Interlude I: Azure Wall City

  Shi Dei stood in the Hanging Stone Garden, looking out over the city entrusted to him, though he could not truly see it. From the modest house crowning the floating mountain at the city’s pinnacle, only the rolling sea and the billows of cloud far below were visible. On most days, that sight filled him with quiet pride, a serene reminder of how far he had climbed and how firmly he stood in the world.

  But today, the view gave him no peace.

  A gentle rustling behind him announced Lady Yun’s presence – Yun Hanyue, as he allowed himself to call her in the privacy of his own heart – pouring a cup of tea. He turned away from the window, and as always, the sight of her never failed to make his heart skip a beat.

  He did not let it touch his expression. She had made it clear: she did not return his affection, nor did she welcome repeated confessions. For the sake of their friendship, he wore the mask of one who had moved on. In truth, he still wondered what it would be like if she one day stepped free of the shadow cast by her deceased dao companion; what he might give her, what they could share.

  He caught the thought before it could bloom, and let it fall away.

  There were more pressing matters to deal with.

  Shi Dei took a seat opposite Yun Hanyue and lifted his own cup of tea. Normally, he might have added a splash of wine – today of all days – but he was not so uncouth as to do so in front of his fellow Island Master. Instead, he took a brief sip, exhaled through his nose, and set the cup aside.

  “So, a tournament,” he said. He had intended the words to carry weight, but they sounded flat even to his own ears.

  Yun Hanyue grimaced. The rim of her cup brushed her lips for a fleeting instant before she lowered it again. Shi Dei forced himself not to linger on the motion.

  “It’s better than discovering the treasure heralded by the Omen has fallen into unorthodox hands,” she murmured, “but not by much. And for us…”

  Shi Dei’s jaw tightened.

  Yes, there it was, the truth between them, unspoken yet undeniable. For them, this was no opportunity. It was a curse dressed as fortune. Where were they supposed to find Foundation Establishment cultivators ready to compete, as the announcement required? A year and a half ago, they would have had their pick, and the pride to stand among the competitors besides. Now…

  Now, even that was beyond their reach.

  Azure Wall City was weaker than it had been in many decades, and both he and Hanyue were struggling, quietly, relentlessly, to maintain their power and their positions. A Heavenly Omen was not something he had ever expected to witness in his lifetime, but awe and fear faded quickly. Once they did, he and Hanyue found themselves exactly where they had been before, only now with one more obligation pressing upon their shoulders.

  The orthodox faction was moving as one, and the expectation was unmistakable: find the best Foundation Establishment cultivators you can, and prepare them for the tournament in a year’s time.

  There were no limits. Anyone, regardless of age, background, or allegiance, could compete under the banner of one of the four factions overseeing the tournament. As members of the orthodox faction, and above all as Island Masters of a prosperous city, he and Hanyue were expected to produce respectable Foundation Establishment participants to fight in Ancestor Qing’s name.

  The unorthodox cultivators would rally beneath Old Devil Fu’s banner; the vagrant and rogue cultivators would, no doubt, gather under the Lord of the Lonely Roads; and the Song Clan – predictably – would buy, threaten, or lure as many as they could, bolstered by whatever support crawled in from the mainland.

  That was the landscape before them. And Azure Wall City, the place he had poured decades of sweat, patience, and pride into, was in no position to meet those expectations. At a different time, perhaps they could have managed. But now? Now they were far too short of allies. The Ming family debacle had cost them dearly – too dearly.

  But-

  “What choice do we have?” he asked, bitterness tightening his voice. “If we fail to meet expectations, the orthodox faction will strip rulership of the island from us. I did not spend so many years, and so much effort, only to watch it all torn from my hands at the end. And I know you didn’t either.”

  Yun Hanyue sighed, lifting a hand to rub her forehead. “We can scrape together a few disaffected fools, true enough, but they won’t be enough. And in terms of quality… after the attacks, we lost too many.”

  Her voice fell into solemnity, but Shi Dei’s reaction was far from calm. All he felt was anger: a low, simmering fury that had been building for months.

  It had all begun with those damned vagrant Core Formation cultivators he and Lady Yun had courted on Ming Taishou’s behalf. Not only had that entire disaster cost them dearly; their friends dead, a benefactor lost, their city weakened, but two of the hired cultivators had taken great offense at having been “led into a trap,” no matter how innocent he and Yun Hanyue had been in the matter. It wasn’t as though they had known how the auction would unfold. Yet their ignorance had done nothing to temper the cultivators’ wrath.

  Under better circumstances, he and Hanyue might have soothed that anger with gifts, favors, and carefully measured bribes. But with the Ming family gone, several trade routes severed, and Song Shaoyue tightening her grip on every side, their resources had withered.

  So they had sent the vagrant cultivators off with polite words and refused to be intimidated.

  That had been a mistake.

  Their troubles truly began with Luo Feng and Tie Yun, the two Core Formation wanderers who had been the most aggrieved. Neither had dared to assault the city outright, nor to challenge Shi Dei or Yun Hanyue directly, which would have made matters far simpler. Instead, they lurked in the outskirts like wolves, preying on incoming and outgoing traffic.

  At first, Shi Dei had dispatched their guards to deal with the threat. When the bodies returned, broken and lifeless, and he finally understood what they were facing, he had gone out himself.

  Frustratingly, they had slipped from his grasp. He chased shadows; they vanished before he could force a confrontation, only to reappear the moment he withdrew, striking at whatever targets they could reach.

  The situation had decayed so quickly that, in the end, they had been forced to declare a curfew. For months, no ships dared dock at Azure Wall City. No cultivators came or went.

  Even now, with Luo Feng and Tie Yun gone, the pressure had not relented. Song Shaoyue still pressed upon them with greedy, calculated persistence. She meant to absorb every thread of territory and every contact the Ming family had once controlled.

  Shi Dei knew, and as did Yun Hanyue, that while they might accept the rise of a new power, capitulating to Song Shaoyue would mean the end of them. She had no intention of letting them serve beneath her. She wanted them erased, their titles stripped, their city taken for herself.

  He exhaled slowly, attempting – and failing – to ease the tension coiled in his shoulders. “What we need,” he said, choosing each word with care, “is a way to meet expectations. If we can recruit even a handful of cultivators strong enough not to shame us, and willing to fight for us, we might slide by. But if we present a ragged group of half-trained nomads, the orthodox faction will take it as the insult it is. We must find people capable of lasting past a few rounds. At least one.”

  Yun Hanyue set her cup down with deliberate precision. “If such people existed here, we wouldn’t be in this position. And as for recruiting outsiders; with what? We’ve been draining our personal wealth just to keep trade alive, and it’s already bleeding us dry. A few more years of this, and we’ll be poorer than the imaginary cultivators you expect us to attract.”

  Shi Dei almost growled. “What else can we try? We have no hope of raising a crop of powerful fighters in the time we have. My disciples all died at Tie Yun’s hands, and you haven’t taken a student since your last one. The only Foundation Establishment cultivators left in the city are sailors and shopkeepers; if we force them into the arena, they’ll die without landing a single blow against a demonic cultivator.”

  Yun Hanyue’s lips tightened. “I know that. But recruiting outsiders is what got us into trouble in the first place. Besides,” she continued, voice sharpening with reluctant reason, “you named the solution yourself. Foundation Establishment cultivators exist; they simply aren’t fighters. That is something we can remedy far more easily than advancing promising Qi Condensation juniors in a year.”

  Shi Dei stared at her.

  “You are talking about turning a tailor or a carpenter into a warrior,” he said slowly. “Even if we drown them in artifacts and talismans, it won’t work in a tournament. If they aren’t disqualified outright, they’ll make us a laughingstock before they’re eliminated.”

  Yun Hanyue sighed again, deeper this time, resignation woven with iron. “I know. But it’s the best among our bad options. Every faction, great or small, will be scrambling to attract powerful cultivators or loose sects. Recruitment won’t work for us, not now. At least this way, we can show a stopgap effort. Something to prove we’re not simply waiting to fail.”

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  Shi Dei leaned back, staring up at the ceiling as though the clouds beyond its beams might whisper an answer. “A stopgap,” he muttered. “A patch on a sinking ship.”

  “Perhaps.” Yun Hanyue folded her hands neatly in her lap. “But even a sinking ship stays afloat longer if you patch the holes. And if not this, then the only method left to me is the Maiden Reincarnation technique. Unless,” she added, arching a brow, “you have some brilliant idea you’ve been withholding?”

  He let out a humorless huff. For a heartbeat, a single reckless, foolish heartbeat, an impulse seized him: to offer to leave everything behind, to ask her to come with him and abandon the city to its fate. If she agreed, he could endure the loss of all else.

  Reason crushed the thought before it reached his lips. He bit down on his frustration and exhaled.

  “I suppose we no longer have the luxury of good choices,” he said at last. “And as for your reincarnation technique…” He sighed. “Fine. We train whoever we can and pray we find a diamond in the rough. Perhaps, just this once, fortune will decide not to spit in our faces.”

  Yun Hanyue rose, smoothing her robes with calm, practiced movements. “I’ll draft a list of those with enough steadiness or talent that we might polish them. No one reaches Foundation Establishment without enduring adversity. They may have gone to seed, may have forgotten the path they climbed… but in a pinch, they might remember.”

  “And I,” Shi Dei said, standing as well, “will speak with the smaller sects nearby. Quietly. If anyone is persuadable, it will be their old hands and apprentices. It costs little to try, even if-” his mouth tightened “-as you say, they refuse.”

  They stood together in the small house atop Azure Wall City, the sea whispering far below, the wind brushing at the eaves, before turning to go their separate ways.

  Pausing at the doorway, Shi Dei cast one last look toward the window, at the endless sea beneath the clouds. Once, the view had filled him with pride.

  Today, it only showed him how far there was to fall.

  ………………………….

  Interlude II: The Greater Dharma Sect

  “What does it say?” Zing asked, watching him skim the message with his spiritual sense. It was one of the two he had been waiting for, and to his eyes, the more important one. Yet as he read, all he could do was frown.

  He recited aloud, voice flattening in resignation: “Have found out phenomenon was Heavenly Omen. Divine treasure descended onto Islands. Will be massive tournament for it. Will participate and of course win. Love, your daughter!”

  Before the lingering echo of her voice could fade from the talisman, a second line shimmered into existence: “Master said you are safe, but next time tell me too, not just him.”

  Bai Zhou lowered the voice-transmission talisman and glanced toward his wife, one eyebrow lifting in silent commentary.

  She exhaled in defeat and pinched the bridge of her nose. “That girl…”

  He reached for the second message, this one from Mo Jian, and scanned it as well. Unlike their daughter’s broken phrases, this one was detailed, orderly, and mercifully coherent. It took him several minutes to go through it carefully, making sure he caught every nuance. When he was finished, he flicked it toward his wife.

  While she read, he decided to address something related, if not to the content, then at least to its delivery. “Any idea why she insists on sounding like a feral cavewoman? It’s not as if the talisman charges her by the word. Is this some new habit she’s picked up, or is she angry with us for something?”

  Bai Zing rolled her eyes. “It’s because you gave in to her whims too often when she was young. Now she’s grown into a hellion who thinks shocking us is a form of entertainment. I swear she’s trying to make us keel over, but I refuse to lose.”

  Privately, Bai Zhou suspected the problem had less to do with his spoiling and more to do with their daughter inheriting her mother’s fiery attitude, but he had no desire to court death by saying so aloud. Bai Ning delighted in giving him headaches, but if Zing heard that particular thought, she might very well castrate him.

  So he nodded solemnly, as though she had spoken the Heavenly Truth itself.

  Finally, Zing lowered Mo Jian’s message, a deep frown creasing her brow. “Any cultivator at the Foundation Establishment stage? Zhou, that’s…”

  He nodded before she could finish. He’d had the same thought the instant he saw the rules.

  Both he and his wife qualified.

  And with no limitations on stage or age, older Foundation Establishment cultivators would hold a tremendous advantage. He himself was over a century old; Zing was of similar age. Frankly, he was confident he could defeat anyone younger regardless of their training; after all, experience, skill, and sheer accumulated instinct were weapons of their own.

  Well… anyone except his daughter.

  If it ever came to a match between them, he would surrender instantly and claim it was out of fatherly love, though in truth, he suspected her absurd talent would make the fight a humiliation he preferred to avoid entirely. Zing facing their daughter, however… That would end with the stage shattered or someone limping away in need of a new limb. Best to ensure such a battle never happened.

  “There’s no prize, though,” he pointed out, though even as he said it, he knew it was only half true. The divine treasure would go to the faction leader, not the victor, but the other prizes would be plentiful and undeniably valuable.

  Zing ignored that, as she should, instead moving to sit on their bed. Zhou followed, dropping down beside her and letting the soft cloud beneath him cradle his back.

  Their personal rooms within the sect were not ostentatious, but they were warm and exquisitely appointed, befitting their status. A suite of interconnected wooden chambers, with hovering clouds shaped into furniture and wisteria branches twining through the ceiling beams, tiny purple petals glowing faintly from above. A wide balcony opened to the sky outside, the very path through which the messages had entered. But the best part was the powerful, separate formation sealing the rooms.

  Here, Bai Zhou could finally relax; could be simply himself, and not the sect leader.

  Zing let the message rest beside her and leaned back into the cloud-bed, closing her eyes for a moment. “What do you think?” she asked. “Should we participate?”

  “It’s a tremendous opportunity,” he said, “but we’d be putting the sect’s face on the line. And if something goes awry, we might end up harming the sect in the long run. Besides, this is bickering between the great powers of the land disguised as a fair tournament. If one of them gets offended, we’d have no recourse.”

  He did not mention Mo Jian: one, because Mo Jian was not actually a great power himself, and two, because he was their daughter’s teacher. Bai Zhou would prefer he stay out of it, keeping their daughter safe rather than rushing in to help.

  Zing scoffed at his words. “They wouldn’t dare, not with foreign involvement. Though that part surprises me; if they are so afraid of powers from the mainland interfering, why hold the tournament a year later? Why not as soon as possible?”

  Zhou shrugged. “Out of the two of us, you lived closer to the mainland during your youth than I ever did. Maybe they are confident they can hold out for a year. Maybe the Song clan can ensure no one encroaches onto the Thousand Shattered Islands for at least that long. Who knows?”

  He very carefully did not pause over the Song clan’s name, but Zing’s expression still darkened.

  “Those bastards,” she hissed. “I was furious enough when it was just an exile from that clan going after Ning’er, but now the whole damned family is sticking its fingers into this region. If there’s any justice in the heavens, Song Shaoyue and her dog will die a gruesome death for their words and actions.”

  Zhou nodded in commiseration. Though just as incensed as she was at them targeting his daughter, he was also a little miffed at Ming Taishou’s death. He had no personal connection to the man, but the Greater Dharma Sect had used the routes established and guarded by the Ming family many times over the years. The tolls had been expensive, yes, but not ruinously so. Song Shaoyue, however, was harsher – the tolls had reached almost three times their usual cost under her management.

  Zing clenched her hands hard enough for her nails to gouge faint marks into the cloud beneath them. Then she exhaled sharply and forced herself to relax. “That aside… we’re rusty. It’s been a long while since I last fought.”

  Zhou almost turned to give her a look of disbelief, but decades of marriage had honed his instincts better than that. He managed to smother it into a cough. “Ah, yes. Though I’m probably worse off than you. Whenever a demonic beast or belligerent cultivator showed up these past few years, you were the one who handled it. And you’ve got tournament experience…”

  He let his voice trail off, hoping she’d grasp his meaning without him having to say it outright. In truth, Zhou wasn’t sure who the better fighter was between them. In cultivation alone, he should have had the edge; he’d stepped into the late stage of Foundation Establishment a full decade before her. On the other hand, Zing was the one who went out to ‘release her irritation’ whenever something needed to be fought, giving her far more recent practice.

  And, perhaps most importantly, she’d once made it to the semifinals of a youth tournament.

  But Zing only shook her head. “Not as much of an advantage as you’d think. The way they do things in the archipelago is very different from here.” She frowned, muttering, “And we’re better off for it.”

  Ah. That. Zing rarely spoke of her youth in the archipelago, and when she did, it was never with fondness. She called the people there rude, opinionated, bigoted, and as stubborn as the barnacles they were so fond of eating. She had left the moment she could, and had never once shown the slightest interest in returning.

  Zhou wasn’t sure that invalidated his point. After all, a tournament was a tournament, whether held here or in the archipelago. They were common enough everywhere, and while he had never participated, he had watched plenty. Most followed the same format: a free-for-all to thin the numbers, followed by one-on-one matches between the qualifiers.

  Still, after Zing’s less-than-enthusiastic response, he knew better than to press the subject.

  Instead, he shifted focus. “So… assuming we don’t participate”-which was, admittedly, the direction he was leaning-“we’ll still need to attend. We have to represent the sect, and this isn’t something we can send a disciple or even an elder to handle. And, of course, we need to support Ning’er. With how massive this tournament is shaping up to be, there will be a hundred opportunities and just as many problems waiting for us. Regardless of anything, we’ll have to prepare.”

  Zing’s expression flickered as she weighed her thoughts, before she finally nodded. “Not participating seems wiser to me as well. It’s a tremendous opportunity, yes, but it’s better for us to be there as sect leaders. If anything happens…”

  She didn’t finish the sentence, but she didn’t need to. It was the fear Bai Zhou had lived with for years. Every message from Mo Jian made his heart jolt, bracing for disaster. If something did happen during the tournament, then at least as sect leaders, even minor ones, they could act. They could shield her, however little. They were an established sect. They had friends, allies, old favors they could call in.

  Zing exhaled, rubbing her thumb over the edge of the message talisman as if it were something fragile. “She’s strong,” she murmured. “Stronger than either of us were at her age. However, strength only goes so far when everyone around you is older, sharper, and desperate.”

  Zhou’s jaw tightened. “All the more reason for us to stand behind her.”

  For a moment, the only sound was the soft rustle of wisteria petals drifting from the ceiling beams. The room was warm, sealed, and safe; the kind of safety Zhou wished he could wrap around their daughter like armor.

  Another breath passed, slow and steady, before Zing muttered, “We should send her a reply. A proper one, both so that she knows we’re not falling for her tricks and so that she doesn’t think we’re ignoring her.”

  Zhou grimaced. “If she thinks we’re ignoring her, she’ll only send more messages.”

  “Exactly.”

  He considered this, then ventured, “Hmm… what about something like: ‘Received your message. Proud of you. We’ll be there. Don’t cause trouble.’?”

  Zing turned an incredulous look on him.

  “What?” he asked, affronted.

  She shook her head, equal parts disbelief and resignation. “Now I know where she gets it.”

  “That’s slander,” Zhou promptly protested.

  …

  And the night rolled on, the lights of the Greater Dharma Sect twinkling merrily beyond their balcony, blissfully unconcerned with the storm waiting in the year ahead.