Spirit cultivators were a strange sort.

At the bow of his meagre fishing vessel, separated by only a thin curtain of fabric, one stood now. Poised gracefully, or awkwardly, if Gao Fu was to match his fellow fisherman’s way of thinking.

Yet an impressive sight to behold no matter one’s outlook.

The woman held her balance with a single toe, sweeping open palms in a slow, methodical rhythm that Fu knew to be a supposed match of the waves lapping against their ship.

A circulation of Qi, faint and untouchable to mortals such as he and his crew, swirled around her, manifesting as light cerulean ribbons that vanished upon touching her Spirit Beast.

“A fine looking beast, that, Master Gao,” whispered Jing, Fu’s second, inching his neck to the side to indicate the blue-gold carp ebbing in the air of the cultivator’s movements.

Fu peeked out from beneath the wide brim of his douli with a warm smile as his eyes left the crate of eels he was ordering. “Master? You have changed your tune, Jing. Odd that you would speak formally. No? Knowing that the righteous cultivator there could hear you, but comment upon her Bond so openly. Perhaps she will find that you are courting death.”

The eel within Jing’s hands slopped to the deck, and open-eyed, he scrambled to collect it before it struggled its way back to freedom. “Fu, I did not mean-”

That was cruel of me, I had best still him before he says something truly regretful.

Dropping his own eel into the crate, Fu clapped his companion on the shoulder. “Worry not, the master cultivator has far more heavenly matters to contend with than the likes of us.”

He leaned back, hearing the boards at his rear release a creak as he wiped his hands upon his grease-slick tunic.

A good haul today. We will eat well tonight, with tael left over.

Were his hands not so slick, he may have rubbed them together in glee.

Above, the skies were filled with innumerable paper lanterns, now a vibrant orange where only weeks ago they had held a verdant green. It cast a feeling of warmth over the entirety of Thousand Shore City, dismissing the darkness of night to spread a glow across the expansive lake that surrounded it.

“Autumn is upon us,” Fu continued, and he drew out a threadbare cloak from beneath his seat, fastening it around his neck to stave off the impending chill.

Jing had done the same, his cloak of a thicker sort.

Again he fixed the cultivator with a look, covetous, perhaps. Or mere mortal curiosity.

As with all cultivators, she was peerlessly beautiful: poised and composed. Hers was an outfit of trailing fabrics and flowing sleeves, with a pattern of waves upon it that covered the whole tunic. It would be hard for any to ignore her, or the Spirit Beast that now circled her body as if tracing the path a vortex might take.

Fu raised his hand as Jing made to say something, pressing first a finger to his own lips and then to the distant lights of Thousand Shore City. A pressure was mounting in the lake and in the skies, a trembling of Qi that touched upon all things.

Fu drew his cloak closer, bracing against the sudden cold.

Autumn had come.

A great, semi-translucent wave spread across the lake, a rushing, indiscriminate force of Qi that was shown to move. The mortals upon the boat bundled themselves tighter as all of the late Summer’s warmth was swept aside, a chill replacing it. Crisp air removed the damp, humid breaths they had taken, and a freshness carried along the land in the form of a light bluster.

It caught the long sleeves of the cultivator on the bow, although her footing did not slip as she continued her movements.

The Qi surrounding her bulged and suddenly magnified as they exploded outwards in a blue-gold pulse that fled into open air.

The cultivator gently lowered her foot, and with it came a rising of water. A slender plume of water rose emanating a deeper chill than that which Autumn had delivered.

Fu pulled down the brim of his douli, giving the cultivator peace to finish her process. Beyond his hat, he knew Jing would be staring, slack-jawed at the mysticism that mortals such as they could barely comprehend.

But to Fu, it was nothing he had not witnessed before.

“Pluck but a single drop from this lake and all of the worlds come with it,” she said. “Such is the way of the Dao.”

Beneath his hat, Fu nodded. Mei had said similar things before.

Such is the way of the Dao.

“Boatsman,” said the cultivator.

Fu rose switfly, bowing his head towards the curtain that separated both halves of his fishing boat. “Master cultivator.”

“My business is concluded. You will return.”

“As you wish,” he said, bowing and picking up his oar.

🀨

Alighting from the boat saw Fu and Jing carrying their crate of eels between them, both their eyes fixed more on the single spirit stone that was embedded in the lid’s center. It had been a precarious route, and with the Lunar Autumn Festival underway they had been forced to moor their boat far from the dockside, hitching it to the last in a long string of vessels.

Now, however, they made their way down the bustling avenues of Thousand Shore City. For every few steps they stole Jing would cry out, his face covered in a manic grin as he loudly negotiated their passage through the crowds.

This stone has him in high spirits, and spirits are no doubt where it shall lead him.

The lofty payment for the rental of his boat had taken both by surprise, and Fu was in no less of a good mood than his companion. Albeit, he was not one to count his chickens before they had hatched.

Truly, the Heavens had blessed them both this day.

A spirit stone, even singular, was a currency not used by mortals. One alone was worth years of toil, and though shared between the pair, the tael it could be converted to would see both their goals come closer.

In their haste to join the festivities the pair had left it embedded in the wood of their crate, reasoning that no mortal could pry free a cultivator’s efforts before either could react.

Stalls were aplenty here, hundreds nestled beneath the curved eaves of the surrounding buildings. A taste of spice was in the air, and the many food vendors called to them as they passed by, vying for their attention. Jing’s eyes were not taken by these, only brightening as he neared those that hawked his favourite wines.

“Fu,” he said excitedly. “Let’s rush to the Treasure House, this spirit stone does no good unsplit as it is. The eels can wait, can’t they?”

How quickly he drops his proper speech. Hah.

“Frugality. The Treasure House is not open during the Festival, we will have to wait until tomorrow to get our tael. But the eels cannot wait. To leave them would be a waste of time, and more importantly, money.” Fu nodded ahead, where the stairs to the Upper City stood, empty of all revellers save for the guards at the base. “The Azure Shoal Sect will pay a premium for these, you know how the outer disciples indulge during the festival. Intimately.”

Jing coughed a little. “Hang Meilin isn’t an outer disciple, and who am I to defy the Heavens if the woman reacts so strongly to eels? I’d swear she was a cultivator by how easily she tore my shirt from my back.”

“Eels?” laughed Fu. “You discredit the wine, brother.”

The pair reached the Upper City’s steps, stopping before the weathered paifang. A thousand steps separated each district of the city, and Fu huffed out a sigh as Jing spoke to the guards, nodding fervently before returning to the crate.

He stooped to take his end, arching a brow as Fu went about rubbing his lower back. “You’re no longer the newborn calf you used to be.”

“I am on the… wisened end of thirty moons,” snapped Fu. “And aged ginger holds more spice.” With that comment, and an eye-roll accompanied laugh from Jing, they began their ascent.

A break came in the festival’s sounds as they cleared the first half, both panting as they were caught in the quiet between districts.

Yet with his muscles aching, and his chest heaving, Fu called a stop. “I would have you- have you take it yourself if- By the Heavens,” Fu wheezed, collecting his breath. “If you would not snatch that spirit stone and see our profits spent at the bottom of a bottle.”

Discomfort continued to gnaw at the base of his spine.

Such is the fruit of honest labour. I must grab more Bitter Saltweed for a salve, it is just as effective as any of the vendors.

Jing pushed his waist against the crate, leaning to take the slack so that Fu could take a proper rest. “You’re no more than five moons older than me, brother.” The comment led to nothing, more reminder than anything else.

Fu ignored the words, however grateful he was that they did not come with the rhetoric of a recommendation to waste his money at the medicine pavilion or herb vendors.

After all, such places were no good for one’s coin purse.

He gazed out at Thousand Shore City between each puff.

Theirs was a modest city, though in fairness, the only one he had ever known. Three million souls, squashed together the further one roamed from the top. The staircase they sat upon was just one of thousands. Thousands that bridged the gap between Lower and Upper, majestic lengths of stone from shore to peak.

Converging paths that led only to one, the way to the Azure Shoal Sect.

The crowning jewel on Thousand Shore City’s peaks.

Fu’s attention settled across the lake, on a small, distant island and to the true sight he wished to see.

Jing matched his gaze for but a moment, drumming his fingers on the crate. “Another moon, another chance for the Sect to reap their citizens’ poor fortunes.”

Having regained some modicum of control over breathing, Fu scowled. “The Mystic Realm is our path to a better future, brother. It is not to be dismissed.” Qi snaked around with a dull light within the spirit stone’s inscription, channels inlaid with runes that Fu knew little about. “With my half of that, it takes me close. Another year or two, and I will have enough to hear the Gao name called out loud at the lottery ceremony.”

And then our lives are secured.

“Then,” grunted Jing. “These eels should make it to the Sect, shouldn’t they?”

The pair rose again, grunting as-

An unpleasantly warm wind rushed down the staircase, bashing the lanterns on either side into their poles and causing many to topple to the steps.

Fu felt something strike, a needle of discomfort that spread from heart to spine. His eyes suddenly blurred. A faintness overcame him that conspired with the heat to have his lips crack and skin feel as though he stood beside an open furnace.

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Beside him, Jing stumbled, and the crate of eels tumbled down the staircase, the contents spilling wide. He yelped, clutching his chest as he fell to his knees.

“Intent,” rasped Fu, making out a blurry figure at the staircase’s top. In cruel symmetry, he too was forced to his knees, yet he did so willingly.

Scrambling and scratching about the steps, he steadied himself by the nearest pole. Then, he pressed his head so flat against the stone that either the step, or his skull would crack.

“Kow… tow.” came his second rasp.

Jing was beyond him, and yet he heard no sound from him. Only footsteps, slow and purposeful.

Approaching.

They neared outside of his drying vision of stone. A vicious, sneering laugh proceeding them, half an arm away. “Filth dares share the same path as us! See this, senior sister,” came the meaty voice of the laugh’s owner.

“Mortals, in the Upper City?” laughed another, mocking voice. “Toads, it seems, wishing to eat swan meat!”

More footsteps followed, a softer sort, and stopped short of Jing. “I will allow you to look upon us, lift your heads.”

Fu did so, his skin now raw and pained in the intensity of the cultivator’s Intent.

A field of heat radiated from the closest cultivator, slightly puffing the cloth of their azure robes. Not daring to gulp, Fu remained in a low bow, never looking directly at their faces and instead at the eels that had slathered his clothes, still wriggling before him.

A ruby red bird landed at his knees, a gull, yet a Spirit Beast all the same with small flames licking the ends of its wings.

It pecked at the eels, dismissive of him.

The gull was one Bond of the four gathered, quickening Fu’s already rapid heart. He looked past the cultivators, the three heavenly women that scowled at him down the bridges of their flawless noses.

One is a Two-Point Cultivator. I must not anger them, or this day shall be my last.

The reasoning did not apply for this observation, as any cultivator, any who had bonded to a Spirit Beast to begin their open defiance of the Heavens could quash a mortal with a single stroke.

“To walk upon this path, shared with filth. It disgusts me. You wish to shame the Fa clan? Senior sister, these mortals are an affront to us, and we lose much face by their deeds,” said the first, a woman that had a twitching, metallic butterfly cresting her robes.

The last woman, the senior sister, snorted. “To assume we may be brought low by ilk such as this. Fa Yulin, have them make reparations as is fitting.”

Jing croaked, and Fu saw him lift his head higher. Though weary, his body seized as he saw his companion, and the wrath he was about to incur. “Senior Sist-”

There was a loud crack as the metallic butterfly’s cultivator drove her fist into Jing’s chest, and he tumbled down several steps. “You dare! It is young mistress to you, filth!”

A murmur of laughter rose in the others, and the gull’s cultivator moved over Jing. “Senior sister needs not dirty her hands here, it is beneath her.” With impossible strength, she hoisted Jing by his scruff, having him dangle high amidst a bout of coughing with but a single hand. “Scrub clean this stairwell so that we might pass,” she commanded, releasing him in a slump.

Fu’s mouth cracked open, but when he tried to speak, to protest despite knowing he shouldn’t, heat filled his lungs.

The young mistress rounded upon him, yet all he could do was brace. Her fingers touched the brim of his hat, wrenching it off and snapping the already frayed string that held it beneath his chin.

He cried out then, fiery pain scraping his lungs. Both of his weathered hands reached out, eager to have it returned.

This birthed another snort, one that flew in the face of Fu’s defiant glare. “That hat is this lowly mortal’s prized possession,” he cried in useless protestation, trying to subdue the rage and the fear so that he might form a coherent sentence.

The young mistress had it pinched between her thumb and forefinger, and only now did he see her Bonds. A lilac fox, cowled around her neck, and an earthen-toned catfish slumbering within the folds of her robes. Between her eyes, venomous and shrewd, he saw her mark.

The mark of all cultivators.

Hers, a lilac imprint where nose and brow met, and the flowery trail imprinted in her skin that stemmed from it.

Her cultivation Ink, the penance given by the Heavens that displayed the disgrace of those who would dare challenge them. Visible here only by the path she tread, that of the Mind.

An invasive presence within his skull suddenly brought Fu to kowtow, one of pain and not of chosen supplication. Qi raged around the neck-carried fox and the creature’s eyes glowed lilac much like her own. Images were brought forth in his mind’s eye, evoking emotions that he would not readily return to.

The Qi had only struck him once, a simple flick. But he was mortal, and powerless to stop even the weakest of cultivators.

Each image coalesced into a greater whole. Scenes of blood, and joy, mundane, yet horrific. A day flooded him, a day that gave to him, yet stole so much, and with it Fu felt his cheeks turn dewy.

These small tears cleansed the brittle sting that dryness caused, a soothing balm to the cracked skin upon his face.

The Young Mistress’s head swivelled, disregarding him and tossing his douli atop the steps. Her fox hopped down, a flash of teeth shown before it plucked something from the ground, dropping it into its master’s hand.

“Payment, and of such meagre value,” laughed the butterfly cultivator.

The Young Mistress inspected the spirit stone, then squired it away within her robes. “Ample reparations,” she said, her voice a mite hastier than before. “Junior sisters, we are leaving. The Four Lotus Pavillion will soon run dry of spirit wine, and these mortals have been taught their place.” Her words offered no room for disagreement, and swiftly, Fu was left alone.

Pained and disoriented, he lowered his head further. That they had their lives was treasure enough, and he would do nothing more to raise their ire.

Only when the noises of the festival returned did he stumble to Jing, placing a supportive arm around him. “Come, brother. Let us get you home.”

🀨

Jing had claimed that the sound of his injuries were worse than what they were. Fu, however, had little clue as to what that meant. Babbling, his companion weakly struggled to rise from the bed upon which he was laid, prompting another gentle shove back down.

Rubbings of herbal paste were applied to the already formed bruises on Jing’s chest, a pungent smearing that Fu struggled to spread across the whole area.

“Where is the rest of your spirit grass salve?” he asked, seeing nothing in the room that Jing called home. Bare shelves hung above the bed, and a single lantern crowded the thin entrance only steps away, the candle within melted to a nub.

A snore answered him, already less laboured now what little of the herbs had set about their work.

Fu shook his head, placing the empty jar back where he had found it.

Rest well, brother.

With a final pat on the shoulder, he left the sleeping man to heal and pushed open the curtain to emerge back into the city.

Little shifted in the noise of the city on either side of the threshold. The same revelry, and the same buzz from the Festival clamouring even hours from its inception. A new moon was to be celebrated, and merry makers lined the packed streets, leaning in doorframes, slumped against walls and bundled in heaps.

All the while, Fu struggled along, his throat painfully dry and an intensity of pain pounding in his temples. He was weary, and pained, the thrum of exertion coupling with his recent injuries. But still he moved forward, knowing what was waiting for him upon his return.

His true treasure.

Fu found his feet dragging as he made his way down the pier, having left the confines of stone walls close to an hour ago. It scraped, and he stopped to nurse it, perching on a stubby cleat while catching more ragged breaths.

A long day.

Behind, and distant, a whistle sounded to mark the ascent of the first firework. Fu blew out another breath, this time removing his treasured douli. Already frayed, now the reeds it was fashioned from were crushed upon the brim.

A long day of loss.

As the second whistle screeched up, he set off once more.

A covered boat of faded red wood bobbed upon the waters, banners of moth-eaten fabric attached to the stern. Poorly crafted lanterns hung on a pole outside, four of various quality, and one near perfect. They were coloured orange, papered unlike the Qi-infused sort that the Alchemist’s Association had littered the skies with, and much unlike those, these drew a wide and honest smile from him.

Not a single step was taken as a figure erupted into him, launched from the rickety, aged door of his home. “Father!” roared a voice, half a squeal.

“Feng, are you not asleep? The stall will suffer for this tomor-” Fu’s weariness fled in that moment, as if a gentle rain had washed him anew from the day’s troubles.

The loss was cast aside, the pain of his injuries dulled, and an energy jolted his fatigue into some hidden recess to no doubt return as he laid down his head for the night.

Here and now, it was meaningless.

He put a firm hand to Feng’s collar, squeezing tight. The boy had put on muscle recently, the same, lean sort as his own. And Fu could not fail to notice how his son’s unkempt bun was almost at a height with his own ears as they crossed the threshold.

“My old heart cannot take such noise!” wailed another voice, elderly and shrill.

“Good evening, Father!”

“Good morning, Father.”

Two youthful voices added to the greeting, and a hearty chuckle shook upwards from Fu’s stomach to hear it.

“Peace, family, peace. It is an unkind hour I greet you at, and the Summer sun was cruel to your poor father. Yuqi, fetch your father a cloth. Yuling, the kettle.” Both his daughters clambered over the boat’s central table after a swift dip of their heads, rushing past Grandmother Hua yet avoiding her cane as she slammed it down with a resounding crack.

“Show some respect to your elders, oaf! Where is my greeting?” she cawed. Stooped, though more of spine than Fu’s low ceiling, Grandma Hua stamped her cane twice.

Doing as he was told, Fu clasped his hands and bowed. “Grandmother.”

The cane’s tip met the underside of his chin, tilting his head in an array of angles. Grandmother Hua’s scrutinising eyes drew in the blisters on Fu’s face, and she hummed to herself questioningly. “A harsh Summer sun indeed.” A keenness finer than any blade rested behind those eyes, belied by the topography of surrounding wrinkles and greying hair. “Yuling’er, do not brew that usual river weed your Father calls tea. Take from my store.”

Across the room, which could be measured in less than ten paces, Yuling tended to a small stove. “Yes, Grandmother.”

Fu watched his family, raucous as they rushed about the boat’s interior.

His smile was wide.

“Father,” said Feng, pulling at Fu’s sleeve in a manner that made his fourteen moons seem to retract to that of one much younger. “May we see the fireworks?”

All the faces there turned to him, expectant and hopeful.

One by one, he looked to them.

To Yuling, seeming ever-sterner where the stove’s steam caressed her sharpened features, then to Yuqi, her twin in all but eyes. For hers were unworried, as soft papyrus, never burdened to struggle with worrisome thoughts. And finally, back to his youngest triplet.

Tael will not be in short supply tomorrow. The crowds will see to that. Yet to restore what I have lost from the eels, they should tend the stall from early…

“I promised, did I not? Never let it be said that a Gao goes back on his word!” He exchanged a fervent nod as Yuqi passed him a damp cloth, dabbing at his neck. “Thank you, Yuqi. Now, the blankets.”

It was a short while later that found the Gao family nestled together at the open bow of their family home, coddled tight under a mess of their thickest blankets.

A fine cup of porcelain warmed Fu’s hands, and the steam that rose from the tea within moistened his grinning face. He was content now, feeling the heavy press of his children around him, only their faces exposed to the chilling Autumn air, similar smiles upon them as shapes took form in the night sky beyond.

A jade-green serpent wound through the skies, titanic and all consuming. It danced in the air, looping around bursts of light that flared great ribbons of golds and reds. Flawless in design, Fu marvelled at the sight, and a sidewards glance showed Grandmother Hua’s temperament nigh matched his own.

Though her smile, as always, was slight.

“Father,” said Yuling, ever diligent. “The earnings today, I hope they will please you. Three crates were emptied of carp, however, the-”

“My daughter, this festival arrives but once a moon. To wait another fourteen Seasons for such a sight- these words might wait,” he said. “Enjoy yourself.”

Yuqi, the least exuberant of the triplets, buried her head closer to Fu’s arm for warmth, and whispered. “When I am a great Alchemist, will you share some of Grandmother Hua’s tea with me?”

With the cup almost at his cracked lips, Fu moved it to her, allowing a sip.

A few more moons, even with the loss of that spirit stone. A few moons.

Forgetting himself he shrugged out a sigh, shedding a portion of blanket and inviting cold’s ever present bite.

“Feng, boy, you are hale. Offer your Grandmother a blanket once more, this Autumn air is not good for old bones.” With the cup returned to him, he allowed the steam to warm his face, ignoring the sting of recently raw skin.

His daughters gasped at the display, and a crimson red flared across Thousand Shore City as more delights rose into the sky.

“Feng, I will forgive your hearing, but Grandmother Hua will grow cold. Do as I ask.”

His son had not moved, and Fu glanced up. The boy was enraptured, gaping at the distant explosions.

I ask little of him, this should be done.

A breath parsed out from his lips before Fu spoke again, and he noted the silence that stirred in his family. From Yuqi to Yuling, and then to-

Some ghastly, pallid sheen had overcome Grandmother Hua. Horror crossed her face, fixed there to age her several dozen more moons than was true. Hard as it was to determine beneath the bloodied glow of crimson, something dire had struck her. “Grandmother-”

“Gao Fu, move the children inside,” she ordered, her voice decisive, commanding, and a likeness to what it had been upon their first meeting three lifetimes previous. “Do so now!”

Fu’s heart trembled, and he dragged the children up from their blankets amidst grunted protests. “Inside,” he barked, ushering them through the door before returning to stand at the bow.

Two serpents set the skies ablaze now, the source of crimson influence that had removed that of jade. They coiled amidst the lanterns and explosions, rearing back as waves of… of Qi, and Intent washed forth.

A sight that even dread-filled mortals might know.

High above the Azure Shoal Sect, a visible Qi descended, a rushing wave like that which heralded the turning of Seasons.

A primordial force of nature that devastated the resolute and unflinching walls of the Sect, burrowing and crumbling the very peak it stood on and reducing it to rubble no sooner than Fu had blinked. This wave continued, destroying everything it touched and rushing through all of Thousand Shore City to leave naught but dust and ruin.

And then it reached Fu, and he was battered into the waters with such force that all he knew was pain and the blackness that consumed him thereafter.