Fatherly Asura

Once, in this daoist’s adolescence, barely a boy of two centuries, did he accept his calling.

As all Vajra do.

Embodying the [Two that do not Seek], in half, in search of the truth that Heaven could impart.

The martial experts would wax the same from Prefecture to Prefecture. From canton, to city, to tribal camp. And this daoist oft pondered on its dilution.

“Spread wide your foundation, and begin from there,” or, “To master a thing, one must know all of it.”

Derivative statements of the truth, applied to bloodshed and war.

“Those who know do not speak. Those who speak do not know.”

Vexation.

But this daoist turned pilgrim to ponder further. A venture from lands of bloated scholars to those distant. Away from those who speak, from the heart of the Clear Sky Empire. Deeper.

Lower.

To places where the [Dao of Sight] could pierce a map and have the endless boundary of her Empress’ domain show no border.

South of the Outer Clear Sky Prefecture, to a land ruled by a vassal. A [Dao Named] king.

South, to the [Dao Named] Emperor who was his vassal in turn.

To the [Origin Realm] Sect. The Queen. The City Lord. The next Emperor, whose backwater city held but a half a billion peasants.

And so on, this daoist travelled, until there came a logging town of verdant bamboo. Scarcely three hundred thousand strong. Where it was asked, “Who is the [Empress Above All],” and it was answered thus.

“Who?”

A look, and a return to toppling trunks.

Leaving this daoist both aghast, and enthralled. As he had found here a man that did not know, and in this, knew much indeed.

- “The Clear Sky Empire,” by Lord Seventy Fifth.

An hour after breakfast, Fu felt such an ache in his stomach that he could not describe it. A pleasant thing, in truth, for only Qi had sustained him for days, or weeks on end.

The previous evening’s buns were reheated, going unfinished due to the number available, and he cradled one in his palm.

Unwilling to force another bite.

“Hushi,” he whispered. “Are you well?”

In a word, his Bond had melted into the window ledge, impressing violent intent should Fu attempt to move him.

Fu chuckled to himself, placing the bun at Hushi’s side. “A deserved rest.”

Faced with a fresh morning, the fisherman left his octopus alone. Unfettered by duty save for what they wished, he welcomed his Bond’s choice, entering the main living quarters of his family’s accommodation.

A home, perhaps.

Of his children, only Yuling had risen at this early hour. Nuwang by her feet, tongue to paw, tending to fur much as his daughter brushed her own hair. They sat in a nook by another window, a fugue of cloud kept at bay by the heat of a small, stone stove beneath it.

“Ah-” she smiled. “Good morning, Father.” In a half motion she placed down her brush on the small table there, only to have Fu take it in his own hand.

In an idle descent into routine, he took her hair and fell into a rhythm of brushing. “How is my daughter this morning?” he asked. “I can cook some rice if you give me a moment.”

Yuling leaned back, smiling. “Last night’s food still has me full, Father. I could not dream of breakfast.”

“If you are sure.”

The pair fell into a cosy silence for the next few minutes, and stirring sounds played behind the few doors that led off from the main room. Strange, Fu thought, that his family were so separate under one roof.

That it took devastation to give my children what they deserve. The Heavens make queer plans indeed.

As Fu wound Yuling’s hair into the makings of a braid, her fingers came to rest upon his own. “Father, might I show you how I wear it now?” she asked, and he stopped.

He felt his face sink a mite, for his handiwork in styling was on par with skill in fishing. A well practised thing. Where he had put two braids together, meeting in thick, raven loops to put shame to the finest of horse’s tails, Yuling unmade it.

A small change was observed as her fingers made fast work, having the braid rise defiantly to trail from her crown. Where before it was at the base of her neck.

Fu admitted that it flaunted his daughter’s shapely face, framed now with a mess at her shoulders.

“My daughter,” he frowned. “Your poor Father must contend with much already. Must Uncle Hushi and I now beat back every suitor from here to Thousand Shore City?”

There came a sliding of doors, and Yuqi emerged with an identical fashion.

“That is it, I forbid all of the Gao women from leaving these walls before they are old and withered.”

After a laugh that could best be described as partially uncertain, Fu’s daughters exchanged a few pleasantries. Minutes passed with small nothings between the three. Passing comments. Poorly delivered jokes to summon groans from the pair, and a warmth that the fisherman had long missed.

“Father, we are to study again today. By Grandmother Hua’s instruction,” said Yuqi. “But we will return before the evening meal.”

Saddened, Fu nodded. “My daughters are diligent, and I am proud. Even if I wish to spend each moment by their sides.” Ill-wanting to deepen the forming frowns on their faces, he waved them away. “Your Father already has duties to attend to this day, do not worry over it.”

With a half-bow, he was soon left alone in the palatial living space. And he made to sigh, cut short only by the tremendous clatter at Feng’s door.

Red-faced, his son burst into the space. A sheen of sweat across his entire body. “Father!” he cried, scraping on his modest clothes. “Good morning!”

But Feng did not stop for conversation, only to bow at the room’s exit. “Son?”

“I pressed for another set of exercises,” he explained. “Have my sisters already made for the library? Grandmother Hua will-”

“Go, son,” Fu dismissed, and in short order found himself alone once more. This time, completing his sigh.

The shoe is on the other foot now. My children rush to work while their Father lounges at home with idle hands.

Though he had spoken truth to his daughters, and was not void of purpose. Sleep had not come easily to him the previous night, for myriad reasons, he supposed. His stage of cultivation, the unfamiliarity… the muted calls of street folk that had him shiver and leap awake at each utterance.

As such Fu had risen early - earlier than his previous life had sharpened him to - and completed several sets of the [Stifling Stream Revolutions]. A fateful occurrence, or well orchestrated, for it was then that the messenger had come.

A plain one, wrapped in robes of the Cloudy Serpent Sect, and delivering four chits of finest jade.

Yet Fu kept his fingers still, and far from the pouch where they were now stored. Such things might stand in the way of today’s cultivation.

Perhaps even tomorrow’s as well.

🀦

Moisture clung to Fu’s skin to impart a certain confusion where clothes and flesh began. For all things beneath the cloud were damp and sodden. Though this was a thought that had surfaced only recently, when the sulphuric heat of opening his, alleged, penultimate [Meridian] had subsided. By Long’s guess, at least.

With his eyes closed, and his gaze inwards, Fu pondered the sight.

He was no fool to have expected a clear path, and his suspicions were confirmed upon seeing that none at all existed.

Where previous [Meridians] were hollow expanses, reservoirs of Qi that radiated the divine energy into his body this -

His brow furrowed.

- this, was no different.

The others, however, strung [Channels] between each. A network where his Qi might flow and further suffuse, strengthen, and sustain extraneous areas of muscle and organ.

Here he found naught but the edges, cleaned of [Impurities].

Fu circulated his Qi, and in this movement he could find nothing. Atop his lap, Hushi impressed a similar thought. Always was there an accompaniment of fatigue when cleansing his [Meridians], and he wondered if the current rawness of pathways prohibited clear insight into his next direction.

“Mei once warned of forcing our way through, did she not?” Fu asked, tapping his octopus upon the crown.

His Bond wriggled, and in tandem they opened their eyes.

[Spring’s] low clouds had them blanketed. Trimming the area that he might readily see. Quite dangerously so, with this perch he had taken high atop the roof of his family’s building.

Here [Air Qi] flowed in plenty, though it was contaminated with the coolness of [Water] or [Mist]. Those being chief among the myriad lesser taints of the Divine Clouded Mountain’s Golden Merchant canton.

With his opinion skewed towards patience, he summoned his [Ink].