A span of thirteen moons have passed since my capture now, just shy of a full year. [Seasons], I have found, pass swift in the heart of research.

Brother Jinglui continues to hound me, maintaining that he is close to the [Core Formation Realm], and that he is eager to impress upon another Bond.

I maintain that he is no closer than when I first arrived.

Such impatience shows how unready he is for such a leap, and I fear his temper will surface once more upon the decline of his [Push] and [Pull]. The hardest attribute, beyond [Insight], to quantify.

When unharmonious [Qi Affinities] collide, or when his [Season] further ingrains, I wonder on his reaction.

What might befall me when his first cultivation sessions shows [Pull] to be halved, or quartered, hampered by the inclusion of another soul tethered to his own? When [Push]-

Ah, I hear Jinglui now, and thus I will finish my scribing for the day with this, dear reader.

[Push], in truth, proves to be subjective. Bolstered by the value, yet subjective when-

- "The Enlightened Bandit, a Memoir,” by Sixth River Chieftain, Gu Feiyang.

The absurdity that four days had passed with what could be likened to regular happenstance was not lost on Fu.

A rise, and a clash, that then led to recuperation through cultivation.

Mere hours separated the space between this and near repetition of what an evening held in store. Bouts against the tide of [Spirit Beasts], whose ferocity only grew as [Spring’s] final days grew short, solidifying the Brigade’s belief on opportunity.

For finally, Fu had advanced in [Prowess].

He landed now upon a single foot. No small surge of pride within him. “Hushi,” he said, half a gasp in his voice. “The Qi- It responded, did it not?”

Hushi returned to his side, jetting, and seamlessly transitioned into his smaller form. An impression of contentment flowed across their link, confirming Fu’s thoughts.

“The Enlightened Bandit,” he said, thumbing his belt. “[Senses] relate to taste and sight, and so on. But also to Qi… sensitivity. The currents wound tighter this last step, I felt it in passing. To remember this form is the next step.”

And then, wearied as he was, Fu repeated the first steps of the [Wind Phantom Strides], again, chainless. Unperturbed by the rate at which he learned. For he knew that upon this boundless path to martial strength, a single step forward returned more than standing still.

So late in the [Season], night’s blanket came slow, and it was not until his comrades filed by that he deigned to return to the barracks. Bowing from habit, and then joining at the heels of those already in conversation.

He spied wounds and scrapes on those ahead. Shallow in nature. Of further note were the fraying edges upon their hanfu. Grime upon weapons. The slight heave of their chests as each step was taken.

Such sights drew Fu’s attention to his own slovenly, near beggared appearance. Though not enough to disrupt his admiration of these fellows.

Diligent. One and all. Should I remain to train for longer as they have? Push myself further?

Entry to the barracks ceased this notion.

Zhiyuan stood central, highlighted in a space where all bunks had been pushed aside. Ceremonial in garb, and with Bond enlarged. Enough to have Fu’s heart shudder.

The [Spirit Pangolin] was no longer of a size to hide within her robes, should she have worn them. Now it clad her as armour might before it was equipped, hunched upon two feet with stature enough to rise another head larger than its cultivator.

No longer a [Spirit Beast]. But a monster.

Fu found questions rising, held for another time. By one, the Nineteenth’s cultivators showed their deference before entering an arrangement before her, silent as they were addressed.

“The [Coiling Star Defensive Array] will activate before the next gong,” started Chao, pacing before the Third Officer. Shedding the humour Fu had come to know. “Thus there are but two instructions. Ready yourselves as is fitting of the Nineteenth, and strive to bring glory to our Brigade in the coming Placement tomorrow.”

A resounding chorus boomed through the barracks, and all but Fu and Xianyi bowed amidst this cry. It was flustering, to catch sight of his fellow Hopeful at the end of many dipped heads, and he quickly rectified this.

“Another [Season] has ended. Here, Nineteenth, reap your harvest.” Warmth spread across Fu’s [Contribution Array] then, a taste of this Qi shown too, on all his comrades as their eyes went distant. Checking the imitation of [Ink] as he now did.

Fu’s flickered to highlight a change.

A heartbeat, or a blink later, seeing it change again.

His debt had reduced.

A margin, in truth, a hair’s breadth of difference. But this [Season], he had done enough to stave off accumulating more. To say nothing of the rise that had occurred a few days past.

Banishing the display, he saw Zhiyuan was gone, and upon the bunks that had not moved for her stage, a single sphere sat. Her departure had granted permission to move, and so he went to inspect it.

Some orb of brilliant orange, the size of which mirrored his eye. “Brother Fu, Sister Xianyi,” called Chao, interrupting his study. Those called, met, dispensing a bow. “Though a full [Season] has not passed since your arrival, your contribution has been noted. For this, and in this instance alone, the extraneous term of sentence was waived.”

“Gratitude,” the pair chimed. Heartfelt, for Fu had indeed wondered on why he had received a full [Season’s] wage.

Chao retained his formality, continuing. “Come first gong tomorrow we will march to the main pavilion, where the Placement is to take place. Duty is suspended for this day, and the next, though other tasks may be asked of you.” Softening, then, he wrinkled his nose in good humour. “Wash well, and rest well. Tomorrow you represent not only the Nineteenth, but Third Officer Zhiyuan.”

“Of course, Fourth Officer.”

Seeing his words had been heard, Chao nodded. “To this end, we have prepared a gift. One you may not deny.” He stood back then, showing three or four cultivators stalk down the aisle between bunks.

All with implacable expressions, and all with daggers raised.

🀦

Once, Fu had heard a tale of the Azure Shoal Sect, and the cultivators within. Of how the men grew more powerful, more in touch with the Yang, the longer their hair might grow.

To have studied his face as it was reflected back at him the previous night, he supposed that he may now be devoid of such energy.

The entirety of the Nineteenth stood stock still, regimented atop the Green Blight Bastion’s tallest peak. An open pavilion, wherein thousands of cultivators held the same. Perfect squares delineated Brigades, arranged on and on beneath the arched roof that showed itself to be so vast that even this number could not adequately fill the space.

A breeze spilled through the open sides, once more agitating the shorn scalp beneath Fu’s douli. His hair reduced to fledgling stalks. His blackened hanfu of the Cloudy Serpent Sect likewise uncomfortable, coarse, compared to the now-tattered, now-discarded, gift from Luo.

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“Rotate,” ordered a voice, Qi-laden, thick and booming.

To which all complied, and the routine commenced as it had for hours now. Twenty strides in time with the twenty strides of the cultivator adjacent. Replicated through thousands, and all to arrive each Brigade at their next destination.

Settled, Fu could now see the vacant tiles between groups. Wider than the naturally formed avenues, and dedicated for the combat that was to follow.

“Thirtieth [Autumn]. Who among you seeks to rise?”

The response was a roar so bestial it shook both bone and tile alike. A quake that carried forth shared [Intent].

And now, almost central, Fu could see the light it manifested. Bare shoulders, backs, and the glittering of Bonds marred much clarity, and what he saw was measured through the spines of [Spirit Porcupine], or though the gap between taller fellows.

But golden light did whirl, and rip. Seeming starved for the attention of the Heavens above.

“Then step forth,” came the voice, one now attributed to Vice Officer Gan. The Sect Officer’s right hand.

A shuffling sounded, and Fu spied the first applicant. Numbered one, and of a total of all. For he was yet to hear, nor see a cultivator that had refused the call to advance.

“This lowly junior submits himself to the venerable Cloudy Serpent Sect’s judgement,” he cried, looking to kowtow.

“Twenty Ninth [Spring]. Defend,” returned the Vice Officer. A figure, obscured, broke from her brigade and took up position on the tiles. Placing herself in opposition to the Thirtieth’s cultivator. “Begin.”

🀦

“Twentieth [Winter]. Who among you seeks to rise?” bellowed the Vice Officer, and Fu tensed to see how close he was. A main view of the stage granted, for he was nigh upon it.

The accompaniment of this Brigade’s cheers rattled him as all stepped forward to claim their next advancement. More than this, however, Fu was expectant. The [Tyranny of Seasons] would mark his Nineteenth as the next trial-goers, as the Vice Officer had yet to pit any against another that held an advantage.

A supposed fairness, lending itself to this…

My hands clench, and they are slick with sweat. Yet-

Far from a prideful man, Fu could scarce believe the longing he felt to test himself. Not one, he mused, for the sake of victory. Or to squander the efforts of an ally. No man deserved to have their hard work dismissed at the hands of another.

An adequate measure was what he sought.

Third Officer Zhiyuan. Distant. But she has treated me well. I would see this repaid with my best efforts.

However, it seemed a dryness had overcome the Vice Officer’s throat. Claiming his words before they were half-uttered. “Nineteenth-” he broke, and made to clear his disturbance. “[Spring]. Defend.”

A susurrus swept through all gathered, and though irregular, none dared questioned their senior.

Fu saw the Vice Officer, scholarly to a fault, remain prim. Poised as a statue might, with sculpted bun, unmoving, and the sleeves of his daxiushan unmolested by the breeze.

Thus the Nineteenth [Spring] Brigade sent forth their first member, despite the disadvantage presented by the opposing force of [Winter].

Their bane.

“Begin,” was uttered, and so on was it said, displaying results that even the blind might see. A tally of defeats, that Fu found himself watching intently. Clashes of both blade and Qi, and of the meeting Bonds who battered their foes into submission.

Until a remnant of [Spring] strode forwards without customary bow. Defiant of convention, as Fu’s first impression of Yongwu Long had suggested of the man.

“Vice Officer!” he called.

His outburst was returned by one beneath the array of Senior Officers that stood resolute along the arena’s edge. “Junior, you dare! So lowly a man cannot address the Vice Officer directly!”

“This humble junior seeks only guidance, senior, and did not mean offence!” Yongwu bowed, high, if at all, and continued before his addressor could speak again. “In his lowly knowledge, there is no place for this junior in the Nineteenth [Spring] Brigade upon his victory.”

An [Intent] stewed through the ranks like water then, as though a heated swamp had emerged underfoot. Fu wobbled against the energy, for while it was not violent, it had him feel as brittle as the aged wood upon his boat.

The speaker came to rest a hand upon his jian, menacing Long with a stride forward. “Your disrespect must be answered. Kowtow before the Vice Officer, and I will grant you the mercy of losing only an arm.”

Fu’s lips mouthed an apology in place of Yongwu Long, near stupefied that the man had displayed such manners before his betters.

A fool. But one who walks by the riverside must not be surprised that his feet get wet.

Any empathy for this acquaintance drained from him, however much he regretted that a face known to him might soon vanish.

Two paces separated Long and the jian.

One.

The arm wielding it retracted. Drawing no measured response from Long.

Save for the indignant smirk that crossed his face as it was torn from its socket, spat out by the [Spirit Serpent] that-

A darker skinned man had appeared between the pair. Three such Bonds curled upon his shoulders like a cascade of hair, stemming however, from a hairless scalp. “Sect. Vice. First,” he whispered. “This lowly daoist might wonder what grants them such perfection that they cannot be faulted?”

Not a drop of blood had spilled from the aggressor’s wound, and Fu rubbed at his own eyes, wondering if the scene had been imagined.

An oddity stood close to the man, where he had first imagined a cloak. Eyes, perhaps, shining in a lustrous azure. Folding, and fading, to show the [Spirit Peacock] behind, its tail feathers emitting a Qi he could not detect.

And with it, the return of the jian-wielder’s arm. “Senior Cheng Rao! Forgive this humble Officer for acting out of turn!”

Cheng Rao ignored the man, and entered the ranks of those who shared similar station. Mundane, and without spectacle. “Vice Officer,” he said. “This lowly daoist is curious. Will the bout proceed as planned?”

All eyes, in their thousands, placed their attention on the scholarly senior, finding him to be stoic and stony-faced.

A force is at work here. But from where?

Fu doubted, or knew too little, to expect Yongwu Long to have brought the Vice Officer to stutter. Yet he was central to whatever act was being carried out.

“The fight will commence as I have spoken,” he announced. Nose raised, his eyes never deigning to catch another’s.

The shift of gazes came once more, returning to Cheng Rao.

A man much disappointed with these words, bearing the look of a heartbroken, wizened grandfather despite his youthful features. He hung his head, giving no gesture, nor blessing to continue.

The Vice Officer… Did Cheng Rao grant an opportunity to fix his mistake?

Whether his observation was correct or not, Fu supposed it did not matter. If this senior was to lose face, it would have no bearing on his own path.

Only his resolution to do more… to be- or to learn more- his acceptance, this is what drove him to think as a cultivator might.

To pick up what they all should notice. And so he observed.

Yongwu Long strode to his corner of the arena, beckoning his challenger forwards.

An inordinately tall man, fielding a quijiadao, it’s curved menace of an ilk to mirror the crook of his [Spirit Scorpion]. A beast that now scaled in size to that of a large hound. “I am Jia Meng, and I would know the name of my challenger,” he said.

“Why, I’m your grandfather,” replied Long, disinterestedly polishing the hilt of his jian.

Fu chuffed in disbelief.

Wet feet, indeed.

[Killing Intent] gushed out from Jia Meng, who grit his jaw to bite back what words might fly in front of his seniors. His qujiadao was raised, and he placed the sword’s blade upon his wrist. One, warning step, before he launched forward.

The distance was crossed in a single moment, a blur of [Might], and the weapon struck down but a hair’s breadth from Long. Who had turned as if to address the crowd, unphased by either [Intent] or the man who sought his head.

A clang of metal upon stone sounded, and a further grunt from Jia Meng. “A paper tiger with false tricks. Withdraw your blade!” His shout roused the Bond at his side, scuttling to flank Long where [Poison Qi] emerged as a slick liquid upon its tail.

It stabbed out in tandem with Jia Meng’s blade, only for both to rush by Long as he once more turned to the side.

“Hushi,” whispered Fu, having the octopus descend. Even this noise stirred a reaction from his comrades, warning him into silence. There was a need in Fu to have them both study these movements.

Simplistic, and taunting as they were.

His breath is not wasted. Where he steps… this too is neat. Light.

Several minutes passed to show Jian Meng’s growing outrage, each strike now a wild slash that blurred the line between he and his Bond. They rounded, struck, missed, and engaged again, with nary a blemish on Long’s hanfu.

Should it have connected, the [Spring] warrior would have wholly suppressed what Fu now knew to be Long’s [Qi Type] or [Season] of [Winter]. But the metal was never delivered.

A flash of discomfort suddenly swept Long’s mockery aside, a cringe upon his face that had him weave from a blow with far greater effort than previous. He stepped back, and then again, gaining several paces before his lips moved with the formation of words.

Fu could not read the flow of his mouth, a feat made harder by the emergence of burgeoning, golden light.

Long’s [Spirit Carp] gently streamed from within his robes to shower an aura of unknown power.

A [Dao Principle], perhaps.

It etched a faint silhouette in the air as it swirled and riffled, a second skin, shedding in specks.

Immersed in this, Long shared a grin, and folded an arm behind his back. “Grandson! Let the better generation show you how it’s done!”

Jia Meng settled himself. Coming to stand, coming to breath, having taken the measure of Long enough to treat him as a serious foe. The form that came next mimicked the stance of his Bond, wherein his base spread low, and the quijiadao was splayed horizontally above his head.

His opponent twigged his palm, beckoning him forwards.

[Poison Qi], putrescently yellow, highlighted Jia Meng’s veins, which bulged in a series of steps.

Almost a stagger, sidewards and diagonal, and three in number. Arriving him before a ducking Long, just as the quijiadao spewed a gout of liquid poison before its stabbing length.

Again, three in number.

The blows were so swift that Fu tracked them by the site of impact, empty air at first, which then exploded in its own small font of yellow. As though blots of ink hung to stain the air.

Yet Long had unleashed his own [Art], placing steps that cracked the very tiles below, and followed by the same specks of second skin as his Bond. The silhouette of a beast more divine than a mere carp, that saw him match his foe in fleetness of foot.

An angled sweep. A rising spring. Back turn after crouch, culminating in a draw of his jian that pressed tight against Jia Meng’s throat.

One drip of [Poison Qi], a speck of blood, fell to splash upon the tiles.

“Victory,” broke Vice Officer Gan’s voice. Rigid despite the disbelief of his juniors. “Yongwu Long, advance, and take your place amongst the Nineteenth [Spring] Brigade.”

Long stowed his jian, bowing high. “As you wish, senior,” he said, shrugging off the looks of his comrades to settle back once more.

To Fu’s right, Dun blinked several times, as if waking from a stupor. “A [Realm] above,” he muttered, going so far as to scratch his head before recalling where exactly he stood.

A Realm above what?