Fatherly Asura

In Twelve sites do these memorials stand.

In nine hundreds moons, this eleventh-rate scholar has witnessed seven.

In nine hundred more this count might remain.

One, the mists of Divine Clouded Mountain.

The Divine Clouded Serpent.

Two, in the shadow of the Broken Tusk Prefecture.

The Ravenous Onyx Sow.

Three, [Looming Amaranth Tyrant], on which I write no more.

Stalker of Heaven’s Reeds.

Four, adrift within the Thousand Seas Cauldron.

Perennial Fortunes Shoal.

Five, blessed to witness the opening of the Approach of Azure Skies.

The Sky-Treading Azure Ox.

Six, the Fifth Seat, beneath venerable cousin [Lord Fifth].

Divine Serenities Eggmother.

Seventh, underfoot.

For the Divine Cinnabar Tortoise is vast indeed.

“Divine Bones,” by [Lord Eleventh] of the Second Heavenly Records

The first personal disciple stalked, and the second trailed at distance.

Of Bingai’s words - their Master’s words - little was spoken. A nod between brothers, whispers and calls to duty.

Celebration, after all, lay in the domain of the aimless.

In small exchanges Fu’s greetings continued, a “Forgiveness,” for those of cold demeanour, and a “Might I intrude,” for those that warmed at his approach. The disparity between Sects, between Empire and creed, this proved inconsequential against the one shared fact.

These [Constellation Seeds] were peerless.

“The Jade Leaf Sect shares their welcome.”

“This humble Blue of [Imperial Realm 666] shares her welcome.”

“My [Dao] take priority, cripple. Leave we disciples of the [Cherry River Pilgrim].”

In the hall of hundreds, Fu marked less than twenty to possess the treasures his Cloud Gathering Division sought. But the musings on their nature came swiftly, if not without aid from his [Intermediary Wisdom].

“For all that is known, Gao Fu,” mused the Old One. “If [Foundation] holds rank, and [Core Formation] holds its four upon the [Primordial Constellation Gate], then might [True Lord Realm] not hold their own?”

The [Ink] does not lie, old master, not to my meagre knowledge.

“[True Lord Realm], unrevealed. Why show gales to a man knowing only a draft. Why show an ocean to those that sink in saucers?”

You believe further [Constellation Seeds] might be added? [Dances Upon an Ivory Sea] possessed only five treasures. Bingbai holds five.

“Just so. Conjecture is no truth. Yet, what treasures are reaped from the [True Lord Grade]? No disciple has yet added one to their Path.”

Fu contemplated this.

The benefits of an immortal-ranked [Constellation Seed] would be peerless. Is this the reason for their overpowering presence through [Divine Sense]?

A question for their absent Master.

Then his thoughts of duty lapsed, for rumbling overcame the [Trial]. Once more this tower spread its warning, sparking a flame in all who still lingered. The exodus thereafter was swift, for what more might be gained from waiting?

Those of visible uncertainty stalled across from a [Demonic] wall of the same. Trepidatious warriors each side of the doorway’s reach.

Weak.

Or so the sentiments of all souls hoped.

In the hours since Bingbai’s ascension, Fu had commanded his disciples to do the same. Some had, and some would, in scattered order.

As he now did.

History repeated, not in the form of an [Asura], but of another. No, this [Demon’s] [Bloodline] was not of four-armed might as they; not the feminine charm of the [Rakshaka]; or the grotesque, natural form of the [Yakshi].

He that roared spittle-threwn challenge now was borne of the [Pishacha]. A brute of engorged, muscular form, three times the width of Fu’s shoulders and as many heads taller. If an unkind man, the word fiend might well have escaped his lips.

This history came by way of grunt, where gargantuan hands came to rest upon the [Pishacha’s] own hips. Soon followed by a raucous laugh. “You of Winter, of eight-armed beast and pincered friend. The Dao so calls me against you, what will you answer?”

Fu lowered his douli. “What might I answer, mighty [Demon]? Fools walk blindly, and the wise turn crisis into opportunity. If our [Dao] are to meet, what benefits would come?”

The meek remained here, spectating this talk. Disdain showed for the conversation between eternal foes.

“Cowards refrain from exposing their Dao. Ba-hah, not I. A Dao of Prideful Victory and its weight. Of my hammer. Crushing bone and pulverised flesh. This is your benefit, no? Hah, I see in you wind and gusting, a cold breeze is all I predict of you.”

Murmurs rose from this insult.

A high bow followed, silencing them. “The [Dao of Prideful Victory],” Fu nodded. “Gratitude, noble [Demon]- noble soul of the [Pishacha], if this is how you might be known. In fairness for your honesty, my [Dao] is of what you speak.”

“You have the way of it, foe,” he bellowed. “What matters is not the challenge, but of overcoming it! Never have I made dust of wind, and my blood seethes in anticipation.”

Shuidi has taken the [Demon’s] measure, fledgling as her experience was. His [Gu Core] was of higher equivalent to their own cultivation, and yet, the [Dao of Wayward Breezes] had grown impatient.

“An honor then,” said Fu, suggesting the [Demon] go first.

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The golden spokes delivered [Spring], and his foe’s insight proved novel.

Atop the platform, against balustrade and the arena’s expanse, the [Demon’s] manifestation reached all. It held a weight akin to the [Dao of Pooling Rain], or that of his prior [Dao of Suffocation]. An area subjugated by [Profundity].

A [Dao Field].

Fu marvelled as gold flocked to each corner like a wash of [Intent], and his peripheral insight into the [Dao of Crushing] made known what transpired.

“Dao of Prideful Victory. The battered plate of anvils, that which shudders before the coming blow. My foot, first upon the battlefield. I name it thus, the density of coming weight. A first blow, created in Spring.”

Gold drew across all corners, morphing the floor into that of a forge’s implement. A metallic, battered surface that quashed the breath in Fu’s chest.

But where this differed was plain.

Before the [Dao] conjured singular. One gust for his [Dao of Wayward Breezes], or one droplet had his [Dao of Pooling Rain] arrived - now the arena’s entirety possessed aspects of the [Pishacha’s] will.

Akin to a thousand blades against his one.

Hushi signalled with an arm, matching the subtle clack of Shuidi’s pincers.

Our [Dao] have never taken this form. But that is a fault we might rectify now. Let us surpass ourselves with this, no?

With eyelids shut, he touched the flow of air. Light, and full of potential. Yet so too filled with the [Demon’s] power.

A trial. For when his will manifested it was against a turgid oil, and his [Dao of Wayward Breezes] faltered.

Fu inclined his head, teasing fingers through the air. Qi held no place in this contest of [Dao], thus did not spill forth in aid. Here he commanded his [Spirit], weaving [Insight] like threads across a sodden tapestry.

Strain burdened his temples, refreshed only by beading sweat.

To expand a field of wayward things, perhaps there is humor to be found within this foolish act.

His efforts touched roaming drafts, seeing there the pattern they danced. Small circuits about the arena that his twitching finger nudged.

Transformation cannot come without motion. Our Path teaches us this. Then, we must look not to seize one ribbon, but welcome the breath that twists in all directions.

[Senses] revealed the way.

These bandying threads.

“It is the turn of power shifted. Season undiluted. Mistaken as that which is born again. The snows of [Winter] carry on to [Spring], thawed to deliver its second face. [Dao of Wayward Breezes], in [Spring], the Unceasing Motion.”

Golden winds blew, lapping this [Demon’s] anvil.

His single ribbon brushed its kin, and Fu’s control followed suit.

One wind is all winds. Their ribbons, the crossroads of potential. Change places uncertainty on all outcomes but this.

The [Dao Field] rose, binding each breeze that touched upon its kin. Currents of change, all beholden to his will should he wish to touch them. Fu felt them in his mind’s eye, flowing as if an extension of flesh.

Such a contest of wills came not as weight against weight. The [Demon’s] own [Dao Field] was as such- his space of mountainous pressure. Yet the breeze was no battling force, merely tapering each morsel of weight through its myriad streams.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“A martial warrior of fleet foot. It reveals much, child of Winter,” roared the coming laugh.

[Summer’s] sigil flared above.

Queer then, was the manifestation. A clash of sound. Metal upon metal, as if jian met in this gust-filled space.

“No lesser foe would award you. The pitiful should not fall within your attention. If done, treat with the haft and no head as is rightly deserved. Brutality and Martial Spirit meet only when challenge spurs worthy competition,” declared the [Demon]. “In Summer’s longevity, I name the Eternal Stalemate of an equal counter!”

Oh?

The mental pressure upon these combatants suddenly abated, though each [Dao Field] remained.

Brother, sister, I suspect this foe to repeat our own tactic. To dwindle his strength that his [Dao] might bring a resurgence. [Winter] could call for it, in finality. Or [Autumn] might bring about our downfall as it ought to.

The [Dao of Prideful Victory] seemed Martial in origin. Supportive of a [Demon’s] slaughter.

To reduce our own aspect might hasten this, for he might align his [Dao] with a sudden victory despite his words to the contrary. We have only read the inciting scripts, but this places doubt on the next manifestation.

Perhaps the [Demon] sought such.

A pensive moment as two Martial experts might find when blades met.

Shuidi clacked her pincers, impressing a suitable aspect.

Fu nodded. “Immorality reigns, and is this not [Summer]? The age unmoving, the land sustaining. When revealed of its abundance, when all facets peak; the pebble a mountain; the puddle an ocean; the lantern an inferno. All Paths might suffer divergence. So I name second the peril of Whimsy and Discovery. Scattered winds, for no singular breeze rules when myriad mysteries remain.”

His [Profundity] focused upon the intangible.

The winds scattered, as he named, and upon them came an oscillation of this [Demon’s] clashing metals. Sounds carried from near to far, and far to near. A vexation now his [Dao] was no longer center stage.

Laughter consumed the arena.

“What know you of my kin, Winter’s child? Gu’s beloved walk not with lightning upon palm or darkness at their shoulder. The spear advances, the jian thrusts. I see the memory of a sickled chain within your wrist, the deft strokes that severed that arm. Our breath is the Martial Path, twist not your Dao in the obvious patterns I have walked since birth.”

[Autumn’s] sigil rose.

“See one scar upon a nape. The warrior’s shame. Hate-steeped wounds. One mistake imperils the focus, an undedicated heart, beset and haunted. Forlorn memory or emotions to cloud judgement, it is the warrior’s folly! In [Autumn], the land knows the fallen. I name Remembrance as engraved in defeat. The brand that extinguishes neither in death nor weakness.”

BIle rose. Metallic in taste.

Fu felt his lip, seeing his fingertips stained crimson.

That-

An echo thrust through his stomach. Further blood welled. Both hands slapped at the jian emerging from his gut, searching as he spluttered and collapsed among a root-wrapped [Reliquary].

A blink.

Long’s blade. Was it so profound a blow? Enough to scar? The warrior’s shame? Perhaps. But it holds no bearing on the now.

Serenity cloaked Fu’s mind, and all wounds were undone. Ashed away in fading embers of gold.

Still the melody of metal sang, now pitched and close. A battle to rage wherever he might turn, as clear as vengeful thoughts.

True remembrance.

Deep weariness had set itself within Fu’s bones, as it had hazed his vision. The mental toll of this contest would have it decided soon.

“A glimpse into your history, [Demon]. Gratitude,” smiled Fu. “I will repay it, if you allow me this indulgence.”

The [Pishacha] bore demonic expression. An exaggerated show as all before him had held. Here, arch. “Yes, yes. Deepen our tethers, inscribe words of this within my memory. As a final rite, I grant you my ear.”

Once more Fu’s hand cradled his gut. No jian protruding. “A breeze blows. My fate, its cousin. In struggle I secured my Path to that of absent drifts, of ribbons to ebb and draft into the farthest reaches of wayward corners. Alongside this, I would blow without direction, pitting only my will towards the goal I so sought.”

[Autumn’s] sigil hung above, dimming as fresh motes of [Profundity] wisped beneath it.

“A warrior of misfortune,” named the [Demon].

Fu smiled. “A wayward breeze. Shaped in a crucible of others’ makings. But this is not true of wind. The essence of wind is the essence of transformation and no such force is moulded, only parted before return. I see your Remembrance, foe, and spread gratitude. For through it I recall that no ribbon remains itself: singular and static. One gust will ever touch another, becoming that which it suits best.”

Infuriation had the [Pishacha] scoff. “Wax no further, child of Winter. This speech stirs nothing in me.”

“In [Autumn], a Vestige. The shape of what comes before and arrives after.”

A madness became this [Demon’s] mouth, for the laughter spilled unceasing. He thrust his engorged arms wide, summarising the area.

The manifestation of nothing.

“Fool. This game is as a stranger to you,” he jovially roared, seeing the sigil above flare to [Winter]. “Remembrance fails against a Vestige, it is emboldened. One word for the same meaning. I name the Hibernation, the seclusion of a thousand moons entrenched. In [Winter], the tempering against all that leaves scars.”

Here the gold suffused Fu’s foe. A glow to radiate from flesh and pore, magnifying the strength of his conjured [Dao]. Enough to shatter mountains or reduce oceans in a single stroke, for he called upon an aspect to counter the three ghosts’ all.

Hushi nestled into his midden, and Shuidi re-shuffled to her partner’s hanfu.

[Ink] burned.

“A lamenting wind, a dust-rich gale, heat from peaks untouched by hands. An ocean’s spray, arc-touched gusts, the frigid breath from ice-capped lands. The wayward breeze need not bend, for it recalls the history of all it might be. I name you thus, [Dao of Four Horizons].”

The utterance shattered the arena’s weight, driving the [Demon] to a knee. Then, a heartbeat, and one hand held him from his platform’s floor. “Dishonorable trickery!” his breath escaped.

Fu’s [Dao] ascended, and with it the [Profundity] washed. An unformed strength- a richness to the air yet to be shaped.

So vast was this potential that even unformed it beat the [Demon] down.

“In [Winter], the cold that comes in certainty. A cruel wind, atop which rides a scream to remove heat from memory. The Glacial Wind.”

One such scream came, and all became ice.

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