"Treacherous dogs!"
Wei Lin's face was dark enough to drip. Right under his nose, an unknown enemy had used Little Grove Town's people as sacrifice, drained every lingering soul the Maple City region had ever owed to rest, condensed the reflection of the Ghost Gate — and then walked away at his leisure.
And Wei Lin, a fifth-rank powerhouse, had raced here with everything he had, only to eat nothing but dust.
As city lord, he had failed his charge. As a strong man, he had been slapped in the face.
When had he ever swallowed such humiliation?
So —
"Trash!"
Wei Lin's backhand caught Wei Feng square in the chest and flung him several yards through the air.
Not one of the dozens present dared speak. Though nearly every one of them burned with resentment.
Even Wei Feng himself only picked himself up in silence.
He had every right to argue. Every right to fury. He had charged into the fog, broken the Nine Palace Array himself, seen the Ghost Gate, and burned his only Red Incense without a second thought. From any angle, he had done everything a man could. No one could fault him.
But a win was a win, and a loss was a loss. The army had no time for excuses.
Wei Lin had given him authority to draw men from the Academy and investigate Little Grove Town. He had not stopped what happened. That was dereliction.
Wei Lin could have killed him on the spot.
But what would that accomplish?
Wei Lin came in fury, and left in fury.
The young people dispersed — some carrying the wounded, some leaning on each other, some carrying the dead.
These young disciples of Maple City Academy had just fought a bitter, bloody battle that was very hard, and in the end proved completely pointless.
They had never even learned who their enemy was. The enemy had finished his work and walked away.
They had been called — trash.
* * *
"Damn it all... I don't accept this."
Du Hu lay spread-eagled on his dormitory bed like a toppled iron tower.
He had no serious wounds; the foundation he had burned had been restored by the Gu Yuan Pill Zhao Yan sent over. He only needed quiet rest.
The Gu Yuan Pill was precious, but there was nothing awkward about taking it. Du Hu needed it, Zhao Yan had it, and so it was done. These were men who would entrust each other with their lives. What was a pill compared to that?
But Little Grove Town — honestly — had dealt a blow to every Academy disciple who took part. For anyone who dreamed of transcendence, who hungered for power, helplessness was the worst thing in the world.
Maybe only Zhao Yan was the exception. He had already gone to the Three-Scent Pavilion to "recover," claiming he wanted to win a beauty's heart as a warrior returned from the brink of death.
Du Hu was not a man who could lie still, but now he had to. No one would let him drink. For the first time in a long while, he was melancholy.
Ling Chuan said nothing; he closed his eyes and cultivated.
Jiang Chen... Jiang Chen was eating. With Jiang An'an.
Cai's Mutton Shop, a hundred-year name.
Two bowls of fragrant mutton soup. Ten catties of sliced white mutton, cut clean.
An'an clutched a flatbread in her left hand and chopsticks in her right... chopsticks grabbing mutton. "Grabbing" was the right word — she held the chopsticks the way no one had ever corrected, all five fingers wrapped around them.
Living with Jiang Chen had cured her of her shyness.
She bit left, bit right. Every few bites, she leaned down and took a happy slurp of soup. Two small dimples printed in her cheeks. Utterly satisfied.
Cai's was not cheap. Alone, Jiang Chen might never have come here.
At Little Grove Town, Wei Feng had taken his own punishment — but he had kept his word and secured them twenty points of Dao merit each, plus a purse of silver. To a cultivator, that mattered least of all. To Jiang An'an, good food mattered very much.
"Like it?" Jiang Chen asked with a smile.
"Mmm... yes!" Little An'an nodded hard.
"From now on, every month..." Jiang Chen did a quick count of his savings. "No. Every ten days, we'll come here. Deal?"
An'an nodded again.
She chattered at her brother in fits and starts — most answers were nods or head-shakes. Her small hands never stopped: even as she nodded, she grabbed a piece of mutton, rolled it carefully in the dipping sauce, and popped the whole thing into her mouth.
"An'an, how are your studies?" All adults end a conversation with a child the same way. Jiang Chen considered himself an adult, so he said it naturally. Though he was only a seventeen-year-old boy.
An'an's chewing paused. Her cheeks were full, and she barely squeezed out: "Okay... fine."
Jiang Chen nodded, satisfied.
He watched his sister, and a slow, warm peace flowed through him. The hardship of battle, the grief of seeing brothers wounded and dead, the helplessness of failing to stop what happened — all of it faded.
Some things were sad. But this — this life right now — was so happy.
He wanted to keep it forever.
* * *
Walking through the Wang clan's lands, nodding to the kinsmen who greeted him, Wang Hao was composed and serene, exactly as always. Even the most exacting elder could find nothing to fault in him.
The three great clans of Maple City — Zhang, Fang, Wang — were roughly equal. But with Zhang Yuan sitting third on the Merit Board, the Zhangs had pulled quietly ahead. Wang Hao stood seventh; he did not fall far behind.
The Fangs alone had fallen. Their last prodigy had died in a trial; their best of this generation, Fang Heng, had been killed. All that remained was Fang Lin, who had squeezed into the inner Academy on a Meridian-Opening Pill bought at a fortune. Any clear-eyed man knew the Fangs had already been left behind.
None of that concerned Wang Hao. He had never cared for worldly affairs. His intelligence could see through the filth and greed behind every warm welcome — and he stayed light as clouds.
The path grew quieter.
He stopped before a half-old courtyard, tucked in a lonely corner of the clan lands. Few people lived nearby. The owner lived like a solitary bird.
Wang Hao pushed the door; the wood shrieked, breaking the courtyard's peace.
Inside, unlike the weathered walls, everything was unexpectedly neat and fine. To the left, a grape trellis rose high, and beneath it a lounging chair worn smooth by use. No one sat in it — but a fat orange cat lay there.
It did not startle at his approach. It half-opened its drowsy eyes and gave him one lazy glance.
"Xiao Ju." Wang Hao greeted it by name.
The fat cat turned its head away and squinted its eyes shut. Utter disdain.
Wang Hao was not offended. He walked on. To the right stood a large water vat, lotus leaves floating in it. Bubbles rose now and then — fish, probably.
Then his steps slowed, because he smelled food.
At almost the same instant, the cat on the chair rose and turned in one fluid motion.
Before the main hall, under the eaves, sat a low table. A young man was stepping out of the door, the aroma coming from a food tray in his hands.
His face was neither handsome nor ugly. It simply gave a strange impression of distance. Perhaps it was the eyes — too flat, too calm.
The aloof young man crouched and set out the dishes one by one. Two bowls of white, full rice. Two plates of green vegetables. Two plates of braised pork knuckles, soft to the bone.
He sat down on the doorstep, drew out his chopsticks, tapped the table twice with the blunt ends, and said: "Eat."
Wang Hao did not move, because he knew the call was not for him. Though he wanted very much to walk over and share that meal.
A soft whisk — the orange cat shot to the low table at a speed that defied its bulk. It sniffed the knuckles first, seemed satisfied, then propped its forepaws on the table and began to eat.
Wang Hao opened his mouth: "Brother."
Few remembered this now. Wang Hao, the pride of the Wang clan, had an older brother.
That brother was the firstborn of the clan's true bloodline — by clan law, the natural heir to the headship.
He was also the waste who had burned a precious Meridian-Opening Pill without manifesting a single meridian. The Wang clan had been mocked for it, humbled before the other two houses.
The shame of the Wang clan. Wang Yuan.