Though the centrum and the marketplace were not the sa, many used the terms interchangeably. The centrum referred to the area surrounding the administration hall, from which the well-maintained roads to the outer sect branches of the other 17 halls led. They went from valley to valley, mountain to mountain. The whole area was larger than Riversong Commandery City, Li Yao’s ho town. Though it had fewer people. Pa always said the less people, the less trouble, but would that be true in a cow-licking immortality-seeking sect?
Maybe. He’d see.
The marketplace stretched in the biggest vein of the valleys in the centrum. Surrounding it were not only the halls and temples, but a host of other mountains that had been developed as residential areas. The Nest of Storm-like Heroes was just one of them. It housed mainly the external recruits, all the new and many of the old.
It, just like the surrounding residential mountains, had one thing in common.
Those who lived here long-term craved safety more than immortality. Though courtyards and pavilions had stalls and shops in the outer sect marketplace, only a pathetic few of those were based here. Most were based in Great Barrier City, while the rest in the other settlents.
Ambitious was the rule in the sect, not the exception. And like pa used to say, nothing’s more trouble than ambition.
The outer sect centrum was a bastion of peace compared to the city and settlents, since here ambition was worth as much as the village crone’s shouts.
Monsters rarely got in.
There were no large foreign-to-the-sect populations.
The area was strictly administered by the Administration and Law Enforcent halls.
The disciples had easier access to the hidden realm. On the other side was a well defended gateway village.
Most who lived here were either within their first or last few years of their sect lives. The young and the old. The initiates and those who sought to retire. Of them, only the young wanted excitent, and they were outnumbered. They wanted a ladder up. But the old wanted stability. They didn’t have to be physically of old age. But old, ntally. Too tired of the constant struggle, the politics, the adventure, the competition.
They didn’t want any risks, and his pa would fit right in, though his sis and ma would’ve disagreed. They were more like the young, most of whom would soon move out of the centrum after the rookie tournant.
The old here had long given up their dreams of joining the inner sect despite already having broken through to qi gathering, though so might take part in the outer sect tournants. Even among those who reached qi gathering, few took the exam to beco an outer sect steward and fewer still would place top ten in the tournant to progress to the inner sect. Since the tournant was divided into realm brackets, there could only be ten qi gathering and ten body tempering disciples promoted a year. And among the body tempering ones, they’d have to wait until they broke through before officially heading over to the inner sect sanctum.
Talent. Rules. Money. Death. Sha.
The years had ground away their drive.
Or at least, that’s how those who lived in the city and the inner sect sanctum mocked folks who took their final abode here.
The weak and the cowardly, who strove not for immortality but for a peaceful demise.
Though looking at the bustling scene, it didn't seem that way. Li Yao didn’t know exactly how many people lived in the centrum. It had to be less than a hundred thousand, though he could be wrong. Maybe counting the spirit beasts, it would be more? His sis would’ve definitely counted spirit beasts.
Whatever the ambitious in the city and the sanctum said about the stillness of the outer sect centrum, it was likely far more complicated than that.
Folks here had friends, and by virtue of giving up their ambitions, they tended to live longer. So who had lived here for decades had families, grandkids and great-grandkids even. Many were internal recruits, they might have originally been from the city or the various towns and villages, with communities there who cared for them. They would know or be related to inner sect disciples, and might have nurtured connections with those from the core sect. Disciples, yes, and perhaps even elders.
Not to ntion, those who lived long enough to finally settle down in the centrum with peace of mind, also had the peace of mind, or at least the dogged intention laced with stubborn grit, to ignore and refute whatever the naysayers touted.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
The centrum was an integral part of the sect. It was its backbone in more ways than one. A community, from which the new generation of the ambitious would spread their wings. Pa had thought their community of fishern were equally integral to Riversong. How laughably wrong he’d been.
Li Yao stopped by a few stalls. He bought pri cuts of beast at, and vials of spice and gourds of wine. The new storage ring really was handy, though he put his purchases in a bag for now. No need to tip off his fortune.
The inner sect disciples had taken care of a horde of monsters. A giant horde.
That had flooded the market with materials rich in spiritual energy. Prices had dropped, even with a major portion making its way to the Great Barrier City and the other settlents of the sect.
The people were happy. The inner sect had triumphed again. They would have at to eat, cores to refine, and spirit stones to cultivate with.
It would have been amazing if his sister could see this sight. She would fit right in…
Li Yao stopped by the Land God Temple. There was a play going on. Of a sword immortal vanquishing a demon with three oxen heads.
The crowd was silent, their eyes fixed on the stage. Li Yao joined them, trying his best not to disturb the serenity.
The actor playing the sword immortal was a lean man, his movents as sharp as a sword’s edge. His robe was simple cotton, but it flowed around him like water. The sword techniques were theatrical, or were they ritualistic? They would no doubt win against the ordinary man, but would they beat the demon?
Each sword strike was accompanied by flashes of light. Was it qi? That would make the actor a qi-gathering realm cultivator. Or it might be an artefact, enchanted to illuminate.
The demon, too, was a sight to behold. A hulking man in a wooden mask with three painted faces, and a grotesque oxen-skull helt above. He stomped around, his every movent a thunderous shake of the stage. The actor was no doubt in the highest stage of body tempering, if not in the qi-gathering realm already. He roared, yet the crowd was silent.
Not because they disliked the performance.
They were enraptured.
The story unfolded.
One of good triumphing over evil.
It was the final act. The demon roared, its voice a deep rumble. The immortal, in contrast, was as silent as the crowd. He danced, weaving through the demon’s wide attacks. He was a whisper of a man, an artist, not a brute. The immortal’s blade, a simple sword, yet as if it could cut through anything.
He struck with precise, controlled bursts. He moved, he dodged, and he waited.
The demon charged, all three heads low, a single, mindless mass of rage.
The immortal stood his ground. He held his wooden sword in the stance of a flying falcon, a faint smile on his lips.
His blade a blur of motion.
It was not a grand move, but a single, swift thrust.
The sword did not strike the demon's heads, but a spot between his heart and lungs.
The demon froze. A tremor ran through its body. It fell. A simple ending to a simple play. But the crowd cheered. For a mont, Li Yao was transported back twelve years in ti.
He was eight, his sister was three.
He recited the final passage the immortal would say, alongside the actor playing it.
“…the dao is lonely to travel, but my sword holds the warmth of those who I love. It is for them I fight. Scatter, oh demonic one. Though I am but a man with a blade, with it, I will defend what is right and just…”
The end.
The crowd broke into cheers.
“You have the lines morised,” the man standing on the right of Li Yao said. “You must really love the Tale of the Sword, Flute, and Horn.”
“…no, my sister used to. She even wanted to learn how to play the flute. Pa used to think it was useless, but bought her one on her fourth birthday.”
“What about you?” The man asked. “You carry two swords. Do you love them?”
“Hardly,” Li Yao spoke. “I love the idea of them. A mighty hero, you get ? Saving those who can’t save themselves. Even if there’s no one left to save.”
Despite what he had told Tubs, Li Yao wasn’t crazy about the sword. He liked it enough, and he had tried to like it more, but to him it was just another blade. Like the knife he used to wield while part of the gang. It was ant to kill and butcher. Doesn’t matter if it's a sword or a club, a tool was a tool.
As long as he could protect his pack this ti, it’s worth it.
He turned to leave, but the man stopped him.
“You don’t need to love the sword to master it. After all, it’s a weapon for killing. A tool of carnage. Or in the case of the play, it’s a tool of storytelling.” The man grinned. Li Yao got a good look at him. “What you need to love is the craft.”
Where have I seen him before?
“You like stories more than swords, don’t you?” The man asked. “I know you do. It’s more interesting when a story reaches its climax, when all hope is lost, than when the sword in your hands swings down to kill that hope, no? And when the hero fights back? Takes back hope from the wicked hands of defeat? There can be no better pleasure! Reality is full of brutal truths. So unloving. Unkind. But that’s why we tell stories. These loving lies to at least, bring hope to the hopeless when all seems bleak, so that as they lie dying, at least they can dream of a world where cruelty did not take from them their lives.”
A mory tickled his brain. A lone swordsman standing on the path of a demonic mummy. A single strike. A do of blue light covering the sky. The screech of the villain.
A night in Riversong, foggy before rain. His sister starving, a thin pole of a child. No at no fat on her bones. She cried. She was hurting. Li Yao had no way to take away that pain. So he told her a story. Of the sword, Flute, and Horn. Of Old Wang’s Daughter’s Cape. Of sweet treats and savoury soups. Of sunshine. Of schools. Of kings, queens, and immortals and gods.
And she listened. Even as the final breath left her body.
“How about it? Care to join our troupe?” The swordsman said. “You’ll fit right in. I can see the flair in your eyes. You won’t learn how to slay with the sword though, but weave tales with each strike of the blade. Now that’s a killer combination. The best part? You can fight, and you can bring smiles to countless people.”
Reviews
All reviews (0)