The two were full brothers. One was the darling of the Dao Academy; the other lived apart and alone in a corner of the family's lands.
The distance between them — heaven and mud, cloud and soil — would have driven most men to madness. Yet on Wang Changji's face there was not a shadow of bitterness or gloom. From beginning to end, he ate his meal in perfect calm.
As though eating were the most important thing in all the world.
He ate at an even, unhurried pace, and with great care. He saw his own share of trotters and greens finished, swallowed the last mouthful of rice, and only then looked at his younger brother, and spoke, his voice mild: "Changxiang, is there something you need?"
"Nothing serious. I just finished a mission and thought I might come and chat with you, elder brother."
"There, there — eat your greens. Meat alone won't do." Wang Changji stroked the orange cat, which was tearing at a trotter, coaxing it on in a gentle voice, then turned to Wang Changxiang. "Go on, then. You seem weighed down with cares."
"We went to investigate the matter of Little Grove Town losing all contact. Only when we arrived did we find the whole place shrouded in dense fog — the Breath-Whirlwind Tornado itself could not blow it open. The entire town was crawling with wandering souls, arranged after the Nine Palace system into the Array of Wandering Souls Amid Nine Palaces... Little Orange!" Here Wang Changxiang suddenly snapped in rebuke.
The truth was, that fat orange cat had grown impatient with Wang Changji's endless teasing it with greens, and had lashed out with a back-paw, drawing three bloody scratches across the back of Wang Changji's hand.
"Ferocious thing, aren't you." Wang Changji sighed in resignation, giving up on making Little Orange take its greens. He pressed his left hand lightly over the wound on his right, and only then said to Wang Changxiang: "All this Dao art and formation talk — I can't follow any of it."
Wang Changxiang bowed his head, and his voice, too, sank low. "But I don't know why — I just wanted to tell you, elder brother."
Wang Changji raised a finger and rubbed his forehead. "Go on, go on."
"Do you know, elder brother? Someone used the whole living souls of Little Grove Town, gathered the wandering spirits of all the years in the Fenglin domain, and — before Lord Wei even arrived — condensed the phantom image of the Gate of Ghosts and fled!" At this moment Wang Changxiang looked like a small child seeking a reward.
"The phantom image of the Gate of Ghosts? Is it so formidable?"
"At such a price, of course it is something out of the ordinary! With the phantom image of the Gate of Ghosts in hand, one may reach the Netherworld at any place, at any time. The might of Netherworld Dao arts is raised by at least half! Arts such as ghost-driving can leap entire grades." At this, Wang Changxiang lowered his brows again. "And I dread to think to what quarter that villain behind it all will carry this evil next."
"This is a matter for the Office of Inquiry, in any case. If Wei Quji cannot manage, there is the Prefect; if the city Dao Academy proves unequal, there is the Prefectural Academy, and behind that the National Dao Academy. Settle your mind on it." Wang Changji comforted him.
By then, Little Orange had gnawed its trotter clean, without even glancing at the plate of greens, licked its paws, and stalked off with its nose in the air.
Wang Changji rose to clear away the bowls and chopsticks.
"I'm not keeping you, then." He said this just before stepping inside.
Wang Changxiang watched his elder brother's back turn into the room, and only then turned to go out himself. But as he passed the reclining chair where Little Orange had lain, he suddenly flicked his little finger.
A wind-blade, faint almost to imperceptibility, cut swiftly past.
Little Orange sprang up in a start, peering about in startled suspicion. Of its long whiskers, a full half now drifted to the ground in the wind.
"Dare scratch my brother again... hm." Wang Changxiang left the place with a smile at the corner of his mouth.
Only he remembered: back when they were both young, how his elder brother had yearned for Dao arts, how he had cherished that transcendent world. And now, whatever was spoken before him, he saw no more of that old stir.
As if he had grown content with this life.
Wang Changxiang's steps could not, in the end, grow light.
...
That day the teacher lectured on the mid-grade, D-Class Dao art known as the Flame Saber — an advance upon the D-Class Flame, and one of the foundations of the Fire Path.
It gathered flame into a blade and struck the foe directly with scorching fire-elemental power; it was of no small use against such foul things as evil spirits.
Truly, a Dao art had already surpassed the common weapons of mortal iron by this point.
Jiang Wang had long since committed to memory the hand seals and cautions of this art, but now he suddenly recalled Wei Yan's long saber — that blade of incomparable keenness, no common weapon by any means. For at Wei Yan's level of strength, mortal iron would have been only a burden to him.
He thought, too, of the sword Li Jianqiu had hung at his waist all the year round, and judged it must be no ordinary thing.
The thought made his eyes itch with longing. His own sword had been half ruined cutting down the wraith, and he had gone and bought a replacement with his own coin — still a common steel blade. Truly formidable sword-wares he could not afford, and had no channel to obtain.
And what of the great martial artists who entered the Dao through the martial arts — what might their weapons be worth?
He sank so deep into thought that he gave no heed to the atmosphere of the class, until Ling He nudged him quietly, and he came to himself with a start.
The lecturer was an old man nearing sixty, rather rigid and stern, surnamed Xiao. The disciples privately called him Xiao the Iron-Face.
Matters stood thus: Iron-Face Xiao, having taught the technique, randomly drew out a few of the disciples to demonstrate. When he drew Fang Heling, the fellow managed to complete the Dao art, haltingly — the flame of that Flame Saber wobbled and shook, but it was, after all, completed.
Even Iron-Face Xiao was somewhat pleased. But this fellow suddenly spoke up: "Brother Jiang Wang opened his meridians before me. Why not have him come try this art as well? If he should find anything amiss, here is a fine chance to ask our teacher's counsel."
And so Iron-Face Xiao's gaze fell upon Jiang Wang, who had been drifting.
"Bad luck." Jiang Wang thought. He rose from his straw cushion, and said, quite plainly: "I haven't yet established my foundation."
Fang Heling, who had entered the Inner Court at the same time, could already cast Dao arts; Jiang Wang had yet to succeed even in establishing his foundation. The looks the other disciples gave him grew strange.
"No foundation, and so you needn't listen to the lecture?" Iron-Face Xiao glared. What he hated most were disciples who played sly, lazy tricks. Here they were, already set on the road beyond mortality, and they would not cherish it — only treat it as a bauble to flaunt before common mortals.
"I know I was wrong." Jiang Wang bowed his head and owned his fault, with easy frankness.
Iron-Face Xiao said coldly: "Go back and copy out the Purple Void Scripture a hundred times. Until you've finished, you need not attend my class."
"Yes." Jiang Wang bowed his head in assent, his heart groaning. The full name of the Purple Void Scripture was the Scripture of the Purple Void, Most Supreme and Highest — the root Daoist classic of the Yujing Mountain lineage, one that every Daoist of that line knew by heart. There was truly nothing left to copy; Iron-Face Xiao's order was pure punishment.
And the worst of it: the whole text ran to nearly thirty thousand characters... how long would that take to copy?
But he knew he could not refuse, for with Iron-Face Xiao's temper, he might well roll up his sleeves and beat him outright.
For the rest of the class Jiang Wang roused himself to attention and dared not slacken in the least; and no sooner had he endured until Iron-Face Xiao left with his hands clasped behind his back than Fang Heling swaggered over.
"Oh dear, junior Brother Jiang, I really had no idea you hadn't yet established your foundation!" In the cultivator's world there are no years, and rank runs by cultivation; so Fang Heling quite naturally changed "elder brother" to "younger brother," his tone full of regrets. "After my meridians opened, it took me fifty-three days to establish my foundation, which I felt was already far too slow, and a source of shame. One would think, from Brother Jiang's old renown, that you had done it long ago... alas, look at this muddle."
The Return-to-Origin Formation, the standard foundation-establishing diagram of the Zhuang Kingdom Dao Academy, had eighty-one array points in all. At the yield of two Dao essences a day from two daily body-forging passes, fifty-three days to the foundation could hardly be called slow — and that counting the stalls in progress caused by mistakes in shifting array points along the way.
The fastest record for establishing a foundation in the whole city Dao Academy belonged to Zhu Weiwo; he succeeded in nine days, surpassing every record of every generation. From a pace so inconceivable, the true spirit of his meridians could not possibly be on the level of a mere Earthworm Meridian like Jiang Wang's. But just what grade of true spirit it was touched on private matters, and could not be probed.
To return to the general run of Fenglin City Dao Academy disciples: sixty to ninety days was the normal span.
Small wonder, then, that Fang Heling was so pleased with himself.
He made no effort to hide the challenge in his eyes, and very much wanted to see this proud fellow burst into mortified rage. He was even, in his mind's eye, rehearsing how the coming fight would end — with Dao arts splendidly finishing off this bumpkin who could lean only on his sword.
But Jiang Wang only smiled, and turned to leave.
No anger at all, nothing given a thought.