and the sun’s—rushed into his core.

He’s not only rewarding me. He’s using me as a motivator for the rest of the Chosen.

The unfortunate side-effect? I seem to have become a pincushion for glares…

It was nothing he wasn’t used to. He didn’t know nearly all these people, nor did he particularly care to. All he needed to scout out were the higher-ups: the ones that might challenge him for resources.

Kaya was the closest, but so far there seemed to be none. He rubbed his hands together, grinning. All mine!

Then Tuketu stopped before Hento Rust, and Dorian was forced to amend his statement.

Hento didn’t only look pretty, he moved pretty too. Dorian frowned. He wasn’t sure what kind of grading system these Lower Realms used—in these places ‘Heaven’ was stuffed into so many names it had lost all meaning—but the young Rust did have a natural feel for the Martial Arts. Like Dorian, he moved with harmony.

One in ten thousand, maybe.

But the Head Hunter seemed less than impressed.

“A waste,” he said. “You move well. You fight well. But all of the skill in the world cannot compensate for who you are. I award you nothing.”

To Dorian’s surprise, Hento did not splutter. He did not cry out, or scream that his father would hear of this, or grow agitated. Instead he seemed to shrink a little, like a flower in a cold wind. A second later, he slapped a wry grin on his face like a mask. What can you do? his face said.

Unfortunately, Tuketu saw it.

“Smiling, are you?” he said. His voice was soft, edged with danger. “Do you find your cowardice funny?”

That had Hento gulping. He opened his mouth to say something, then bit down on his tongue. Tuketu laughed.

“Say your mind, young Hento. Or are you too afraid to address me, even now?”

Hento’s face reddened. “You…you’re just intolerant of difference. You’re a bully!” he sniffed. The words rushed out of him the way water rushes out a broken dam.“Oh, I can’t stand you. You’re no better than your son, you heinous goon!”

The moment he finished his words he clasped two hands over his mouth. His eyes widened. Now his face said, did I just do that?

Tuketu just looked at him.

“I am sorry you feel that,” he sighed. “I am not here to be your friend, Hento Rust. I am not here to be anyone’s friend. I am here to mold you into what you can be. The only thing I don’t tolerate is how you squander your potential.”

Hento wouldn’t look him in the eyes.

“That’s all I’ve ever wished for you. Ever since you were a wee lad and your father and I led hunter squadrons side-by-side. Look at me.”   Slowly, rigidly, Hento did. “You are a Heaven-grade talent of the tribe. You have the world in your palms, greatness in your grasp! Yet some lessons, it seems, simply don’t stick. Your father could not make a man of you. Neither can I.”

Dorian watched as he cycled, mildly amused. Say what he might of Tuketu, the man knew how to push buttons.

At this Hento stilled. “Don’t you speak of my father,” he whispered.

Weirdly, Tuketu seemed almost proud. His handsome face wrinkled expressively. “This is what I want from you! Fire. Yet it dies fast as it comes.”

Hento bit his lips and said nothing.

Tuketu put a hand on his shoulder. Hento didn’t move away. Maybe he couldn’t. “After yesterday, I think it’s time we address the crux of the matter.”

He raised his chin. His eyes looked down on Hento.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you think of me. Or of your father. Or of this position.”

A wry smile graced his face. “You say that we are brutes, don’t you? Mere mindless slaves to power. You use that word, sublunary. Cute. Do you know what I think?”

He leaned in. This time Hento was forced to look down.

“I think you’re a sham. Dress it up all you like. Hide behind your words. When the Vordors come, when the Beasts attack, with the Ugoc strike, where are they? What will protect you then? Where were your words last night, little philosopher?”

Tuketu drove one sharp finger into Hento’s chest, right above the heart. The boy flinched.

“You disdain us in order to cope. When pressure comes, the truth of you is stripped bare. I was there when you were born, boy. You were naught but a scared little boy then. You were naught but a scared little boy last night. A boy in fancier dress.”

Hento batted the hand off, growling. It was the most aggressive thing Dorian could ever recall seeing him do. “You think you know me.”

“Don’t I?” Tuketu stepped in even closer.

Hento scrambled back, nearly falling over himself. “Stop that!”

“Hide! Run!” cried Tuketu. “Prove me right.”

Now Hento was vibrating. He couldn’t seem to stop himself; he dabbed at his eyes.

“That’s enough,” he whispered.

Tuketu looked at him stonily. The silence between them dragged its feet.

Then he sighed.

He stepped in and draped an arm over Hento’s shoulder. The boy flinched once more, but let it happen. By the look on his face he seemed lost. Existentially lost.

“Tell me this: are you content drinking, chasing women, smoking, wasting to nothing? Living your small, sublunary life—returning to dust in a scant few years, too scared to grasp for eternity?”

Hento breathed heavy. He looked utterly confused. His words seemed stuck in his throat. He clutched at himself, as though he were denuded.

“Are you content to be a coward, Hento Rust? To die without having left your fingerprint on the universe?”

Hento’s lips trembled. Something changed in his face, a hardening. At last, in a strangled gasp—

“No.”

Saying the word seemed to physically take something out of Hento.

Tuketu should’ve been a politician. The smile he trained on Hento was building. “Good,” he breathed. “Then join me. Step out of your fear. Try, however you can, to matter.”

Hento swallowed.

In a mouse’s voice, with a stricken face: “I don’t know how.”

“I cannot tell you how to erase a demon in a thought,” sighed Tuketu. “The only way is to try and try again. Until now you have not been willing to.”

His breaths catching, Hento huffed in and out. He looked up to Tuketu. The tears were drying from his eyes. “Teach me,” he said hoarsely, clearly.

Tuketu nodded in approval.

“Let us start small. Show me your heart.”

A cruel, devious glint lit Tuketu’s eyes.

Dorian had a sudden gut instinct as to what would happen next. Heart thumping fast, he sped up his cycling to as quick as he could muster.

Tuketu wheeled to Dorian.

“What a coincidence. A second Heaven-grade talent among the youngsters of Rust Tribe. In a generation, most Tribes would be lucky to muster one.”

He put a finger to his lips. “But we’re not yet sufficiently acquainted. I know what Hento is made of. At last he is willing to change it. Tell me, Io, what are you made of?”

Dorian frowned, opening his mouth. But Tuketu held out a hand.

“It’s a question you don’t need to answer now. You’ll answer it soon enough.”

Tuketu slipped off his interspatial ring.

“This is my personal interspatial ring,” he said. “Within lies a plethora of treasures. Herbs, elixirs, pills, even artifacts… enough to boost you to the upper ends of the Origin Realm. Enough coins to erase the brunt of your family’s debts.”

The sunlight caught it at an angle; it radiated a golden halo which seized everyone’s eyes in an instant. He placed it gingerly on the sand. His voice rose to a crescendo.

“Warm-up is over. The day’s first exercise will be a duel.”

He clenched a fist. Behind him, Hento dabbed the last of his tears from his reddened eyes. Whatever was hardening earlier had firmed: his lips were pressed to a thin line. His teeth gritted tight.

“Our two Heaven-grade talents have a chance to prove themselves—against each other,” continued Tuketu. There was a sharp intake of breath.

“But Io is merely level two, and Hento level seven! The premise is unbalanced. The stakes must reflect the odds.”

He stopped. He regarded Io evenly. “If you win, you win all of the contents of my ring.”

Then his gaze dropped on Hento like a stone. “Prove your conviction. If you lose, you have failed me for the last time. I strip you of your title as Chosen.”

Dorian blinked.

Huh. Didn’t expect that. He’s really willing to condemn the Chief’s sole heir?

Then—Hold on. If I win, might I face the Chief’s wrath? Another finicky calculus…

Hento, meanwhile, staggered a step. He looked as though all the blood had been drained from his body.

“Well then, pupils.” Tuketu grinned without humor. “Show me your worth. Begin!”