Book One, Chapter 23 - Like What’s Up Danger

Another one down! If I can maintain 2-3 a day... wish me luck. Also! On editor's recommendation- no new chapters until I'm done with ALL of the ones I need to edit. I am marking down locations where new chapters might fit and what I might want them to have, but I'm gonna try my best to just sprint through. Again- wish me luck. Or well. Or just wish that I don't explode! All are welcome!

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Pride is the downfall of many a cultivator. Distancing yourself from mortality requires one to assume that they are worthy of doing so in the first place. When being, to some degree at least, disconnected from reality and its rules and norms, one must make sure to be in balance with oneself and the world, even as you seek to surpass both. Otherwise, in the process of changing, one might forget the fact that they are not, in fact, all-powerful, or, for that matter, all-knowing. There is always something you will not see coming, and there is always something stronger than you in some way. Accept that. Reject it, as you must, lest you lose your way on the Path, but always remember it, and account for it. Otherwise, like many such young masters before you, you will find yourself unpleasantly surprised.

-Lesson from Elder Ren on the nature of cultivation, Purple Flame Burning Lotus Sect, Outer Disciple seminar. 

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“And what is this filth doing here?” Asks one of the most grating voices Raika has ever heard.

She doesn’t pay it any mind, except to notice it and chuckle to herself. Humming slightly, she just continues washing the dishes, letting the warm water flow over the bowls and cups she’s rinsing. Honestly, it’s surprisingly satisfying; the act of cleaning is nice, even if it is tedious, and she likes the smell of the soap and water, especially since it blocks out a lot of the casual scents of the dozens of cultivators walking around everywhere, and the way it makes her weirdly hungry. She usually doesn’t get any assignments as a servant, and isn’t on any specific rotation, but this is one of those times that she’s been placed somewhere out of the way.

 It’s also the sort of activity she’d never be doing if she was still a cultivator, and honestly, she thinks that she might keep at it as she gets stronger. It’s surprisingly fulfilling, completing simple tasks, little things to change one’s environment. Consistent work, in spite of how it aches at her joints and pulls at her scars, has helped her get comfortable with the idea that paying attention to the details like this has merit and pleasure both, even if only in tiny doses.

She keeps humming, a bit tuneless, as she washes, her stumpy arm balancing plates she needs to dry and pushing new ones into the sink as needed, when the smell of slightly burnt apples, low-burning embers and musty wood hit her all at once in a wave.

She sneezes, hard, shaking her head to get used to it fast and turning to find out what the hell caused such a wave of Qi.

“Yes, you!” roars the most grating, weirdly nasal voice she’s ever heard, like its owner has a persistent stuffy nose and has decided to make it everyone else’s problem. She does notice it doesn’t look right, like maybe someone broke his nose and it didn’t heal back properly-

“Don’t just stand there staring at me!” he yells as he stands at the doorway to the kitchen, glaring daggers at her, his face run through with an old scar framed by bright yellow hair and dark purple eyes., like he’s been working out and didn’t towel off. “Get out of this kitchen, come here, and fucking apologize,” he snarls.

She tilts her head. Considers spitting at him. Decides to record his face and appearance for future retribution, and then gives him a bow, making sure to bend low for it. “My apologies to senior disciple,” she says. “Whatever has caused you trouble, I can only assure you that this one meant no offense, and will ensure it does not happen again, if you will only inform this one of the issue.”

Nice. Good and proper, no jokes. Ignore the way it screams in the back of her head and has her wanting to risk it all to dig her remaining thumb in his eye. Maybe he’s just having a really bad day and wants to take it out on someone weaker than him- that’s pretty normal around the sect, and sort of expected, even. She can take it.

She’s powerless right now. She needs power to make changes. To be free. To be herself again. She’s had only a taste of it. She can come back for him.

“Your presence is an insult!” The cultivator snarls, that same cloying smell flooding into the room as he flexes metaphorical muscles she can’t really feel. “I come back from a mission for the sect and just want to settle down for a good meal, only to find my food has been tainted by this thing in the kitchen!” He spits on the floor once he’s done, a big blend of violent aggression and stupid posturing.

“I assure you, senior disciple, this one has no talent for preparing food, and has not touched anything that may have been placed before you.”

“The mere presence of a thing like you in the kitchen is no better than a soiled pig,” he snarls. “Who would eat from such a spoiled pot! You!” (at this he points to the nearest cook)- “You’re already stained by this thing, drag it outside. I won’t have it sully this place any longer!”

Raika gives the cook, who seems to have frozen in terror, a look to get their attention, and then a very mild shrug. She wipes her wet hand off on her robe, lets her sleeve roll down on her stump, and stands up, waiting to be escorted out. The cook doesn’t move at first, even as the cultivator sends another wave of Qi through the space (which actually might be the reason the whole kitchen is so still, terror and pressure keeping them immobile), but Raika coughs, quietly, and meets their gaze. Trying not to move, she gestures with her eyes.

The cultivator’s a shithead, but if he doesn’t want food with her in the kitchen, then she can just leave. Better he focuses on her than on them. He has the rank and the power to make those demands, and she doesn’t really care, especially if it means making less trouble for people who had nothing to do with it. Whoever this guy is is being insanely rude for no good reason, he technically doesn’t need one, and she’ll just make him pay when she’s stronger.

The rest doesn’t matter yet.

Then she notices his hand on his sword, and how he’s drawn it, ever so slightly, out of the scabbard.

“By this place,” Raika asks, pulling his focus back to her, “does the honored Outer Disciple mean this kitchen, with its hard working servants of the Purple Flame Burning Lotus sect? I shall gladly depart, so as to not disturb the work of this fine establishment.”

He looks at her, incredulous that she’s still speaking. “You dare?” he asks. “You will speak if addressed and not a moment before, cripple. Step outside, that I may remove you from the honor of the sect whose robes you so clearly stain!”

…

Yeah. Ok. 

She’s gonna put her thumb in his eye.

She bows, picking up her cane and making a show of limping forward, letting him step behind her as he marches her out the front door, in front of the eyes of literally dozens of sect disciples, cultivators and servants alike. His Qi saturates the air with its scent, not letting up for a moment and causing clear distress to any of the nearby servants, with most cultivators making a face at his antics. Helps her get a measure; well above Qi-Gathering realm, but not at the top of Foundation yet. 

The Qi-Gathering realm and Foundational realm may only be one stop apart in the heights of cultivation, but they’re leagues apart in truth. Being in the Qi-Gathering realm means having more Qi than your body uses, and increasing that amount until you have enough of it to start altering your body and deepening your spiritual organs. Having special resources, like natural treasures and higher concepts, can give an advantage, but ultimately, the Qi-Gathering realm only allows for a certain amount of power, and always in shorter bursts. 

The Foundational realm, on the other hand, means being able to use Qi. Wield it outside one’s flesh, have special effects inside your body, mind and spirit, and shape more complex techniques. It’s a profound leap in depth.

She is, currently, the same as a regular adult, if violently physically disabled and incapable of the boosts of speed, strength and ability that the Qi-Gathering realm can bring.

Inner disciples tend to be only Core Formation realm or above, so he’s not top tier in the sect or in the outer areas, but not a nothing, either. She can smell him, but the nuances of the scent and its intensity are hard to gauge, especially with him waving his Qi around like he is.

No one steps up or stands in the way as she’s marched out into the street. She doesn’t look around to see their faces; better not to be disappointed, and she isn’t expecting much… and it would hurt, a bit.

The street outside is nice enough. Like nearly every walkway and path in the sect, it’s cobbled with flat-topped stones, highlighting the open field before the wall of buildings that she’s emerging from. Though night has not yet fallen, lanterns have already been lit, outlining the path in bright yellow and purple fires and highlighting the oncoming sunset beautifully. Add in the grass swaying picturesquely and sect disciples enjoying the weather, walking by in small groups, or eating at the tables outside, the whole view is fairly idyllic. She takes a moment, breathing it all in, pausing to take in the sight.

She fucking hates it.

She stumbles a bit as the bastard cultivator jabs her in the back with the pommel of his blade, grunting as he does it, like she’s not worth words. Just that little jab is enough to throw her forward several feet, and she has to compensate with her cane and newfound body-awareness to not fall on her face.

Ah, yeah. That. She really is tending to focus on the details more nowadays.

She keeps walking, stepping over the pathway to the grass on the far side, facing the “restaurant” behind her. It’s one of dozens of similar establishments, places where cultivators can meet and eat outside of main mess halls or their residential buildings and the pavilions. He approaches her, his frame lit by the lanterns of the wall of buildings behind him, the wind running through the grass of the field around her cold against her feverish skin.

 He goes to say something, maybe to complain about having to take five steps further or at her for daring to take initiative and step past the path, but-

“This lowly one would hate to stain the sect’s stones,” she says, voice low and quiet, posture relaxed, still watching the beginnings of the dusk. “If the honored cultivator would allow, this one would rather die on the grass if she must.”

He doesn’t refute her. It was basically confirmed, but she was being generous, one last off-ramp for him to scoff and say he wouldn’t sully his blade with her blood or that she need only get out of his sight or something. All would be decent reactions, and she might only break some of his bones or sneak some horse shit into his pillow before she leaves (and she is, one day, going to leave), but she could’ve lived with that. Instead, he just leers at her, taking an opportunity to keep fucking talking.

“It’s good that you know your place so well!” he crows. “Had you known it before you tainted this one’s meal, I might even have allowed you to live, so long as you left and ceased sullying the sect with your presence. As it is, this honored one will extend you the greater honor of tasting his blade while he cleanses you from this holy place!”

She can’t help it. She rolls her eyes.

His eyes widen, and then his cheeks redden. “Impudence!” he roars, clearly mimicking some other, better cultivator’s lines. He unsheathes his blade, and for a moment, as he raises it, it catches the light of the sun behind her.

For just an instant, she just appreciates the sight. A glinting blade of purest red and gold light, framed by the oncoming dark blue and night of the sky, treetops waving in frame behind it.

It’s familiar. None of this is strange. She’s seen servants die before. Never killed one herself, but the Hungering Roots sect was no stranger to slights and retributions. She’s killed in honor duels, killed because she was ordered to, failed to stop deaths right in front of her that may or may not have been justified.

It’s ironic, looking at it from the other side. She feels almost peaceful. Weeks of getting used to things here, of flying under the radar, and it’s the same sort of attitude she’s familiar with, that crippled her in the first place, that comes back to hurt her again.

If she were stronger, she could be above it. If she were more, she could do more.

Then she realizes that, oh shit, she should probably focus, and the smell of burnt apple-crisp and embers in musty wood assaults her nose, and she takes one step to the left as she sneezes.

The step to the left was intentional, but the sneeze made it look like an accident, which is even better. The blade slides past her, cutting a few inches into the earth and charring the dirt, letting loose more smoke from the cut. He blinks, face comical as he tries to figure out what just happened, why she isn’t severed down the middle before him, and she can’t help but giggle.

She’s not usually much of a giggler, but sometimes it’s just the best thing you can do in a given moment, and it can be very fun.

She’s tired. Her heartbeat and her skin and her bones all scream at her that they exist.

He whirls, eyes wide and teeth grit in a snarl. One thing to fail, another to be laughed at, and yet another to be laughed at by her, and he takes the sheer, overwhelming anger of that moment to try and cut her at the waist with a backswing that wildly overextends.

By the time he’s done telegraphing the swing, she’s already taken half a step back out of range.

It’s actually crazy easy. Like, she expected to have to go at this guy like an animal to get anything done, but whether it’s lacking cultivation or lacking a good foundation in a more literal sense, he’s just… way too easy. Waaaaay too easy. 

No possible way she could have moved like this before her most recent changes, of course, but still! She uses as much force as is required, pulling no more or less than required due to her hyperawareness. He comes at her with no technique, no style, just stunned at the fact that he hasn’t hit her already. Blind stupefaction that he hasn’t hit her already and the broadest, least efficient sword swings she’s ever seen come from the cultivator, his eyes getting wider with shock as he marvels at the impossible. If not for the fact that he isn’t really trying yet, it would be embarrassing, and that’s in comparison to watching JiaJia practice in an alleyway with a stick.

She dodges once, twice more, then three times, and he gives another roar of frustration. His Qi-scent redoubles, seeming to come off more and more as he pauses to actually enter a stance to swing from. She sees the sword metal start to glow a bit, hints of orange flames gathering around its blade as he moves. Finally, five swings in, she steps back out of range again and smells singed cloth anyways as a hint of the cut travels just past the tip of the sword.

Alright then. No more fucking around. Before he starts to take her seriously, she needs to end this.

She refuses to die.

Her tooth aches.

The next time he swings at her, he actually seems to take a breath, realizing how ridiculous this must look to others (and it would seem that quite a crowd has started forming, streaming out of the “restaurant” to congregate on the road). In that moment, he stops, gripping his sword in a quick-draw pose, and takes two steps forward to perform a definitive strike, one he’s actually put some thought into.

Raika briefly wonders if this guy has ever been in a real fight before, and no, the dregs of whatever creatures and spirit beasts in his local woodland get through the perimeter around the city don’t count. He’s…

Fuck. He’s young. Maybe only just older than JiaJia.

Before the swing comes up she steps into his space, getting him to instinctively flinch and hesitate. Before he can recover she jabs his back foot with her cane, just enough to mess with his stance as he tries to move, and then lets go of it, using the improved control of her body to drop it onto his wrist so it hangs there. He blinks, weaving his Qi into a new shape, its scent rising-

She headbutts him.

The guy is an arrogant idiot, someone with more pride and desperate need for acceptance than common sense, and he’s clearly not on the high end of the outer disciples of the sect anyways. Hell, he might genuinely be a newbie, fresh off the boat enough that he was desperate to make an impression and so full of preconceived notions he figured her for a good mark. Maybe he’s just a fucked up little bastard who’s going with what he’s learned from this place.

But! He’s a cultivator, even if “only” in the Foundational stage. His senses, his speed, his strength, all outpace Raika severely, and if he was using proper forms or thinking properly, he could probably beat her out on control purely by brute forcing with fast reflexes and senses.

But, in her time fighting, Raika has discovered that almost nobody expects the headbutt. And, conveniently, cartilage strengthening is the thing most newbie cultivators tend to neglect if they’re not guided well. So it is that she shatters the ugly fuckers’ nose, reinforcing that nasal tone now and forevermore.

He flinches back, blood gushing from his nose hard enough that he gives a very unprofessional little yell of pain. She can already feel the bruise forming on her forehead, obviously, but plenty of practice with Dink has only improved her (heh) hardheadedness, so she doesn’t let up, and steps right back into his face again. 

His free hand shoots out, a backhand slap to try and push her away, and she leans her body back just enough that it whiffs before coming in and headbutting him a second time, a fresh gout of blood splashing her robes as much as his. He squeals this time, and she can’t help but smile at the noise. Then, overlaid on the blood, she smells burnt apples again, and he takes three steps back, each step empowered and sending him maybe ten feet back, easily.

She stands there, servant’s robes stained in his blood, empty sleeve flapping on the breeze and one leg slightly off-angle, using everything she has to keep control of her new senses and her new form. The worst thing he could’ve done was run back, and he wised up and did exactly that, instinct or no.

“You DARE!” He howls, the broken noise making it come out kind of warbled. “I’ll kill you!”

She just raises her right arm, into a sort of shrug, sort of openhanded gesture; the universal sign for “go ahead and try”.

He roars, his scent flooding their makeshift grass arena, and steps forward so fast she can barely see him move, flooding his body with Qi. He shatters her cane as an afterthought, his hand swinging fast enough to turn it to splinters and swinging from overhead in actually decent form the instant he’s in range. The blade glows, the stance is right, and a cut that feels weighted with Qi comes at her in a wave of beautiful flame and sharpened space.

She leans forward and lets go. Her center of gravity drops as she falls forward, just ahead of the cut, like she’s falling before it. She feels the heat burning her, freshly regrown buzzcut crisping to the scent of burnt hair, robes singing rapidly-

And then, with her low posture, she steps forward, feeling the cut graze against her right leg and calf, adding another scar to the collection, and goes for ol’ reliable.

Ol’ reliable, of course, is a thumb to the eye.

She pushes her good leg harder than it can handle, feeling muscles tear as she forces it to launch her forward from that running start. He’s not fast enough to react, amateurishly blinded by his own flames, and she reaches for him

He shrieks, he screams, he lets go of his sword to grab at his face, and instead of fighting him for what remains of the ocular orb, she lets go immediately, grabbing the sword as it falls and dodging the burst of blind flame he throws with his free hand. She feels her skin strain, the new scars surrounding her inner mechanisms straining, the muscles beneath it tearing as she forces them to move way faster than they’re rated for, but she grabs hold of it and yanks it from his grip as he scrabbles for it. And squeals.

And then, right side trembling from the pain of the cut, her blood staining through the burns and her robes to drip onto the grass, she puts the blade very carefully right against his throat.

She remembers being a Foundation level cultivator. She was stuck at Core Formation a long time, but she remembers it. She remembers that she was not immune to a sword at that stage.

He is frozen. She is frozen. There is a moment of shared tableau as she stands there, her trembling in exertion, him in pain, his nose broken, one eye leaking blood from its socket. She’s bursting with sweat, back and leg scored by flame and blade, and he stands there, face a ruin. She sees in his eyes that he knows what this is. 

There is a moment where he’s not a cultivator, strong enough to shatter her with one well-placed technique or capable of turning the tide the moment he gets his shit together. He’s just some guy, a decade younger than her, hurt and afraid and staring at something cold and lonely and forever.

Her tooth aches. Her stomach rumbles.

He looks like a person. 

She pulls the blade along his throat as hard as she can.

And feels her hand stopped, held perfectly immobile, as if grabbed by a stone.

“What is the meaning of this?” Asks a quiet, restrained voice.

Raika can’t help it. Before she can answer, she has already taken a breath.

The smell of incense and molten stone hits her so hard that she chokes and blacks out.