《The Bones of the Wicked》 Prologue The night was calm in Hedao¡¯s chambers. The distant, ever-present thunder of the waterfalls outside provided a blanket of sound on which to rest his thoughts. He sat in the center of his modest room, eyes closed in concentration, mind focused. Spirit flowed slowly, painstakingly through his body, swirling in eddies, always inevitably pulled back towards the reservoir in his solar plexus from which it originated. Cultivating the spirit, improving the body, sharpening the mind ¨C this activity was familiar to him, yet despite years of practice, it never got easier. Each moment was a struggle to keep the stream of spirit flowing throughout his body, directing it away from his reservoir, his dantian, and out towards his limbs, his head, and his chest. Each moment was a struggle, progress slow, but persistence was rewarded greatly. Over the twenty years since Hedao had arrived, a frail man of sixty, his health had returned ten times over, and his strength twenty. The years of purifying spirit washing through his being slowly erased the ailments of age, like a stone weathered smooth by the wind and sand. And so he sat, as he had nearly every morning since that day twenty years ago, cultivating in peace, when he heard the sounds of violence erupt outside his door. Hedao stopped his cultivation, careful not to let any stray spirit linger outside his dantian, before quickly rising to see what going on. He grabbed his dagger off the end table and opened the door. He was met with chaos. His fellow sectators were slaughtering one another, bodies littering the stone ground, the surrounding waterfalls deafening. Blood pooled in depressions, mixing with water, running off of the plateau in streams. He could make out violent shouting on the stone terraces above and below. Shock settled into him. The sect was at war. The day he had been waiting for, yet hoping would never come. He immediately headed towards the lower terrace where the important senior and elder sectators resided and practiced. He dashed down the clearing towards the stone steps leading upwards. The Waterfall sect was located in a cylindrical hole carved out of the eastern Shutai sea. Divided into layers, each level of buildings sat on stone disks held up by massive pillars from the one below and stone struts digging into the sides of the cavity. The sea streamed down the walls of stone, creating the namesake waterfall, perfectly circular. A series of enormous walled - in spiral stairs corkscrewing through the center of each disk allowed passage between each layer. Dodging pockets of fighting as he went, Hedao flew down the massive stairs, hoping he wasn¡¯t too late. The central waterfall streamed next to him, falling down through the center of the spiral, bathing the stone cavern in pale blue light and providing some measure of comfort to him. He only hoped he wouldn¡¯t be too late. Occasionally, a sectator would recognize him, and Hedao would be forced to cut them down. Man or woman, he couldn¡¯t allow them to slow him down. A man rushed him, and Hedao¡¯s blade took him in the temple, cleanly withdrawing the blade, never stopping. A swipe to the gut, and a woman fell down the center of the spiral. A duck, spin, and kick, and another man followed her down. Hedao carried on in this way until he reached the second-bottommost disk where the elder resided. The fighting was much thicker here, almost filling the main clearing centralized around the elder¡¯s manor. There was no way for Hedao to force his way through that. Fighting still loud and intense behind him on the stairs, he drew in a deep breath and began to circulate his spirit. He closed his eyes and pushed the spirit out of his dantian, laboriously forcing it into into a current, circulating it through his limbs and core. Then, carefully, he took a step. The spirit circulating in his body shook, swam, but continued to flow, circulating. He took another this way, then another, then another, until he began to break into a run. Cultivation was not an easy feat, and to do so while moving and exerting oneself was like trying to thread a needle after having thrown yourself off a cliff. It was a risk, but it was one Hedao had to take. It was not a risk without benefits, however, for as he ran, his body felt inexhaustible, energized, powerful. He leapt from the wide stone street to the roof of a building next to him, landed lightly, and continued towards the Elder¡¯s manor to the north. Leaping from roof to roof, he strained under the stress of maintaining his spirit¡¯s flow. Lose control while normally cultivating, and one¡¯s spirit will escape back into their dantian. Lose control while exerting oneself, and one¡¯s spirit could run rampant, ravaging their body. He didn¡¯t much enjoy putting himself at such risk, but he forced himself to continue. Too much was at stake. Shortly he came to the Elder¡¯s clearing, a large empty patch of stone around the Elder¡¯s manor. The nature of the clearing changed from Elder to Elder depending on their tastes ¨C some installed gardens, some allowed lessons. The current Elder, however, kept it barren, keeping the manor quiet and defensible. Normally. The fighting was reaching a climax below, ground beginning to look more blood than stone, and Hedao had no more rooves to climb to bypass it. He looked at the incredible distance between his perch and the manor¡¯s terrace. Taking a deep breath, he settled on a plan. He took several steps back from the roof¡¯s edge and began to direct his spirit downwards. He was already exhausted from cultivating during the short journey, and so it was a laborious process creating the currents and eddies in his lower body. A few minutes passed before he achieved a stable, if weak, flow throughout his lower body. He drew another breath and slammed his foot into the tiles, breaking into a sprint. The current shook, threatened to collapse, but Hedao strained with everything he had to force it into place. Soaring forward, the other foot came down, harder than the first, strengthened by the spirit flowing within. The building shook beneath him, tiles falling. Picking up incredible speed, he brought up both legs, spirit-strengthened muscles coiled tight. As he approached the roof¡¯s edge, he brought them down ferociously into the corner and shot off of the roof. A snap rang through the air as the roof collapsed behind him and he soared over the battle below. His mind raced those few seconds he flew. He was on target for the manor, but he was going to come down with fatal force. He felt his strength running out ¨C his control of his spirit flow running thin. He didn¡¯t have the time nor the capacity to reorient towards his upper body ¨C so he did the only thing he could think of. He twisted in the air so that his legs, current intact, would take the brunt of the landing. He came down on the tiled roof of the manor with a crunch of porcelain. Shock rang through Hedao¡¯s entire body, and he lost his focus. The spirit calmly running through his lower body had their dams removed and rushed violently throughout his body. Hedao wailed in pain as his spirit tore through him, ravaging him from the inside out. Despite the pain, he frantically grabbed the porcelain tiles to prevent himself from sliding off. Gripping the tiles tightly, he waited for the waves of fire and lightning coursing under his skin to die down. This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. He didn¡¯t know how long it had been; maybe a minute, maybe ten. But when his spirit had once again collected in his dantian and the pain had subsided, the fighting below was coming to a close. More bodies, sliced, battered, and broken, littered the ground than the number of sectators still fighting, and the smooth stone floor was no longer visible beneath the coat of near-black blood. He pushed down his sorrow for his sectmates ¨C time for that later. Exhausted, Hedao slid down the roof and swung into a window on the top floor. The two floors below contained the kitchens and reception rooms ¨C the chambers were at the top, near the back of the building. He walked as quickly as he could towards the chambers, but awful sense of apprehension was already growing. He hadn¡¯t even anticipated the fighting; it had already been well underway by the time it made its way to his door. No, he knew he was too late. But he had to know. He made his way down the opulent, yet barren hall, with walls and floors of marble inlaid with jade and completely free of furniture or decoration. He approached modestly decorated door to the Elder¡¯s chambers. Quiet, heavy conversation could be heard inside. Closing his eyes, he pushed open the door. The first thing he saw was the elder Jinhai, master cultivator, leader of the Waterfall sect, on his knees. He was bound hand and foot by spirit-infused chains, and tightly around his neck was a glassy black collar of obsidian. Hedao looked at the elder for a moment, his worst fear realized. There was no escaping that: Spirit-infused steel, impenetrable to a cultivator, and obsidian round the neck to cut off his mind from his spirit. It was only then that he took in the rest of the room ¨C ten of the strongest cultivators in the sect stood near the windows and lined the edge of the room. Finally, he noticed the tall, lithe woman standing behind Jinhai¡¯s kneeling form. Liyang, the strongest known cultivator to have ever come to the Waterfall sect, and the most infamous to have left it. Hedao knew she would return one day. Liyang looked up at Hedao in surprise ¨C surprise quickly replaced with a cold smile. ¡°Hedao! You¡¯re just in time. The succession is nearly complete!¡± She waved the knife in her hand around the room. ¡°Some of my disciples are here to witness the ceremony. I¡¯m glad you could make it.¡± She grabbed Jinhai¡¯s hair, matted with blood, and yanked his head up to expose his face. She laid the flat of the blade against his forehead, tapped it. A sinuous dragon was etched along its length. ¡°Old Jinhai here just won¡¯t tell me how to get into the ancestral cavern. I know he knows, but no matter how much incentive we give him, he just won¡¯t budge.¡± She dragged the tip of the blade along his forehead and leaned down to speak into Jinhai¡¯s ear. ¡°Why is that, Jinhai? Are you so proud?¡± Jinhai didn¡¯t respond, eyes lightly closed, head bowed. Liyang frowned and gripping his hair, slammed his forehead into the ground in front of him, putting him back into a bow. She put a boot on his back, leaned on her knee, and looked at Hedao, pretense gone from her face. ¡°Detain him,¡± she said to her disciples. Hedao was quickly immobilized as several of her cultivators pinned him against the floor, face towards Liyang. She walked over to him, squatted down. It was disgusting that she was that beautiful. ¡°I¡¯m glad you could be here,¡± she told him, then rose. ¡°Make sure he has a good view.¡± She walked back across the room towards Jinhai, adjusting her grip on her dragon-etched blade, as Hedao began to struggle, thrashing against his captors. ¡°No! Wait! Liyang, he¡¯s not worth killing. You¡¯ve won, the sect is yours. Your disciples massacred everyone. There¡¯s no one left to oppose you! Don¡¯t you see? There¡¯s no reason to kill Jinhai. Just take his cultivation and go. Please.¡± But Liyang kept walking as though she hadn¡¯t even heard him. Hedao continued to plead as Liyang grabbed the old man¡¯s chin, brought him up, laid the knife on his neck above the collar, and slid it across. Hedao wailed, thrashed harder against the iron grip holding him down, as Jinhai¡¯s blood drained over the collar and soaked into his robes. Liyang let the body collapse, and wiping her blade with a rag pulled casually from her pocket, she strolled over to Hedao once again. She didn¡¯t deign to squat down to Hedao this time. She simply asked, ¡°Does it hurt, Hedao?¡± She paused, asked again, ¡°Does it hurt having the only one that knows you taken away?¡± She peered out the window at the water rushing down, down. ¡°I know you don¡¯t really care about this sect. The only thing you cared about was your pathetic little father figure.¡± She looked down at him as he tried to control his tears. ¡°Twenty years you¡¯ve been here, and you¡¯ve made less progress than I did in five.¡± She shook her head. ¡°You¡¯re pathetic, Hedao.¡± Hedao¡¯s grief began to turn to rage. ¡°Fight me, Liyang. I want a duel. You¡¯ll pay. You¡¯ll fucking pay for this.¡± Adrenaline filled him as rage bloomed in his chest, and he thrashed against his captors harder than ever. Their grips tightened in response, or perhaps in surprise. ¡°Let me go! Liyang, fight me you fucking coward! I want a fucking duel!¡± Liyang began to look amused. ¡°You know, Hedao, fine,¡± she replied condescendingly. ¡°A duel you want, a duel you¡¯ll get. How about this: if you win, I¡¯ll leave the Waterfall sect, and never return. But if I win, I¡¯ll strip your cultivation, and you¡¯ll have to serve me until the day I decide to kill you.¡± Hedao barely cared if the terms would send him to hell. ¡°Deal. Let me go and you¡¯ll fucking pay.¡± He heaved one final time against the arms that bound him as they let go. He vaguely heard her tell her cultivators to stand down behind his rage. He pushed himself off the ground and immediately forced all of the spirit he could out of his dantian. Pain bloomed in his solar plexus as it all left in a rush, heat flooding him as the spirit rushed to circulate throughout his body, and he coughed up blood at the exertion. Liyang slowly walked towards him, knife lightly held in her hand, tip pointing down. Hedao, for the third time today, broke out in a sprint with a stream of spirit flowing through his body. The spirit shook, burning him from within, as he ran, and he didn¡¯t bother to correct it. He simply rushed Liyang with everything he had, attempting to sweep her off her feet. He went in for a grab, but she danced out of the way and left him with two neat marks on his arm and cheek. He swung once, twice, and she twisted out of the way once, twice, and hit him one, two times in the face. Dazed, Hedao stumbled backwards, spirit shedding its place in the current, radiating out into his body. Liyang grabbed the back of his head and brought it down hard into his knee. Hedao went down, and Liyang kicked him one, two, three times in the stomach. Hedao felt nothing besides pain, didn¡¯t hear as Liyang told him he was pathetic, and didn¡¯t see as her cultivators brought her a small jade box. Liyang opened the box and took out a small shard of obsidian. ¡°Curious little stone,¡± she marveled, ¡°free of spirit. Almost a void. And all it takes is one little stone run through the dantian to ruin a cultivator, like a hole in the heart of a beast.¡± She closed the box with a snap and handed it back to one of her disciples. ¡°I¡¯m glad it worked out this way, Hedao. You¡¯ll be almost like a trophy. A reminder of today.¡± Her disciples uncurled Hedao and held him in place as she handled the black shard of glass. Hedao didn¡¯t panic. There was nothing left to get panicked over. Really, there was nothing to hold on to anymore. His mentor, his only friend had been taken. His cultivation would be stripped. And his home had been ravaged. There really was nothing at all. And so, he let go. He surrendered control of himself, allowed the river of spirit in his dantian to rush through him, round and round, faster and faster. Hedao felt panic beginning to grow ¨C the rush of spirit circulating within him with the speed and force of a flashflood was almost too much to bear. His skin felt as though it was searing, his blood as though it was boiling, and lightning arced through his mind. It became more and more tempting to seize back control, to cram and force the spirit through his body as he had so many times before. But he had let go fully and completely, and simply allowed the spirit to flow. The pain peaked, and Hedao screamed as it felt he was being torn from the inside out ¨C and then, suddenly, the pain vanished. It was exhilarating. Spirit flowed through in a volume ten times what he had ever felt before ¨C and he didn¡¯t lift a finger. He grabbed the arms of the two men holding him down and simply snapped them as he would a rotten stick. He didn¡¯t hear their scream, only heard the rush of spirit within him, thunderous like the waterfall outside. He saw the eight other cultivators lining the walls, unsure whether to attack or to allow Liyang. He saw Liyang snarl and point at him, saw the disciples rush him down. He dodged, wove between and through them as they attempted to take off his head or his arm or his leg, more on feeling than thought. And he made his way to the window, gripped the top of the frame, slung himself on the roof. A thin shard of black glass flew out the window mere moments later. Hedao bounded from rooftop to rooftop heading towards the edge of the disk. It was so easy this way. Spirit thundered through him like a river, far from the trickling stream he had managed before. It was letting go; it was surrendering; but it was freedom. He reached the edge of the disk, standing only meters from the rushing curtain of water surrounding the walls. He looked at it, looked behind him at the other cultivators slowly giving chase. Then he smiled, approached the ledge, and fell in. 1 - Lands to the East The wind tore viciously at Zhuding¡¯s shirt, causing it to whip and snap wildly. He stood knee-deep in the muddy waters of the rice field, hands aching from constant labor. He looked up at the sky: only another hour or so until sundown. Everyone else had long since returned home. He turned back to his work, frustratedly cutting rice stalks and putting them in his basket. So much wasted time. Eventually the light ran thin, and he hoisted his wicker basket. Step by careful step, he made the journey back up the mountain through the marshy fields of grain. As he walked, a wyvern lithely glided through the air far above. He stopped and looked at it for a moment. For a moment, its silver and red scales briefly caught the moonlight and shone. They weren¡¯t an uncommon sight there in the foothills of Shanjin, but Zhuding had always envied them ¨C envied their freedom: freedom that came with an undeniable power and an understanding of where that power placed them in the world. As the wyvern slid silently behind the neighboring Quixin mountains, Zhuding continued on his journey, by then little over halfway home. By the time a half hour had passed, he stood finally above the basin that held his home. The air was thin here near the summit of the mountain but kept the village cool and comfortable. Firelight shone through the windows warmly, giving the village a comfortable glow. However, as Zhuding descended the stone-carved steps down the wall of the basin, he realized that he no longer found his village¡¯s atmosphere comforting. He found it suffocating. The longer he lived, and the more days he spent hoisting his wicker basket and pulling at weeds in the muddy water, the more he found his home stifling. He wasn¡¯t surprised that he felt this way ¨C it had been building up for years now ¨C but it was the first time that he had admitted it to himself. As he reflected on these new, old feelings, he took the final few steps onto the basin floor and went down the central street to his house. There were few people out at this time: no children, and only the young adults. Everyone else would be asleep to get an early start on the next day. He would be, too, if he hadn¡¯t wasted his morning avoiding the fields by exploring the sheer side of the mountain. The local blacksmith passed him by, giving him an amused glance. He was a man whose features were like his own, save for a decade or two and an intense hardness in his eyes. Hair closely cut, tall, and fit, his hands and arms were weathered from his years of hard work at the forge. As he passed, Zhuding looked back at him, wondering what he found so amusing. He had seen him here his whole life, but had never so much as talked to the man. Before he turned down the side street to his home, he looked up resentfully at the Lord¡¯s manor at the end of the main road. Though it wasn¡¯t huge, to Zhuding¡¯s eyes, it was decadent, almost wasteful. It made him want to spit. Undeniable power, and an understanding of where that power placed you. He broke his glare and turned down the side street. Wooden houses on either side of him made the dirt street narrow, and the water running off his still-damp boots turned the top layer to mud. He walked up to a door and let himself in. His mother and father were there in the dining room, setting the table with dinner. His father was a stout man, body weathered from his years in the military and hardened from the long hours spent in the fields with Zhuding. His mother, a smaller woman with long hair and a kind smile and a gentle face, sat at the table. His father sat down, and his mother smiled at him as he walked in. ¡°Welcome home, Zhuding. Did you have a nice walk back? You were out so late.¡± Zhuding took off his shoes and replied, ¡°It was fine, Mama. I just had to catch up on yesterday¡¯s harvest.¡± He suddenly realized he was still wearing his wicker basket. He felt his father¡¯s scrutinizing gaze on him and groaned internally as his father spoke up. His father tapped his fingers on the table. ¡°You forgot to drop off your harvest again, Zhuding.¡± He paused for a moment, disapproval hanging in the air. ¡°Is there something wrong with you?¡± his father reprimanded in his scratchy voice. ¡°Perhaps you¡¯d remember how fragile our situation is if you spent less time wandering and more time focusing on providing for your mother.¡± Zhuding tried not to let out an irritated sigh, composed himself ¡°My apologies, father.¡± ¡°Go turn it in, and your meal will be here when you get back. We can¡¯t afford to get into more trouble with the Lord.¡± He then promptly ignored him as he began eating. His mother gave him an apologetic glance and began eating as well. Zhuding, frustration burning in his chest, again put on his damp boots and left the house. As he walked down the street, now dimmer for those who had put out their lanterns before sleeping, he let his frustration simmer. Years and years of repetition, and still he forgot the simplest things ¨C yet those things had the strangest consequences. Forget to drop off a basket of grain, and you¡¯ll be accused of hoarding. Forget to return your knife, and you¡¯ll be accused of stealing. More and more, he felt trapped by the small world he lived in. He wanted something more. On his way to the drying bin, he again passed the blacksmith. He was next to his home working in his open-air workshop. Zhuding walked and watched him as he worked idly on the knife in his hand, oblivious to Zhuding¡¯s gaze. The blacksmith then happened to look up and meet Zhuding¡¯s gaze, who looked away, embarrassed. The blacksmith looked at the basket on his back and smiled amusedly. ¡°The walk of shame,¡± he said, apparently to himself, yet loud enough for Zhuding to hear. Zhuding¡¯s face burned, and he looked away, speeding up his walk towards his destination. The grain dump was a squat building near the edge of the basin, positioned near the stairs for any returning field workers like himself to dump their loads. He emptied his basket and placed it with the others before starting back home. On the return trip, he once again passed the blacksmith easily working on his small knife, sharpening and polishing it as he leaned back in his chair. They once again met each other¡¯s gaze, but instead of seeing the amusement he saw earlier, Zhuding saw sympathy in his eyes, and a hint of something he couldn¡¯t decipher. He looked away, ready to go home and meet the next gray day, when the blacksmith spoke. ¡°I¡¯ve seen you out there, some mornings,¡± he stated. Zhuding turned back to look at him, head tilted in question. The man hadn¡¯t looked away from his work and still sat relaxed, unhurriedly sharpened the small blade, dragging the whetstone back and forth, up and over. Shhk, shhk. ¡°Out there on the sheer side of the mountain, when most spend the cool hours collecting their harvest. You¡¯ll sit on a sheer ledge and look out to the east for hours.¡± He stopped, then, and looked over at him with a sidelong glance. ¡°What is it you see out there?¡± Zhuding didn¡¯t know what to say. Some mornings he woke up and regarded the day ahead, the suffocating weight of a day spent the same way as the fifty before it, and found he couldn¡¯t face it. Those mornings he went east, directly opposite of the gentle slopes containing the marshes of grain, towards the sheer side of the mountain. What seemed like a straight, sudden drop, when approached, turned into a challenge of handholds and footholds. It had taken Zhuding many hours over many such mornings to find a safe way down that barren cliff face, but once he had done so, he found a place to sit and be away from the life he had grown to dread. One could see for leagues, sitting on that ledge, see the forests and fields and mountains and towns that existed outside the tiny sphere that was his world. Some mornings, he sat on that ledge for hours, and lusted after the lives he could lead down there. And those mornings, he thought he was alone. How could this weathered village blacksmith have seen him out there? The blacksmith let the question hang and, resuming his work, spoke up again. ¡°You know, boy, you remind me of myself. You and I both have a wandering soul.¡± He held the knife up to the moonlight, sheathed it, and tossed it over to Zhuding. ¡°I¡¯ll show you somewhere else you can wander. We restless spirits always need new ground to tread.¡± With that, he stood up and strolled off of his workshop deck and back into his home. Zhuding¡¯s gaze lingered a moment on the door before he shook off his confusion. That blacksmith had said ¡°some morning¡±. How long had he seen him down there? Shaking his head, he partially unsheathed the knife the blacksmith gave him and gasped. It was beautifully crafted, with intricate decorations etched on the hilt and handle. Along the blade, flawlessly etched, ran a sinuous dragon, head reaching towards the tip. Removing it fully from the sheath, he turned it back and forth, admiring the handiwork. A piece like this would be incredibly expensive ¨C fit for a lord or lord¡¯s child. Confusion intensified by this strange gift, he looked once more at the blacksmith¡¯s door and shook his head before finally heading home and getting some rest. He woke the next day an hour ahead of the sun. Rising reluctantly from bed, deprived of rest, he got dressed, ate the breakfast laid out for him, and headed towards the door. Leaving the house, he adjusted the straw brim of his hat and felt the sheath of the intricate knife at his belt as though to make sure it was still there. The moon was still out, and he followed the familiar route through the village on the way to the fields, steeling himself for another monotonous day. However, he then remembered the conversation with the blacksmith, overshadowed by the strange gift ¨Cthat he¡¯d show him another ¡®place to wander¡¯. The conversation had been rather one-sided; perhaps he would be prepared this time to ask some questions. He turned onto the main street through the village center and saw near the stairs out of the basin the blacksmith lounging on his workshop deck. Zhuding wondered whether it could be called a workshop when it seemed to be mainly used for lounging. As he approached, the blacksmith stood, waved, and turned towards the grand stone steps out of the basin as though he expected Zhuding to follow. Zhuding had wanted to ask any number of questions but had to cut himself off unless he was left behind by the strange blacksmith. By the time he reached the base of the basin stairs, the blacksmith was already halfway up. Zhuding huffed as he climbed the stairs with more zeal than he ever had, yet no matter how quickly he climbed the steps, the blacksmith seemed to match his pace without changing his stride or breaking from a stroll. Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. Zhuding reached the top of the stairs, beginning to get slightly frustrated. How could he ask this man who he was, how he had seen him, where they were going, if he couldn¡¯t even catch up to him? Coming out of his head, he looked around. Where the hell had that blacksmith gone? The moonlit rice fields showed no strolling men in white, and neither did the rocky, mossy plateaus to either side. He looked behind him, to the east, and saw the unhurried figure going up the gentle slope towards the mountain¡¯s sheer side. He would be a minute¡¯s run to catch up with, at least. How had he gotten so far ahead, and at a stroll? Familiar frustration began to simmer in his chest. Who was this man to toy with him? ¡°WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU GOING, OLD MAN?¡± Zhuding called over to him. The blacksmith simply looked over his shoulder and smiled mischievously, continuing towards his mysterious destination. Zhuding realized that he had shouted directly over the village basin; everyone still down there had probably heard him. He turned a bit red, embarrassed at letting his anger boil over, and took off to try and catch up with the obnoxious blacksmith. The wind was strong on the mountain today, and his shirt flapped wildly in the wind as he tried to catch up. He finally caught up with the blacksmith at the edge of the cliff face, where he stood looking out at the night-covered miles of expanse to the east. Zhuding watched him stare for a minute or so, hesitant to break the silence, when the frustration from a few minutes before boiled up, renewed. ¡°Where are you taking me? How did you see me down on the ledge? And when, for that matter?¡± Zhuding insisted. The blacksmith didn¡¯t seem to respond, and when Zhuding opened his mouth to snap at him, he was cut off by the blacksmith¡¯s reply. ¡°I¡¯d answer your questions, but you never answered mine.¡± He turned to look at Zhuding. ¡°What is it you see out there?¡± He gestured out to the valley below the mountain. Zhuding felt his frustration evaporate, unprepared for the question. He touched the knife hilt at his waist. ¡°I suppose¡­¡± he broke the blacksmith¡¯s gaze. ¡°¡­ I see freedom.¡± The blacksmith cocked his head. ¡°But are you not free?¡± Zhuding shook his head. ¡°My life¡¯s burdens keep me tied here. How can I be free when my mother and father rely on me?¡± The blacksmith smiled. ¡°Ahh, but you are free. You may not be free to leave, true ¨C but you are always free to grow.¡± He turned back to the view of the cliff face. ¡°I think I¡¯ll postpone our trip ¨C a good view is nice, but your time would be better spent with me showing you something more useful.¡± He turned to Zhuding, glanced at his belt. ¡°I see you have the knife I gave you. Draw it.¡± Zhuding furrowed his brow, confused, but complied. The blacksmith quickly drew a knife of his own and raised it. ¡°Defend.¡± The blacksmith rushed Zhuding, swiping ruthlessly. Zhuding reacted on instinct, blocking frantically. He began to panic. He was being attacked. The blacksmith struck repeatedly, the force of his swipes causing Zhuding to back up. In that moment, he thought he would die. After only a few seconds, the dragon-etched knife lay on the ground and the blacksmith¡¯s cruelly pointed dagger was held at his throat. Zhuding felt he would be sick, but stood frozen, daring not to move. The blacksmith had a much different air, this close. The seasoned, laid-back air took on a cast hard as steel, stained as blood. This was a man who had done terrible things. He held the blade at Zhuding¡¯s neck for another moment, shifted it slightly to poke his neck tightly. He dragged the tip of the knife down Zhuding¡¯s neck slowly, leaned in and spoke in a low voice. ¡°That feeling you feel now¡­ the helplessness¡­ the knowledge that nothing you can do could save you¡­ that is true freedom.¡± He removed the knife and Zhuding instantly collapsed to the ground, gasping shaky breaths. ¡°I don¡¯t expect you to believe, or even understand me right now. But you will come to understand.¡± He sheathed his knife, picked Zhuding¡¯s off of the ground. ¡°If you wish it, I will leave the village now, and never return. You can return to your¡­ life.¡± He held the knife out by the blade, offering it to Zhuding. ¡°But if truly wish to be free from the burdens that bind you, I will stay and offer you another path.¡± Zhuding stared at the ground, on his knees, shaking, sweat trickling down his brow. He heard the blacksmith¡¯s words and thought of the years he would spend with this same life. He would toil for endless hours in the fields, barely supporting his mother, tolerating the ceaseless disapproval from his father, all the while fattening the lord and his spoiled children. He contemplated it, and found that no matter what, he couldn¡¯t face that life. He looked up at the blacksmith and took the knife from his hand. ¡°Who are you?¡± Zhuding asked. The sun began to rise, silhouetting the man in front of him. ¡°I am Hedao,¡± he said. * * * And so, each morning Zhuding would get up an hour before the sun and head east rather than west each morning. Each morning he would practice with Hedao until the sun rose, until his bones ached, and he was so exhausted he wondered he would be able to walk. He would make his way to the fields and collect his harvest, even if it took him until long after everyone else had left, and make his way back home under the moonlight. Months passed this way, and Zhuding became fitter and fitter, more and more deft with his knife. Each roadblock and obstacle in his training fueled his anger, his fear that he would be trapped in his monotonous life, and that anger and fear always pushed him through. Through the months, he trained this way, until one morning Zhuding asked Hedao a question that had never left his mind. They were looking out over the moonlit landscape, as they did most mornings before beginning his training. "Hedao,¡± Zhuding began, ¡°How did you know of the mornings I would spend on the cliff face? Why did you watch me? Why did you let me know that you did?¡± Hedao didn¡¯t reply immediately, eyes still searching the east. His hand rested on his knife hilt at his waist. He finally spoke: ¡°I think I¡¯ll show you that place I was telling you about. The one where those like us can wander.¡± He turned to look at him. ¡°Would you like that, Zhuding?¡± Zhuding was taken aback a moment, then despite himself, allowed some frustration to rise. ¡°No, Hedao. I¡¯d like you to answer my questions.¡± Hedao looked at him stoicly, and Zhuding¡¯s frustration went from simmer to boil. ¡°I¡¯ve worked for hours at your whim, sacrificed my health, my sleep, and I think I deserve some answers¡ª" Zhuding¡¯s rant was silenced when the blacksmith laid a hand on his shoulder. The moment his hand touched him, he felt an incredible pressure ¨C a suffocating atmosphere that consumed him until he could not see. As darkness consumed his vision, he felt his being slip, become insubstantial, and felt himself flow. He couldn¡¯t discern how much time had passed, but eventually, he once more became aware of the blacksmith¡¯s hand, now releasing his shoulder. The oppressive pressure instantly ceased, and Zhuding opened his eyes. He found himself sitting across from Hedao on a pillar of stone surrounded on all sides in a perfect circle by impossibly high waterfalls. Zhuding opened his mouth, too shocked to speak. The blacksmith looked at him, looked up at the towering waterfall that crashed around them. He spoke: ¡°You are a farmer, Zhuding. You¡¯re familiar with the process of cultivation; you¡¯ve performed it hundreds, thousands of times. Tilling the soil and bringing it into order, of planting the grain and ensuring that it flourishes, of harvesting it and refining it into something one can use.¡± He paused for a minute, closed his eyes, listened to the deafening crash of waterfall below. ¡°There is another type of cultivation, Zhuding, one which I used to practice: one of the body, spirit, and the mind.¡± He touched his chest. ¡°The body is the soil which you must purify, the foundation upon which everything else grows.¡± He touched his collarbone. ¡°The spirit is the seed which you cultivate in the soil, both the goal and the method through which you attain it.¡± He touched his temple. ¡°The mind is the hand that separates the wheat from the chaff, the channel through which you shape the spirit into forms that are useful.¡± He looked meaningfully at Zhuding. ¡°Cultivation is the purest way known of purifying one¡¯s being, of becoming closer in spirit to that of a heavenly being. To those who can persist despite its trials, it represents untold, infinite power; but only to those who can persist ¨C no easy feat.¡± His gaze on Zhuding hardened. ¡°One who starts on this path may walk no other. I must know that you mean to walk it before I set you down it.¡± Zhuding¡¯s mind reeled, attempting to process what Hedao had just told him. Purifying one¡¯s spirit, heavenly beings¡­. Untold power. He pictured the wyvern gliding effortlessly through the air, pictured Hedao holding his life in his hands. He met Hedao¡¯s gaze. ¡°Tell me what I need to know.¡± Hedao paused a moment, nodded. He rested his hands on his knees. ¡°For every art form, there exist different school of thought when it comes to its practice. It is no different for Cultivation. There are as many methods of cultivation as there are practitioners. However, the method I know, and the one I will teach you now, is the Waterfall form.¡± ¡°To begin, you must connect to your dantian.¡± Hedao rested his hand near his solar plexus. ¡°This is the area in the body where the spirit tends to rest. In those who have not learned to cultivate their spirit, it tends to be stagnant, and if it flows at all, flows weakly. Can you feel it?¡± Zhuding touched the same spot on his own body near his stomach. He closed his eyes, listened to the thunderous water below. He sat there for a time, trying to feel the spirit that supposedly rested there. Longer and longer he waited, growing more and more frustrated each time. Could this old blacksmith be playing a joke on him? Yet, he had brought him to this strange place ¨C an impossibility, or so he thought. No, he must be telling the truth, and Zhuding was just incompetent! A spike of anger ran through him, and tuned as he was, he felt a jolt he couldn¡¯t describe. He realized what he had felt, and cried out, ¡°I felt it! I felt it!¡± ¡°Good,¡± said Hedao, ¡°then you are one of the lucky few. Not many people can sense their spirit ¨C a deficiency that makes cultivating nearly impossible. If you could sense it with so little instruction, you may have an aptitude for this.¡± He smiled. He actually smiled. Zhuding shivered a bit internally. ¡°The next step,¡± continued Hedao, ¡°you might have a bit more trouble with. You must let go ¨C let go of everything. Let go as completely as you did the first time I attacked you.¡± Zhuding froze. He had nearly forgotten that day, months ago, when he thought Hedao was about to kill him. He tried to remember that feeling of helplessness, of impotence, and flinched. ¡°I can¡¯t do that. I can¡¯t.¡± Hedao frowned. ¡°You must. Your spirit will not flow if you cling to life like a scared insect. You must give it up completely, and only then will you be free to shape it, just as the land is only free to shape the river once it gives way.¡± Zhuding frowned, but tried to do as Hedao asked. He closed his eyes, thought of the knife pointed to his neck, the realization that his life had been insignificant, pointless, joyless. He felt the emptiness of his life reach up, reach around, creep in, consume him ¨C Zhuding sprang up, panting. ¡°You¡¯re insane. I can¡¯t do this. This is pointless.¡± He looked around at the waterfalls surrounding him, looked up at the sky reduced to a pinprick. ¡°Where the hell is this, anyway? Take me back. I¡¯ll find another way.¡± The stone pillar beneath them was smaller than he had realized. He looked down ¨C quite a drop. He began to feel dizzy. Hedao bowed his head, shook it slightly. ¡°I asked for your word. You said you were ready to walk this path.¡± ¡°Well, you¡¯re asking something of me that I can¡¯t give. That¡¯s not my fault. Take me back.¡± Hedao stood, robes dampened by the mist. ¡°There is one way I can think of to make you let go. I hope you have it in you. I trust that you can.¡± He slowly walked towards Zhuding. Zhuding took a step back, stumbled as his heels met the edge of the pillar. He looked back at the drop below, and then towards Hedao. ¡°What are you doing? Stop it. Take me out of this place!¡± Hedao shoved him over the drop and grabbed his shirt. Zhuding felt a panic like no other come over him. Ice ran through his veins, sweat breaking out over his forehead. ¡°Hedao! What the hell are you doing?!¡± he screamed. He was dangling over the edge, heels gripping the edge, arms flailing, only held up by his shirt balled up in Hedao¡¯s fist. Hedao leaned in towards him and spoke in a low voice. ¡°You can. I¡¯ve seen you do it. Just let. Go.¡± And he let go. 2 - Harsh Lesson The wind whipped around Zhuding as he fell, the waterfall¡¯s spray stinging his face. He looked up at the ledge above, at the quickly shrinking Hedao peering down at him. Zhuding was quickly picking up speed, flipping head over heels. Icy panic began to grip his chest. He hadn¡¯t expected that Hedao would try to murder him. Looking back, maybe he should have. Hedao had told him to let go, and so he had. He was quickly regretting that decision. In that moment, Zhuding experienced a strange contradiction: he fell impossibly quickly, yet the shallow pool beneath him rushed up towards him at a crawl. His mind raced, looking for a way out, distancing itself from the knowledge that there was none. Try as he might, he knew he was facing death. The tightness in his chest became a dagger as it settled in. He was going to die. This couldn¡¯t be all he had lived for. Years and years of monotonous, mindless labor, of a cruel and berating father, of a greedy lord who exploited his people instead of leading them. He had finally found a way out, then the one who gave it to him took it away just as quickly. He was going to die, and he was never once free. As he fell, acknowledged that this was the end, the world around him slowed, came into focus. The water spray all around him hung in the air, undulating droplets refracting the light, making the air itself seem to glow. The waterfalls walling in the stone pillar shone with the reflected light from the sun above, casting complex shadows onto the clear, shallow pool below him. That sheet of stone and water would come up to meet him in only a few seconds now, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. He was going to die, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Strangely, this realization brought comfort. The icy dagger of panic in his chest eased and evaporated as he accepted his fate. He wasn¡¯t happy with how his life had turned out, but it wasn¡¯t up to him. The decisions he had made couldn¡¯t be changed any more than the water flowing down into the pool could be sent back up. The past was in the past, and the future was now out of his hands. As he relaxed and prepared to meet the end, he closed his eyes and felt his spirit as Hedao had showed him just minutes ago. He focused on his dantian, the deep pool where his spirit rested. His clinging to life lessened and lessened as the desire to live became more and more insignificant. Retreating from life, his mind rested in that pool of spirit ¨C calm, warm, vital. In that moment, he understood what Hedao had truly meant when he had told him to let go. He hadn¡¯t wanted Zhuding to let himself fall ¨C he had wanted him to release control at the most primal, foundational level. With that thought, the last threads of Zhuding¡¯s connection to life evaporated. As though a dam burst, the calm, warm pool of spirit in Zhuding¡¯s dantian suddenly exploded out, radiating to every inch of his body. It was a torrent, a whitewater rapid, a current so fast it threatened to sweep him under. Rivers of fire and ice boiled his blood and froze his bones, a hail of needles pricking his skin, life and death swirling, immiscible, flowing through him. It was as terrible as it was beautiful. Zhuding convulsed, time regaining its meaning, the shallow pool below rushing up with a renewed urgency. The misty waterfall spray swirled around him, mirroring the circulating torrent within him. Life was so beautiful, so sweet. He twisted in the air, feet meeting the water¡¯s surface with a boom, the wave creating a circle of damp stone that Zhuding landed on with a crunch of bones breaking. Zhuding cried out, not knowing if it was in surprise at surviving or at the searing pain of his broken legs complementing the flood of spirit. He collapsed faceup, water rushing back into place. He looked up at the ledge far above as the shallow water covered his chest and legs, Hedao no longer visible peering down at him. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it Abruptly, the river within him felt wrong. With the danger past, having such a powerful force within himself out of his control was deeply troubling. He attempted to clamp down on it, to take control, but as soon as he attempted to direct its flow, the flood drained to a trickle. The sudden lack of spirit left him feeling drained, empty. Careful of disturbing his legs, he carefully, wearily sat up in the pool, looking around him. He was in a damp cavern, the majority of the water from the falls flowing out to unseen aquifers. The massive stone pillar, smooth sides worn away by the centuries of water flowing over it, towered in front of him. The cavern was lush, if dim, with ferns and mosses coating every surface not flooded. The curtains of water formed an arc, nearly a full circle, around him. The part in the veil of water revealed a cozy niche in the cavern, coated in moss, where someone had brought modest furniture. A small stone table was flanked by two wooden stools, upon one of which Hedao sat sipping from a teacup. ¡°Very nearly impressive, Zhuding.¡± Hedao remarked, resting the cup on the table. ¡°You were able to release it for a moment, at least. You could have kept it, had you not seized back control like a scared animal.¡± Zhuding stared at him blankly for a moment. This man was insane. ¡°What the fuck was that?¡± he asked bluntly. ¡°I could have died. Hell, I very nearly did die! And my legs are shattered as it is!¡± he breathed in sharply, remembering the pain in his legs. They throbbed, white-hot and sharp. ¡°It¡¯s over for me. I can¡¯t work like this. My mother is going to be thrown out and starve.¡± ¡°Cease your whining.¡± Hedao cut him off sharply. ¡°Those wounds you can easily heal in just a few days. Besides that, you were never in any danger of dying. No one can cling so strongly to life until the very last moment.¡± Hedao eyed him searchingly. ¡°Though you did come surprisingly close.¡± Zhuding opened his mouth to bite back, then closed it, smoldering. Days, he said. He would be down here for days. Surely, he wouldn¡¯t be missed in the fields, where every farmer¡¯s contribution was closely monitored by that the haughty noble son. And heal a broken leg, two, in only a few days? It was impossible. He looked up at the strange ¡®blacksmith¡¯. He thought he was his friend ¨C then that ¡®friend¡¯ threw him off of a cliff. He couldn¡¯t trust him anymore ¨C but he would submit to this man for a time, sadistic as he was, if it got him out of here. Hedao met his gaze with an amused smile and glittering eyes. He picked up his cup and took another sip. ¡°Broken legs and lost control aside, you did reasonably well for your first time. There was no way you could have done perfectly ¨C you lack experience handling your spirit ¨C but you will learn, in time. Your physical strength has improved enough that you can begin learning to cultivate.¡± He gestured at Zhuding¡¯s legs, smiled mischievously. ¡°And your¡­ impairment¡­ presents a good opportunity for your first lesson. You must push the spirit from your dantian towards your legs, circulate it, nourish the body with spirit.¡± He took out a pipe, stuffed it, and tapped the stem on his forehead before lighting it with a flint. ¡°This requires a strong connection between your body and mind. The stronger this connection, the easier it will be for you to control the spirit¡¯s flow. I recommend you take much care to develop that link before attempting to move forward ¨C you¡¯ll spare yourself much pain. The more nourishment your legs receive, the faster they will mend.¡± He blew a smoke ring, admired the falls, and stood. ¡°I¡¯ll be waiting for your return. Good luck.¡± Zhuding gaped, cold surprise washing over him. ¡°Wait, you¡¯re leaving me here? I can¡¯t move, I¡¯ll starve down here! How can you just leave?¡± But Hedao ignored him, and began to disappear behind the falls. ¡°Hedao! Please! You can¡¯t leave me here!¡± Zhuding cried. But Hedao was already gone. There Zhuding sat, alone in a pool, crippled. Trapped. Epiphany Pain. Searing through his legs, white hot. Pain, a deafening drum, throbbing in time with the surges of molten steel in his limbs. He laid there in that pool, afraid to move and invite more pain. Like a river of lightning, it surged through him, the rush of adrenaline no longer enough to stave it off. Sometimes he laughed, the pain too absurd to be real. Sometimes he cried, unable to cope. But most of the time, he stared up at the falls, white hot rage gripping his chest so tightly that he shook as he drew breath. As the sky overhead bled to blue then to black and the light failed, Zhuding fought. Though he laid immobile, his entire effort was focused on resisting the pain that threatened to swallow him. There were no thoughts; only the feral, vicious fight of a man who knew that he was going to die. The river of molten steel inside him had a tide that rushed up, threatened to consume him, then retreated, reserved as it waited to go in again. Each time it engulfed him, trying to take his mind, he resisted. Staying afloat, not letting himself be consumed by the pain, he held on to control. There was no way to tell for certain how long Zhuding laid there. The pain was so acute and his focus so intense that he couldn¡¯t think, much less pay attention to anything else. It could have been the few hours till nightfall, or it could have been days. The only evidence of his time spent in the pool was the pruning of his waterlogged skin and the hunger that gnawed at his stomach. After some time, though, he found that it got easier. The pain hadn¡¯t dulled, and the tide hadn¡¯t lessened, but he found it took a little less effort to hold on. He moved his arms, sat up slightly in the pool. His head ached. His clothes were soaked. He was freezing. He realized that he was shivering violently, his teeth chattering. He needed to get out of the water ¨C looking around, he saw that the lip of the pool wasn¡¯t far. Drawing in a sharp breath through his clenched jaw, he braced himself and flipped onto his stomach. The lightning that filled his vision, the fire that shot through him from head to toe, nearly knocked him out where he laid. But holding on had gotten easier with the practice, and his grip didn¡¯t fail. He braced, took a breath, and drug himself by his arms to the edge of the pool. Slowly he moved towards it, and eventually gripped the damp stone, heaving himself up. Sweet warmth seeped into him from the damp stone, the contrast accenting his bone-deep cold. He shook, hugging himself. In that moment, he reflexively retreated from the world, withdrawing into his mind. The tides of pain were still there, rushing in, trying to drag him down. He stayed afloat without thinking, now, riding the pain, allowing it to carry him. He rested in it, the oppressive heat almost a friend, now. He couldn¡¯t think, but at least he could feel. He sensed again his dantian, that reservoir of spirit Hedao had revealed to him. He couldn¡¯t sense the spirit, not exactly ¨C it was unclear, formless, as though he was on a riverbank, peering down at the waters through thick fog. But like the water in the river, he could tell it was there ¨C could tell it was churning, frothing, vying to escape. The tides of molten steel seemed to intensify as he focused, its attempts to consume him redoubling. He felt he was about to go under ¨C and he didn¡¯t like his chances of coming back up. Panic gripped him. Clinging to consciousness, he pushed his mind against the pain, groaning under the effort. Slowly, he forced a small space for his mind to rest¨C a sanctuary from the pain, a place where he could think again. While expending this effort, carving out this space inch by inch, a small stream of spirit left his dantian. It was pleasant, warm and refreshing instead of searing and bitter like torrent during his fall. He felt it suffuse his body, circulating slowly, erasing pain in its wake like ocean waves smoothing the beach. He let out an involuntary gasp of intense relief as the searing and stabbing pain of molten steel in his broken legs began to ebb. The stream of spirit wasn¡¯t clear to Zhuding¡¯s senses, but he could tell that it wasn¡¯t a tenth as intense as his fall had been. Despite that, it was still taking all of his concentration and focus to continue the flow, to keep the pain away, to maintain his concentration. A dull ache in his temple began to form as he held. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. He took stock of his surroundings, looking around the dim cavern. It was night, and the only light came from the shaft of moonlight far above. Hedao¡¯s furniture behind him still stood, damp from the constant mist. He felt a bit silly ¨C it wasn¡¯t as though he¡¯d expected it to change. Looking down at his legs, he cringed. They were mangled, broken in multiple places. He might have thrown up if he had anything in his stomach. Luckily the skin hadn¡¯t broken, or he might have bled out ¨C who knows how many hours he¡¯d been laying there. Blessing the wall he had made against the pain, he dragged himself backwards to the cavern wall and leaned back, closing his eyes, still shivering uncontrollably. He began to fall asleep, consciousness slipping, but as soon as he began to nod off, the pain flooded back in as the stream died and his mental shelter failed, shocking him awake again. Against his best efforts to stay awake, his exhaustion kept pulling him down, and this repeated several times until daylight began to light the cavern. The ache in his temple had become a throb by now, the hours of mental effort taking their toll. However, to his surprise, he found that the pain was slightly less intense each time he slipped and let it in. The only explanation for that would be that his legs were healing, and at a startling rate. He noted the cool warmth of the spirit flowing within him. He could only assume that it was the cause of the healing. He sat there some hours more, fighting to stay awake, suffering the stabbing in his temple that the shield did not touch. His hunger grew, slowly, but consistently. As the sun set on that day, he started to feel a different, more dangerous exhaustion. He felt himself beginning to starve. The twilight bathed the pool below the waterfalls in a warm, golden light that filled the cavern. He let out a breathy laugh ¨C such a beautiful place for his miserable situation He made a decision. As fast as his legs were healing, it wasn¡¯t fast enough. He would starve down here. He had to find a way out. Summoning all of his willpower, he pushed off of the stone wall behind him and began to drag himself around the rim of the cavern. Hedao had walked behind the curtain of water ¨C perhaps there was a way out over there. The shelter in his mind shook at the abuse he put his legs through. Some of the more intense stabs made it through, making him grunt. But still he made his way forward, slowly but surely. As he rounded the corner Hedao had turned, he was met with a blank stone wall intricately carved with a mess of lines and symbols. He gaped, confused, but then remembered how he had gotten here in the first place. He had been standing in their normal training spot near the cliff, then Hedao had took his shoulder, and next thing he knew, he was in this strange cavern. Hedao must not need a direct route out of the cavern. Dread setting in, he spent a while exploring the rest of the cavern, even submitting himself to the cold pool again, combing for any exit. Fruitless hours later, though, he had to admit to himself: there was no way out. Helplessness overcame him, and his shelter shattered. He cried out at the pain that rushed into his mind, the abuse he had put his already-broken limbs through assaulting him. The stabbing in his temple mixed with it, accentuated it, deepened it, became a screech in his mind. He couldn¡¯t hear himself scream as he grabbed his head, willing the pain to stop even as his heart telling him that he could not. Once again, there were no thoughts. There was only the pain and his senses. It suffused him, circulated in him, reminiscent of the spirit¡¯s current before. It came from his legs, but it touched every part of his being, every nerve, every bone. It became a connection between him and his body, one stronger, deeper than he had ever felt before. The pain had him suffer, but it also revealed facets of the relationship between his self and his body that he had never known. The pain was a guide, a mentor that guided him through each part of himself. The pain touched his arm, and he knew it as though he had not known it before. It touched his torso, and he understood its construction as if he hadn¡¯t ever used it before. It touched his dantian, and he knew it so intimately that he knew he had known nothing before. He writhed on the floor, legs useless before him, and he smiled for the gift of knowledge he had been given. It clicked. He didn¡¯t reach out with his mind, squeezing his dantian for spirit as if he was husking a sheath of grain. He reached through his body, intimate, deft in his control, and drew the spirit out of his dantian like honey from a jar, graceful. It came easily, and he ran it through his body with a marvelous control and clarity. It wasn¡¯t a conscious process, but one of the body. He didn¡¯t see the spirit with his mind; he sensed it with his body. The riverbound fog had lifted, and he peered through the crystal waters. He could feel the pain abate rapidly; not in the forced, artificial way of his shelter, but naturally through the mending of his legs. It was almost as though they knit themselves together; they soaked up the spirit like the dry desert ground lapped up water. For the final time, to Zhuding, time had no meaning. This time, however, it wasn¡¯t an eternity of suffering, but instead a rapture, an epiphany. It was daylight when Zhuding came to his senses. He stood up, legs as good as they ever were, body feeling unusual. It was an awareness that hadn¡¯t been present before; an understanding of where and how and why every small part of him was. He felt renewed, despite the intense hunger gnawing at his stomach. He walked into the pool beneath the enormous pillar, surrounded by the curtains of water, looked up at the sun above. It was almost noon. He¡¯d get out of here. He knew he could. It was a fact. And then he¡¯d have some words with Hedao. The two of them needed to talk.