The reason for their existence is argued, even if this Daoist seeks no measured answer.

Sects simply are.

Bandings of power where the like minded strive towards Heaven, ascending in bones together where alone they could not.

One alchemist is limited by resources, confined to refining lower realm pills - for the gate of powerful reagents is well guarded by peril. Yet here the spearwoman flourishes, holding a wealth in treasure that cannot be best used.

One hand meets another, and bolsters when clasped.

Obvious, no? This Daoist dares that none that possess eyes would fail to see this. A truth and mundanity that will be delved no deeper inside.

But consider this alchemist, with a base ten thousand beneath him. Would he prepare? Would herbs be crushed by his hand. Cauldrons stoked? Lesser treasures inspected, refined?

No, the wisdom she has garnered trickles down- payment in guidance for those that perform his banal tasks.

Further mundanity, and merits no explanation.

The path now leads to [Karma].

This alchemist, immortal of flesh and soul, desires more. As do all on the path.

Tides, however, do not surge without repercussion. Storms do not leave the land dry. The Heavens do not allow disasters to do as they please.

What then, of the droplets? The foam of such waves?

Just as the Heavens, this Daoist would not trouble himself with an errant, salted drop even if the destination was the same.

- ‘A Mundane Dissection : Sects,’ by Daoist [Crinkled Papyrus Corner]

To voice his true thoughts on the matter at hand would be a disservice to the growth his children had undergone, but left no more of a niggle in his thoughts. “Absence?” he said again, loud enough to draw an interested look from the merchants yonder. “Yet you have fared well over the past days?”

Yuqi absently brushed her Bond’s ear, and the [Spirit Tiger] did his level best to refrain from leaning into it. Instead, he affected a vigilant prowl, only glancing at Fu every other step. “Yes, Father,” she said sweetly. “Were Yuling not here we each could take care of ourselves. Besides, I do not think cultivators can starve to death. My sister only prepares meals from habit, I think.”

“Starvation is a single danger. This Divine Clouded Mountain may well be a brigand’s nest for the two most radiant young women beneath the Heavens.”

“Oh Father, I appreciate your concern- but Yiji is here is he not?” she smiled. “Grandmother will return this evening, she may well be home now. It is not a trouble.”

The pair strolled down the avenue of the Golden Merchant canton, one not so distant from the Gao clan apartment. It was a stranger display than Fu was accustomed to, for the signs above each resplendent building were not for the sale of goods and all but a few corners held vendors of any kind. No, here stood accountants, scribes, ritespeakers, matchmakers and more.

“We discussed a great deal at supper last night, Yuqi, but I would be a poor father if I did not know my daughter’s mind. How are things? Beyond study and training. Though I will admit to knowing little of these either.”

Ornate signposts hung in trails of fabric, more an inscription upon flags at the corner of each major adjoining street. Fu’s head was barely turned to the one they now approached before Yuqi tugged him to the right. Their arms, interlocked.

“The alchemist Yuling spoke of is this way,” she led, pensive for a moment. “I cannot say that anything differs from our conversations at supper. Grandmother has us study to… she calls it learning what an infant should know. All we have… had, missed.”

Fu could only nod. “This is important, I am grateful for her guidance.”

“Yes! I do not question her guidance. All we learn now is a wonder, truly. Neither is it a difficulty, ah…” Yuqi put herself a step to the side, though she maintained her hold on Fu’s arm. “Our lives have quickly turned Father. I feel that saying I enjoy this puts a great shame on you, but… but if you arrived yesterday with a boat and net, I would be no less fulfilled.”

“Yuqi, you seek to bring your father to tears,” he japed. “The Heavens bless me, to have a daughter with such kindness of heart. Look here, the clouds have all but cleared. We should not speak of such heavy things. Tell me, is your life filled only with Grandmother’s words?”

“There is cultivation?” she said. “The path of [Harmony] is similar to the path of [Body], is it not? Only an application of Qi in specific formations. Father… might I ask something?”

“On cultivation?”

“To know the road ahead, should we not ask those who have already walked it?” she smiled.

Fu laughed. “A kind daughter and one that listens! Twice the blessing. But Yuqi, my cultivation is not so profound as to have completed two paths.”

“Apologies Father. It is… your [Dantian] feels…” Yuqi trailed again, and happenstance had them turn down another street. “[Senses] cannot pierce the realms above. But, I will apologise again, Father. I do not know if speaking on these matters is disrespectful.”

“For others, perhaps” Fu considered. “My [Dantian] is clouded as my appointment demands. With respect in mind, my learned children would know more on this practice I should think.”

The grandeur of the streets gave way to less commercial trappings in a slow recession, and by the time that Yuqi spoke again the names above each entrance had all but faded. Similarly, the facades were of a duller hue than the caustic-seeming greens, bright scarlet and all else between.

Fu noted this, for their destination was painted in a mundane brown. Varnished simply, which he could appreciate.

“Yuling suggested as such,” Yuqi finally said. “This morning she tried to emulate it.”

That had Fu blink. “Your sister guessed at my technique, and attempted it in the same morning? The Sect would not smile on this were it drawn from their own manuscripts,” he frowned. “If you are to see her first, Yuqi, warn her against this.”

“Grandmother Hua would do so before that,” said Yuqi, hovering before the smithy’s door. “We are… advised against adding to our cultivation outwith her teachings. She has set the path for us.”

A mite of relief came, twinned with curiosity. A Sect’s techniques were closely guarded secrets, and death was no surprise thing for those that dealt in them unscrupulously. Yuling, for all her talents, would be unable to imitate his [Clouded Ghost Arts].

But a father did worry and so put his thoughts to what Yuqi had said.

A heritage?

“Differing paths then, between my children. If Feng is endorsed to enter this [Dao] competition of his when my two daughters are not,” he asked.

Yiji was the one to conceal his emotions poorly then, and the [Spirit Tiger] put his gaze elsewhere.

“Feng’s cultivation is… free of Grandmother Hua’s influence,” siad Yuqi. To break the conversation she softly pressed through the door, and Fu was then left both alone and greatly troubled.

Free? She is too kind to say it in other terms. Why does he not walk a path on her instruction? Or is it in less of a demand than my daughters? Hua has always favoured Yuling, but- I cannot guess at this. Her mind is no more knowable than the Heavens themselves.

Following his daughter put him in a claustrophobic hall, in which only a simple, unoccupied counter stood, and one that he approached. Yuqi had set herself to one side, and while he wished to press her for the meaning to her words he saw the discomfort she so thinly hid.

The averted eyes and fidgeting fingers that traced down her hanfu.

She is much like Yiji, as he is her. Open.

Thus he looked beyond the counter, and finding only a curtain there, paused. “Greetings, smith,” he called, and only then spied the wall-mounted gong to his left. A poor state of observation for one of his vocation, but the straits of his son had taken priority. Fu rapped it, and felt the resonance of Qi as it sounded.

“Empress’ breasts, who disturbs me?” roared some manner of beast, the voice setting the curtains to flap.

Yiqi giggled.

“A customer, venerable smith,” he returned, and received nothing else for a span of several minutes.

But the curtain was thrust aside eventually. Her [Ink] entered first, in volumes, for a tapestry of cinnabar stylings painted this woman from knuckle to chin. The hand had burst out first, slapping the gong to silence its reverberation before the rest of her emerged.

A woman of middling years, caulked in a moist residue of darkened hues and stains of myriad other colours. Her face was stern, if slight, and she wore a total of tight material that bordered on indecent.

“A customer, is it?” she barked gruffly. “My customers know to schedule appointments.”

Fu dipped his head. “Apologies, master smith. It was my daughter that spoke of you, and I need no great undertaking.”

“A thousand smiths stand between here and the edges of the canton. I’d urge you to trouble them if you have no great undertaking.”

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“My daughter directed me here as you accept barter of goods,” Fu explained. The previous night he had queried Yuling on where he might have his hook seen to, for the recent [Mystic Realm] and its endless battles had not been kind on the edge. “I have weapons to trade for the base service I require.”

The smith grunted, not unlike a boar. “Base service? State what you seek, customer.”

Unfolding the hook from his spatial ring, Fu presented it forth, and withdrew one of the many once [Demon]-held weapons he had looted. An axe, that he placed on the counter. “Sharpening, if possible.”

“You’ve butchered this blade,” she grunted, and audacious sliced her palm across the lethal edge. Yet it drew no blood, nor any indication of a mark. Golden characters rose to her irises, and circled there with a subtle signature of the [Dao].

“As you say,” nodded Fu.

“It has a resiliency of middle [Core Formation],” she continued. “Ere long you’d need to replace it. You walk a path of [Might], with Qi impartment more inclined to swiftness than brutish strength. [Air Qi], yes.” The smith threw him the weapon. “Follow.”

It posed no trouble to catch, and with a reassuring nod to Yuqi, he did so. The curtain however, proved a deceptively heavy article to move. Inscribed, he mused, or fashioned from a [Spirit Beast] with no small density of coat for his muscles strained to allow his daughter passage beneath.

Abrasive. But she has us follow.

Where he expected a forge as might mirror the mortals of Thousand Shore City, this was not what lay ahead. Sigils of alternating colour peppered the air, banded characters that hummed about some variety of alchemist’s cauldron set deep into the floor. The hall was shallow, and each wall was angled towards a peak, each patterned with myriad grooves.

“I’m as delicate as a [Spirit Bear] in heat,” the smith said. “The weapon won’t survive my sharpening process.”

Fu waited for further explanation, knowing their walk back here would not be fruitless.

“But if you’ve more of those weapons, blades of [Demon] origin. I’ll refine the hook. Enough, and I’ll have it match your techniques.”

A fateful encounter. Yuling has led me well.

The cruel implements of his recent foes were no carp to ply, and this woman was no mundane wife, here to fetch supper. But he saw in her a need, reducing this to a simple trade despite its parts.

“Oh, are these of interest to you?” he asked.

“The [Demon] front is far from here, with the Southern standing closest,” she grunted. “I can reap the ores from these weapons and save myself a wealth in spirit stones.”

“I appreciate the honesty,” said Fu, and elected to deal the same. “Thirteen of these weapons are held in my ring. But I have uses for them elsewhere. Might we both gain from this? Trade enough that you might profit, and enough that I would walk away without my total spent?”

The smith wagged her finger. “Nine and I’d consider it equal.”

“Then name it ten, and I will have made an honourable bargain,” said Fu.

A gruff affirmation of a grunt sounded, and her brow lowered in Yuqi’s direction. “A daughter.”

“My own.”

“The refinement will adapt this weapon to your martial style. My technique in this is peerless,” she stated. “But the path to defying the Heavens is no set thing, there is give in the design. Variance to match the world we know. It must come from you, cultivator. Stand there, and I would see your style.”

Fu drew his hook, binding the blade in one palm and the chain taught in his other.

But the smith shook her head. “Daughter,” she said. “You will stand outside.”

Yuqi bowed, as though this request was no insult. “Father,” she said. “Venerable smith,” leaving thereafter.

“This blade holds a tale I’d not soon tell my own kin,” explained the smith.

A [Dao] of history then. Or does she speak to my hook? That I cannot say… this is a thing I should remember. The world is indeed vast.

After a breath, Fu merely said, “Agreeable.” There was no cue to begin, nor was there a need to, and he set himself into a slow rehearsal of the [Wind Phantom Strides]. The first set through sixth, and then on again.

Ahead, the smith was still. Unflappable against the lashing metal even as it tore the space no further than a step from her face. However, she barked, and from the central cauldron did a great [Spirit Tortoise] rise.

Iridescent, and molten in a flood of cinnabar liquid, it broke as though an island emerged from the sea.

“[Initiate].”

Fu retracted his hook. “[Peak].”

The smith’s [Dao]... coalesced, he was sure. For the subtle characters by her eyes pushed to form long strands in the air. A parabola of gold, ten, and soon, hundreds.

“Incomplete. Display what remains,” she ordered.

Indeed, Fu’s method of training was simplicity itself. Master, in his own bias, the movements and rotations until they were as strong as forged metal. Knowing well he was no genius, and that all he claimed to be unrivalled at was braising bream, this was his method.

Though he had committed only half of the [Wind Phantom Strides] to memory, and this was itself a half of a half. His second scroll of this style was a neglected thing, opened with sparing glances and pushed aside for a time when all else had been ingrained.

“Venerable smith,” he frowned. “I know it poorly.”

“Imitate,” was her grunt. “My craft is not defined by your skill.” So saying, Fu saw the smith’s [Dao Principle] clear.

Hushi, guide my arm. Your memory is needed.

He placed his feet wide, immediately drawing the octopus’ admonishment when one placed incorrectly. Fu adjusted, and primed the blade horizontal to his brow. The dance began with a rear draw, the backheel bearing all his weight. His blade traced as though a jian struck against it, and his response caught the edge.

A deflection technique that formed the foundation of the second style. So he went, not deflecting the vision of this jian, but scoring his own metal along it. He envisioned the weight it would push against him, how next a swordsman might act, and turned in kind.

Striding.

Small flashes of footwork that Hushi guided, setting him at angles where he would slash, but ever setting back into the original position should a counter be needed.

“Attrition against a foe with [Resilience]. With a proper application of [Might], however, the negotiation for a lethal blow is there,” said the smith, disapprovingly. “The shape of that head is incorrect. This style is for [Spirit Spiders], with cultivators able to draw upon [Arts] of puncturing and such.”

“As you say,” agreed Fu. “The [Wind Phantom Strides].”

“You go too far, cultivator. I needn’t know the name. Foolish, no?”

Fu only continued his motions, this second set a rabid deluge of thrusts.

“Attrition and exploitation. Accumulation of wounds, with countering and imbalance so a decisive blow comes easier,” she noted. Her [Spirit Tortoise] had finally laboured over, looking as imperious as its cultivator, coldly watching as Fu performed. “Enough.”

His actions stopped immediately, and Fu dispensed a bow. “It seems I have come for repairs only to gain insight into my own style. Gratitude, venerable smith.”

“My role’s not to have you suck at my teat. You’re no child, cultivator. Nothing was gained here that practice could not unearth,” she scowled. “But our deal is struck. Leave the hook, and half payment.”

He did so, setting each item on a well-battered table before he made to depart.

“Cultivator,” she called after him. “When next you come for refinement, have this mastered. Anything less would bring shame to my craft.”

With a second bow, Fu then left.

🀨

The clouds were dense come evening, and barely navigable. Did he not near [Core Formation], Fu might even have felt the chill. But as it stood the cold took no hold on him, and only an awareness of its presence skirted his thoughts.

It granted a welcome lie, however, as he sat on a bench in the tended gardens outside the Gao clan apartment with Yuqi slung close beneath a thin blanket. Precious little of the material clad either of them, but neither would claim that it was unneeded.

“Here, Father,” she whispered, pricking Yiji’s ears at her feet.

Across the gardens, lit by an embrace of golden lanterns, Feng strode. His pipa was in hand, held tight in his harried walk.

“He is later than expected,” mused Fu, narrowing his eyes. Beyond, he sensed three sets of footsteps giving chase.

Hushi stirred.

“Those are cultivators in his competition,” said Yiji. “Some are of relation to the Sect.”

“I see.”

Indeed, he saw the trappings of youth upon the three that emerged. Pristine skin, faces free from wearied lines, but more so the language of their bodies. Carefree motions. Exuberance that likewise told of a life with little concern.

“By the look of those instruments, they are musicians,” sighed Fu. Judgement of one's profession was no thought that ever crossed his mind. Others were free to walk their own paths, as he thought it should be. Yet… musicians, if Feng had not found this potential calling as an [Array] master, Fu may well have nudged him towards a more practical path.

Would that Grandmother Hua allowed it.

One of the figures ahead flashed ahead of Feng, a technique or [Art] that Fu had little trouble tracking. His fingers tightened on the blanket.

An exchange began. Traded words of obvious, mocking inclination as the three closed in on his son. Though Feng’s face was calm, from all that Fu could glean at so many dozen stride’s distance.

With an extension of his [Senses], he parsed the conversation.

“...hopes of an outer disciple’s son.”

“Sister Ruoxuan would not shame herself with the likes of your ilk.”

“A toad, lusting after swan’s meat,” said the third.

“Young masters,” said Feng. “As you have stated, I am lacking. But I will bid you farewell to shore up these lacking skills that you are so intent on noticing.”

Is that a bite I hear? From my Feng?

Fu was conflicted with worry, and some small parcel of pride. “Feng grows bold.”

“Father?” asked Yuqi, only able to see the confrontation.

It was then that the second youth, one whose auburn hair was interspersed with many a flower, arrived at Feng’s left. “We are not done conversing. Know your place, dog. This shameful farce with Ruoxuan, she is Brother Chinmaya’s prize. Her rose to pluck. The air you breathe has her wilt, and this cannot come to pass.”

“A rose to pluck?” stopped Feng. “A woman is a rose if she chooses it. Not as you name her it. Not to be plucked.”

“You dare retort!” said the first. “Do you know who my mother is? Her-”

“Is your mother a rose to be plucked?” bit Feng, and Paxing chuffed his great ovaline lips. “I find your insight confounding if not, truly, I am meek before the [Dao] you wield.”

“You dare!” said the second. But this one made to strike, a [Spirit Serpent] bursting from the bed of his trellis-styled hair.

Fu’s swiftness navigated around the lacking youths, placing himself not a finger’s length from the nape of the second’s neck. Where his voice went cool. “Feng,” he said, drawing it out. “You have yet to introduce these companions of yours.”

The three youths leapt back in near stumbles, and their [Spirit Beasts] of serpent, crane and carp drew back aside them. “Ma.. master cultivator,” they quickly bowed, scrambling for some semblance of dignity.

“Father,” said Feng. “I greet you.”

“And I you, son,” he replied, foisting a grimace. “I trust these friends are not disturbing your studies? Do not think that the setting sun would forgo diligence, I expect you to continue when you return home.” Fu turned to the youths. “You, boys, do your own studies not await, no?”

There was a moment there, where the first youth was caught in confusion. His [Senses] had extended, rudely, improperly searching for Fu’s [Dantian] where he might find none. It beggared a look of triumph, which flashed for the mortal implications of such a result.

But changed, swiftly.

“Brothers,” he half-cried. “The master cultivator is correct. G-gratitude, senior. We have been neglectful, and will away to rectify this.”

In concert, the youths simply fled. Hopping, almost, as they left the garden and vanished inside the mists.

Fu put a hand on Fu’s shoulder. “I am unsure I enjoy these musician types,” he said, gesturing to the doorway some way to their rear. “Quick to anger, it seems. Would you not rather practise your martial arts, Feng? A safer passtime, no?”

Feng could only smile, his face filled with mirthful admiration. “They are simply passionate,” he said.

“About this Ruoxuan, of which I have heard little about,” noted Fu. “Come, there is time to speak on this before your Grandmother returns.”

“Ah, Father, must we?” his son cringed. “Yuqi is already without mercy on this matter. If I was to… No, forgive me. I would appreciate your insight.” Paxing dispensed a bow, if one delivered with a gleeful nod at his cultivator’s expense.

A good day, this.

Fu extended his arm to Yuqi as she neared, and with an irrepressible smile, began to ascend the stairs home.