It came.

  Neither gifted as it usually was by a late evening when the children had gone to bed, which often led to the preparation of nets and crates; mending, preserving fish, or attending to the boat.

  Or granted by the [Season’s] wrath.

  In times where [Winter’s] frigid grasp spread upon the waters, or the violence of spawning creatures frenzied by [Spring] and the promise of mates or more abundant feedings grounds - during which he would tend to the stall, selling his reserves or aiding those with larger, more resilient vessels in place of his own.

  This free time.

  Empty moments, strung together in which he could do as he pleased.

  Two notes of emotion stirred from it.

  One of guilt, for while idle he did not toil towards reducing his family’s debt, and the other. The hampering, deafening absence of his loved ones, which clung to him as though it were a padded blanket.

  Thick. A pressure to clot his muscles.

  So as the Sixty Third [Spring] Brigade filled his position upon the walls, he just sat, and for long moments at that. Pensive on the week as it was shown through his [Contribution Array].

  Seven day’s worth of exchanged [Spirit Cores] and awarded Merit. The latter’s origin or method of distribution a question he barely dwelled on. He had survived, and on this morning they had appeared.

  A value of two per day, perhaps.

  “Hushi,” he said, softly. “Are we not to receive training today?”

  ??

  After a brief exchange with the leathery senior at the Contribution Exchange, Fu was directed to Green Blight Bastion’s lower courtyards. Deeper into the bowels of the mighty structure, and further yet, until they met a descending, helical staircase.

  An abyss from outer to opposite rail, or so it was revealed as he peered over the edge. Where he held back, a feeling then impressed upon him by Hushi.

  Myriad Qi types met upon the first step. Faint, and most likely not intended to be obscured from any’s [Senses]. Though there all the same. It had a flavour to it, like that of the [Spirit Bear] cultivator, Dun.

  Among others.

  Goose pimples surfaced upon his skin, chilled despite no change in temperature. Herald, he supposed, to the powerful [Array] working upon this entrance.

  My time will be wasted if I stand here like a fool.

  So he moved, and a sense of wrongness pooled a nausea in his gut that grew with each pace.

  In the depths of the Bastion he was not alone. Quite the opposite, with the crowds that churned by him. But those who moved by looked disinterestedly at the marginal pace of this man before them.

  A shameful junior of great perspiration, and of clutched stomach. Neither worthy of aid nor of the time it might take to rest their eyes on.

  The staircase itself presented like many others, and on reaching it he felt a heat mount. One centred on the inlaid [Contribution Array], having a warmth suffuse the stain. What came next rippled through his body with an [Intent], probing, passing, and ending in a few heartbeats.

  Fu panted once it was done.

  Whatever process he had just endured had seen fit to release him from the potential stomach-emptying shame he might bring to bear, and allowed him to descend to his destination shortly after.

  To the Scroll Hall, and to the Custodian that barely looked up from his lectern at his approach.

  An oddity presented there. Gloom, beneath the ground. A dulling of the Qi-infused crystals set into walls, stone filigree around them, their reach apparent on the walls that ended so abruptly where Fu knew the staircase to travel further.

  He rounded, and Hushi impressed a sense of confusion.

  “The stairs?”

  The Custodian, weaponized with his quill, had it snap at the utterance. Unwelcome gifts of equal parts [Intent] and [Dao] encased Fu in an intangible pillar. It tightened a noose around Fu’s [Dantian], leaving him to gasp, and subsequently panic as not a noise escaped him.

  “Silence,” demanded the man, glaring, seething at the broken quill. Laying it between his fingertips, he smoothed it out, as one might unwrinkle a robe, joining both ends with a speck of Qi.

  A fish of parchment texture, his Bond, flew forth to dance around Fu, pushing him a step forward.

  Having him stumble to his knees.

  His [Contribution Array] itched under the Custodian’s attention, whose eyes scanned to read him like a scroll. “Hmph,” he finally scoffed. “[Winter]. Unorthodox. [Foundation Realm].” And then he tapped his quill, drawing a door to open in the wall behind him.

  “Master!” greeted the kowtowing man that had flocked in. Greying, scholarly, and of an age greater than Fu.

  Should it not be the other way around? There are many moons between them, is this man not the senior of the two?

  Regardless, Fu was instructed to his feet by the arrival, led then, through the doors to his destination.

  The door to the great library closed behind them.

  “You are familiar with the process, disciple?”

  Half of the sentence Fu replied with flew empty and silent- and panicked, he touched his throat. [Dao] still lingering.

  “You have run afoul of our Custodian I see. His [Dao of Silence] is a spectacle.” The older man had a voice like a crackling hearth, homely and not without empathy. “A nod will suffice.”

  At first, Fu shook, and nodded. Attempting to answer each question in sequence.

  “A first visit?” Another nod. “Very well.” The scribe cleared his throat, rubbing either side as though to loosen it. “This is the first floor of the Scroll Hall, open to you with your rank. Collected here are the entry-level [Arts], Manuals, and scrolls that you may avail yourself of. While within. No articles are to be taken from here, and they may only be read, again, within these halls.”

  It was a narrow corridor that took them into the main expanse, leaving Fu pained that he could not audibly gasp at what he saw.

  Stacks of hundreds, perhaps thousands of rolled parchments filled angular shelves for at least a li on either side of him. A scale, he was sure, that must have encompassed a great deal of the Bastion’s underground, etched into the mountain itself.

  Characters were abuzz, thrumming to denote sections in the air above gathered stacks. Qi types, affinities, glowing above a clear bisection that read both Orthodox and Unorthodox.

  Cultivators wormed through here, a scribe adjunct each. Passing, studying, or held in lotus position in dedicated spaces, common ovals every few stacks.

  “Practice is not permitted within the Scroll Hall, and transcribing any information is likewise forbidden. The Cloudy Serpent Sect does not hold in regard of those unable to memorise writings, either rudimentary, or those advanced and more hallowed below.” The scribe rubbed at his throat, already drying through speech. “As this is your first visit, it is awarded free of charge. Know, however, that but two hours are afforded, the same for subsequent visits, extended only by Merit.”

  Foolishly, Fu made to ask a question. Mouthing air. Such an effect was sobering, a recounting of his position.

  How foreign, and how out of depth he was.

  “Forgive my presumption, disciple. But are you seeking tomes of your own [Affinity]? The path against the Heavens is boundless, thus I do not wish to offend by leading you astray.”

  Smiling was not prohibited by silence, so Fu did, frustrated as he was by his inability to ask for an explanation. Impressing a thought to Hushi, he tried to convey his lack of knowledge.

  Will Hushi know best? A [Spirit Beast] cannot read, but if I am to learn more, or receive techniques… Might I rely on him?

  [Air Qi] was many hundreds of paces off, its sigil a glowing cyan. So Fu directed the scribe’s attention there, thumbing his own chest thereafter.

  The walk to the varied stacks did not clear his thoughts as he had hoped, nor miraculously granted the ability to know what he might look for. Thus, he stood, scowling at the only characters and terms he could read with a half-degree of proficiency.

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  Hushi’s midden was limp at his back, and the Bond was similarly tentacling at the porcelain seals at one end, labelled in simple characters. Miasmic Tail Palm Technique. Worldly Purple Claw Arts.

  All as potentially useless as the imagery they evoked.

  And all the while his escort stood straightened, wrists clasped in his daxuishan, long, flowing sleeves seeming impractical for such delicate work as tending to the stacks.

  “How might I find something that will be of use?” Fu didn’t say. Silenced, as he was.

  Yet his lips parsed, and his jaw firmed, intent on making the most of the time afforded to him. So, he pointed, first at the sigil for Orthodox, and then at his own category. Trying to convey that he wished for more explanation.

  “Your Bond is not of Sect [Heritage]. Resemble serpents, as its arms might. You are confined to the Unorthodox until such time as you join with another. If that is what you wish.”

  That drew a stare, however quickly recovered. A discerning lack of [Two Point] Cultivators were in his Brigade. Whereas the Azure Shoal Sect, in his limited dealings, had shown many. Frankly, the notion of joining with another [Spirit Beast] had not occurred to him.

  His inner count on time drew him from these thoughts. Unnecessary to the task at hand. Both sigils were gestured to again, and a third and fourth finger at he and Hushi respectively.

  “Ah,” intoned the scribe. “What lies within these halls are perfected techniques. Passed down, and honed throughout generations. With the Cloudy Serpent Sect’s [Heritage] lying in forms suitable for those possessing the same characteristics as their forebears. While variation occurs within the subsets of [Spirit Serpents], a [Mind Qi], [Metal Qi] or so on, the same fundamental, or inherent abilities allow techniques to be formed with [Nodes] in mind.”

  Fu blinked, clearly misunderstood. Impressing where he stood, or where he might go, had not been conveyed clearly.

  The scribe took this to mean continue, however, and did. “Orthodox techniques are the foundation upon which core cultivators are trained. Hundreds, or in our great Sect’s instance, thousands, of years of refinement. The [White Asp Arts]. A base set of martial motions that synergize with the behaviour of Qi that [Spirit Serpents] grant to their cultivator, heedless of [Qi Deviation]. Deadly, efficient, and empowering. It brings a greater degree of power to bear than if a [Spirit Bird] or other Unorthodox Bond cultivator were to use it, as experience had whittled away the imperfections to have it best suited to what abilities our [Heritage] might display.”

  While this was the knowledge he sought, [Qi Deviation] piqued his interest. Had Mei not skirted this subject? Smiling, silently, he politely rolled his fingers for a continuation. Such topics were tangentially useful, after all. If not immediately.

  “[Heritage]?”

  Fu shook.

  “[Qi Deviation]?” The receiving nod had him speak further. “[Qi Types] have-” The scribe sputtered out a dry cough, rubbing at his throat. “Dust, disciple, a greater foe than the Blight.”

  Hushi left his cultivator, prowling the stacks amidst more coughing. Though Fu did not look, trying to assure the scribe, armed with nothing but kind intentions.

  “[Qi Types] have varying behaviours. Your own [Air Qi] is light, a breeze within your [Dantian]. For [Poison Qi] it is as liquid. A higher form, such as [Blood Qi] might manifest as this too, formed from its composite parts. Water, Life, and so on. Attempting to use a technique that is primed for an antithetical [Qi Type] often brings misfortune. You could no more force a blaze of fire through your [Channels] than I might waft [Air Qi] to melt the [Impurities] in my own. An overlap exists, and is done in uncommon practice. Earth into a [Metal Qi] cultivator, as their behaviours are not so far removed from each other. Death into [Nature Qi]. Examples as myriad as Qi itself, disciple, and I have not the throat for it today.”

  But with this protest, Fu felt a passion melt away what supposed dust lay there. A twinkle of eruditic glee.

  Might I look the same upon looking at Feng? Yuqi or Yuling?

  It had him smile, for here stood a man with a calling. Proud.

  “Of course,” came the dry continuation. “Composite [Qi Types] are usable without the accompanied destruction, or impairment of [Channels] that [Qi Deviation] provides. [Fire Arts] or techniques, are as easily used, if not empowered, when utilised by a [Sun Qi] cultivator. As is Light, for the same example. Heat.”

  A gong struck, and on instinct Fu shuddered. Then the [Dao of Silence] surrounding him vanished, and he bowed low. “Gratitude, senior scribe.”

  “Ah, you are new to the Bastion. No scribe is senior to any, not before a warrior, and certainly none but the Custodian. Please, disciple, stand.”

  Yet the bow went lower, sustained for further seconds. “It would shame me not to show the proper respect to one so knowledgeable. To stand here bowing in thanks is preferable to floundering before these stacks like carp out of water. Gratitude, again. I must away, the gong has called me.”

  His escort narrowed, measuring. A blazing, autumnal coloured [Spirit Firefly] buzzing from the daxuishan’s sleeves. “That gong measures increments of an hour halved. There is time yet. But I have spoken too much, indulged longer than I have in decades. It is not my place. Do you know what you now seek?”

  “I do, senior scribe,” said Fu.

  ??

  Another gong had struck, and Fu supposed the next was about to sound. And still, he milled about the stacks. A clearer view of his target yet to reveal itself. Teal and gold characters wafted away for the third time in as many minutes, his [Ink] fading at a command. Slower, this time, he thought, showing his trepidation.

  The training. Spoken of by Zhiyuan. Styled as such, but now quite apparent as to what it actually entailed.

  Unguided instruction. Or opportunity.

  Something Fu had to shed, removing it from his old aspersions of the word. Not a dense shoal, lazy and unaware in the sun. But some untouchable currency that drove those around him into a fervour.

  For he could hear the voices of many others, saying it as such. Impeding both his mood, and his search for something to aid him.

  There was little doubt in his mind that it truly detracted from his task. But with a mite of frustration within him, parts of him shifted to cast blame.

  “-a young boy, of ten moons,” echoed, loudly,

  “It’s a trove! We’ll have to give our all for the Sect!”

  The third of these men, youths, if their piercing, juvenile voices were to be believed, spoke next. Denouncing his companions. “Bah! A trove! You’ll know well what my father’s library hosted! Had he not heard wind of this Hopeful nonsense, well!”

  Cringing, Fu stole closer to a set of stacks, whispering the words so that they might sound correct in his ears. [Air Qi] Yellow Petal Induction. Even this first, of this set at least, carried a haze of complexity and confusion.

  Talks with the scribe had chiselled, and refined what he sought. Similarity. Or a martial technique that would best suit his growing power, while shoring up the areas he was deficient in, for they were many.

  He had limited this to chain [Arts], or forms, and further reduced that to a style that might compliment his [Body] cultivation.

  Osmosis, and practice, taught that he could not conjure external Qi. And the [Dao] were not a thing to be bestowed through parchment. As far as he knew. Though with paintings as the origin of his own, he could not be certain.

  The Weighted Wing Chain Form was more suited for [Spirit Bird] cultivators, and the Medium Wind Attraction Arts was primed for a cultivator of vastly higher [Resilience] than he. So telling, were the diagrams within.

  Then, the next gong struck.

  He grunted, and moved back another stack. The Scroll Hall’s organisation was seamless, and he could not fault it. Only his own deficiencies. Time was running short, and Merit was scarce, making him loathe to purchase an extension.

  This stack was bare, and not of the octopial nature as he had hoped. A collection of eight tomes, which he read from top to bottom. Dusty enough to catch his throat.

  Above, Hushi warded the flow of air away soon enough, teal arms wafting. Brushing the seal upon two of the closest to show twin images on both.

  An etched image of an eight legged beast.

  Fu drew both out, then, laden, handed one to his Bond.

  A diagram was upon it, chain splayed, serpentine enough to warrant its shelving in the Orthodox section. But the cultivator at the centre was horizontal in all but the starting image, or inverted, twisted and contorted. Acrobatic in motion.

  The weapon orbited its Bond with deft loops, precise and almost flush to its form. Eight, flowing limbs. A spider, dancing amidst the created flow.

  “Hushi?”

  The Bond slung down - his own scroll, numbered as second in this set - held in another arm. He prodded the diagram, traced it, and retracted. Impressing that Fu should be the one to choose.

  “What is an octopus, if not the spider of the sea, no?” They held a gaze, and though the words were foolish, Hushi exuded warmth.

  Placing the second scroll back, they entered the closest oval in order to study the technique within.

  As practice was prohibited, he did not know how well he might fare. But, no destination might be reached by standing on the shore. So Fu moved to the lotus position, and stared at the diagrams inscribed there.

  “[Wind Phantom Strides]” he said.

  Receiving the attention of the three youths as they emerged into the oval.

  “Greetings, brother,” said the furthest, lapping at the central figure’s heels much as his companion did.

  Fu dipped his head. “Brothers.”

  The central figure looked to enter a period of great consternation. “Don’t pay respect to this man. He’s a Hopeful. [Foundation Realm] like the rest of us.”

  “Oh?” exclaimed the closest. “Naturally, Master Liang shows his prowess. To be able to detect the cultivation of another!”

  Fu shuffled closer, insular, ignoring both their glowing Bonds in his periphery and the haughty stares upon him. Many times. Many. Had he come across people such as this. Arrogant, self-possessed cultivators. Or otherwise. Feeling as though the world was theirs, and should bend at their whim.

  Which was true. Usually.

  Leading to an attitude untended. A lifetime of never hearing no. Swelling the image of themselves, and further distancing them from the barest hint of civility.

  “Are you a vagrant?” one asked, rousing Fu from his studies.

  The diagram below grew hazy in a fog of frustration. “I am Gao Fu, brother. Here to study in my-”

  “Where did you get those clothes? They’re more pleasing that this drab the Sect has us wear. I’d have them for my own. After a wash, of course. You carry a stench of fish about you.”

  Fu feigned a smile. “A heirloom, I am afraid.”

  Then came the imperious sneer. “A heirloom? Doubtful. My father will pay you handsomely. Come now, de-robe and hand them over.”

  “Apologies, brothers. They are not for sale. Perhaps the Contribution Exchange holds similar, or better clothes?

  “You dare have me repeat myself? Do you know who my father is? Why, I shall-”

  “Senior Gao Fu,” announced the scribe, having kept distant alongside the three that accompanied these youths. “I must escort you out. Your time is over.” He strayed forwards, claiming the [Wind Phantom Strides].

  A blink was all Fu could muster, rising to be marched out. Grateful, however, for the intervention.

  A waste. Another week to return.

  He refrained from sighing, and instead extended a bow to the elderly scribe once they had reached the doorway.

  Greeted with a tome, and drawn so quick that he touched upon it with his forehead. “From my personal collection,” said the scribe. “Gratitude, for indulging this old man.” And then he left, winding back into the stacks without a further word.

  Leaving Fu speechless, tome in hand. Still, for a collection of minutes as he poured through the pages within.

  And having him start as the gong resounded above him.