379 - Phantom Winds of Fate Pt. 2 [Sturmblitz]

Zefaris saw them first, from where she was — the lookouts in the spire. There came no cry of warning, but she knew that they had seen her, as the sounds of exertion fell as silent as the grave, and the gate swung open. Within, the sect’s disciples had lined up, facing outward in preparation to defend their sect. A middle-aged Ikesian man, covered in scars and exuding a razor-like aura, leapt down from the spire’s second-lowest balcony, gliding through the air as if he weighed less than a feather. He landed right at the gate’s precipice, staring at Zefaris with an arrogant sense of derision in his eyes. He wore a meticulously-groomed mustache, and a monocle was seated inside the starburst-scarred, scorched pit of his left eye. He wore the colors of the Black Horse Sect, and bore their crest upon his breast, but otherwise his clothing was luxurious in the extreme, plainly speaking of his noble roots.

“I cannot guess as to how you learned of our branch, Reaper’s Bride, but now that you are here, you will not be leaving. To think that abomination was foolish enough to think some jumped-up barracks bunny would be a sufficient challenger…” he uttered, and just by his accent, she instantly knew him to be of high birth. That he was here, at a remote, small sect branch, spoke volumes to why he had that attitude about him. She could almost see him tipping over from the gigantic chip resting on his shoulder.

At that moment, a battle took place inside her head. One voice wanted to play along, see what happened, and try to de-escalate if possible. This could, plausibly, be a misunderstanding. These people might just be on-edge, having been fed incorrect or exaggerated information about the Newman Sect and its elders.

A second voice wanted to exterminate this branch sect altogether, to tear it out by the roots, or at bare minimum to kill that arrogant sack of shit where he stood.

Barely, Zefaris subdued the second voice. Barely. She got off the blitzgandr, and hoarfrost sprung forth wherever she stepped.

“If I may be so bold, who exactly are you? My intel is not perfect, as you surely understand,” she said, laying on the politeness so thick that one would be a fool to not expect a gun behind her words.

The presumable sect elder’s eyebrow twitched at the lack of recognition. “I am Sir Leopold Ritter Branstein the Third, and you shall address me as such.”

Zefaris nodded. “Then, Leopold, let us say that, possibly, I happened upon your branch sect by pure coincidence. That, perhaps, I was on my way through Stillwind on a journey to seek out some rare cultivation resource. Let us say that, in this purely theoretical scenario, I had no hostile intentions whatsoever. What, then, would be your course of action? I advise you to tread wisely, sect elder. Regardless of the Root Branch thinks, of what they have attempted against our Founder, our sects do not have a feud. I do not expect that your superiors would want you to start anything prematurely.”

As she spoke, Leopold’s anger visibly grew, and the more it did, the more of his aura he released. Zefaris did no more or less than release an equal amount of her own aura to match, and before long, the ambient temperature had dropped below zero. A scant few townsfolk had been attracted, observing from afar, and both they and the lower members of the Stillwind Branch could sense the two elders clashing. It was as if an invisible sword, so thin as to almost be two-dimensional, was descending towards the head of Zefaris, only to freeze mid-descent. Some would even say they could plainly see the sword of aura pressure, gripped by a ghostly, skeletal hand. One thing could not be denied: As the clash went on, the Stillwind Branch’s members grew increasingly less eager to face down the intruder. To most of them, Leopold was a higher sort of existence, and to all but the higher-ranking disciples, he was the peak of cultivation as they understood it. They knew that stronger cultivators existed, but many of them had never seen one, and even if they had, it was for vanishingly short periods of time and from afar.

“I would challenge you to exchange pointers, for even without a feud, we are from rival sects, and you have arrived to our territory. Such has ever been tradition between the Black Horses and the Sangers, and even rival branches within our greater sect. Are you familiar with the rules of Black Horse Family Hard Sparring?” he asked, clearly expecting a “no”.

“Weapons, armor, techniques, and magic are permitted, so long as they are not intended to cause lingering damage or to harm the opponent’s cultivation. Whomever concedes or becomes unable to fight first loses. The question is, why would I bother? You’ve made it abundantly clear that you think of myself and of the Newman Sect as less than dirt. There is no face in it. If I win, and you happen to be graceful in defeat, I will gain the respect of one elder at a glorified forward outpost, set up with little care or investment, just to be there when the Root Branch decides to make a move on our territory. I doubt you have anything to bet that I would value.”

“You propose a bet of actions, then,” Leopold hissed through gritted teeth.

Zefaris nodded, listing out her demands: “If I win, you leave. Pack up and go somewhere else, outside the Newman Sect’s territory. You know its boundaries, and you know that your branch resides within them. I will give you time to carry out such a relocation, but until that time comes, you are not to initiate contact with any other Black Horse branch in any manner, including responding to remote communications.”

“Very well. Should I emerge victorious, you shall travel with me to the capital and become a hostage. I shall be so graceful as to send news of your incarceration to the Newman Sect, of course,” Leopold countered, smugness and ill intent dripping from each word.

“I accept, on the condition that we fight here and now. No delays, no set day-of. No time for cloak-and-dagger.”