Fatherly Asura

A Martial God once walked in the form of the True Golden Demon.

A Goddess of External Arts once walked in the form of the Empress Above All.

These were not given by the [Dao], but the people. Monikers from legend.

To be named as such by the [Boundless Dao] requires but one thing, and it shall ever escape those that seek it.

“Registered Names of the Clear Sky,” an excerpt.

Material properties and their nature as ascribed by Qi density could be reduced to mortal terms. This was not to say Fu could not understand the series of tomes that had passed his hand, but as with the [Dao] it was a boon that he might condense such vast knowledge into singular concepts.

“The venerable carpenter states here a useful passage,” he explained, channeling external [Air Qi] to hold the pages from tearing. “...in antithesis, Gu. Where this is absence, all experts conclude that Qi is substance. To follow from this one must consider how unplucked resources might ascend when saturated in higher densities. A branch grows no more when severed from the trunk, where the latter continues. Fundamentals as covered in previous tomes.”

A long-haired [Spirit Hound] had collapsed on the Path, having Fu step around she and her cultivator both.

The wind tried hard to blow his tome over the edge.

“Disparate properties. Yes, this is the passage.”

Shuidi impressed patience. A beast knew these things intrinsically, if not the terms that scribes used to catalogue them.

“...if it is substantial relies on personal context, for no metric exists outwith [Law of Origin] grading for the density or applicable grade of realms. [Mortal], [Foundation], and the varying stages of [Core Formation]. But, the promising carpenter might consider first their own position upon the scale. This humble artisan often uses the forest’s bane for example,” Fu continued. “A flame is a flame, but not to all. [Light Qi], [Heat Qi], [Fire Qi] are its natural substantive composites and yet with lacking saturation - and laterally - purity, it will not brighten, warm nor burn all hands.”

A flick of will had the tome vanish as Fu considered his reading.

“Fundamantal indeed.”

Small manifested wisps of the Old One spoke beside him. “Doubtless, Ban Bingbai knows this. Viewpoints. To shift perspective and consideration. These are the lessons between inked word.”

To consider the disparity between materials when exposed to differing Qi densities? Or to consider the possibility?

Fu put his indulgence to the side, endeavouring not to blind himself of the task at hand. For the prior dozen li he had merely taken advantage of the calm.

Ahead lay a different beast.

The [Lonesome Wind God] trial was, reportedly, that of ascension. A commonality well overused across the Jianghu given the symbolism between rising in power and moving physically upward.

Shuidi glared derisively at seven more collapsed cultivators before they reached a wider plateau, if only an outcropping where more than one hundred bodies might sit before continuing the perilous path higher.

“Another pilgrim,” carried a feminine voice on the wind.

Many meditative cultivators sat with their fronts to the expansive ocean below, save for the twin figures ahead that looked ready to progress.

While he had learned much from the beggar he was no assassin today.

“Fellow pilgrims,” Fu greeted, clasping his hands.

“Pilgrim,” the two said in turn.

They bore loose, white robes emblazoned with blue petals, the quality of which could not belong to any major faction.

“A good [Autumn] brings change, I hope you both find what you seek,” he offered, breathing deep of the breeze. “Do you seek the top?”

Of near juvenile appearance, the excitement of these two disciples was palpable. “It is our Sect’s rite of inauguration. We must pass the second rest to reach the outer sect. The fourth if we wish to prove our talent.”

Fu smiled, greeting their [Spirit Falcons] as they came to roost. “Four of eight is admirable, young disciples. Again, I wish you fortune.”

A single step beyond them drew a gasp.

“This master cultivator travels with such ease!” exclaimed the second.

The winds had increased from breath to blow.

“Is this why you pause?” Fu asked, gesturing airily.

Both disciples hung their heads. “The second rest is distant. Roaming Petal Hall requires resilience of its disciples, and we would not discredit its lessons with failure.”

Gentle impressions surfaced from Hushi, prompting the douli to lift.

“My partner would ask a thing, fellow pilgrims. To this, there is no wrong answer,” Fu said. Under subtlety, Hushi expanded his [Senses] over the pair. Disciples so fresh in their Path could scarce mask their intentions with unrefined [Spirit].

Shock wiped excitement from their expressions. “These humble initiates will answer as best they can.”

Their [Spirit] held no malice, nor pride.

“[When wind meets mountain, does it break]?” intoned Shuidi’s [Profundity]-laced words. Said purposefully, said slowly, that these youths might conclude the answer without plummeting over the cliffside in [Epiphany].

It was never word or arrangement that delivered insight, but meaning. The essence of understanding transmitted in boundless gold.

Indeed, Zhu had once told certain Wayward Wind’s disciples “An axe is sharp,” to receive peace from their inquiries.

Fu pressed both gently to the main rockface, and they instinctually folded into the lotus position. “May your Paths be interesting, fellow pilgrims. Further opportunity will await you at the fourth rest. See that you make it there.”

🀨

Breath to blow.

Blow to budge.

Budge to bludgeon.

Gale.

Tempest.

A cultivator of [Air Qi] should hold more words for wind, and yet a lack of description did not cease the seventh rest’s adversity.

Words were stolen before Fu could speak them. Two dawns had passed since his last.

This trial was of Heaven’s fury.

Of gales to part vast oceans, scour continents and whisk free a mountain’s roots. In another [Season] might dilute the rage with [Pull], drawing the maelstrom of pure [Air Qi] into his [Core].

[Autumn] denied that with its tyranny.

Fu’s chain thrust forth.

Slash. Parry. Twist.

Step.

“Insight should not be traded for [Prowess],” impressed Shuidi.

The memory of these winds will not easily fade. Few heaven sent opportunities could be as rewarding for our martial Path. To spar with the storm itself.

Perhaps he could call his [Dao] to arrive at the peak, but that would temper little. So his chain flew and so his step advanced.

Margins, blown back two for every five he stole as the rotation of his [Wind Phantom Strides] proved insufficient to dampen the wind wholly, His efforts were no more than string cast into a storm.

His [Senses] spoke of a thousand, thousand violent ribbons that intersected cut and battle against the other. Against it, the chain swept sidelong or vertical, rearwards and curled. It harkened back to his previous insight.

No [Dao of Four Horizons] nor fledgling [Dao of Reach], but that of [Wayward Breezes].

The wind raged with each subsequent step. Fu gripped tight his chain, returning it to rest. He did not know how far he had come, nor the distance yet to be crossed.

To overcome this adversity we must return to our foundation. Let us follow the path of our progress until once more we can embrace this storm.

Amidst the unforgiving gale, Fu and Hushi stalled.

Shuidi’s net of [Senses] expanded around them, impressing her instinct the myriad lashing ribbons.

The first form was a simplicity of throws.

Thus he threw.

Thus Hushi leapt in support, weaving between his wind-blown misses.

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

Instinct chased the air’s current that this strike might be bolstered with its given haste: such was the initiate’s understanding of the [Wind Phantom Strides]. To progress higher was to learn their coercion.

Ten, twenty, forty, eighty times his martial form went wayward. And these infantile numbers only grew across his ascent.

The wind tore against his [Heavenly Spectre’s Shroud].

One hundred and eighty six.

Damaging.

Four hundred and nineteen.

Reaping.

[Inner Qi] cycled.

One thousand and three.

As ever, his chain screamed sidelong.

But both cultivator and [Spirit Octopus] had reached their rhythm, entering martial equilibrium against the harrowing grindstone of these incessant winds.

Fu’s vision gleaned this maddened lattice of intersecting ribbons, and through it, he lashed.

His chain sailed forth, cracking like a wind-buffetted sail. Again to his rear. Once more to his fore - his side, inverted, looped, snaked, circuited - hitherto wayward strikes channeled the tempest’s current about it.

Not against.

Then to his chest the chain’s head held firm, cycling in his grip as neater strikes began. Plunges, slashes, counters and thrusts. For each step taken Fu would skirt the thrashing ribbons, and perhaps [Might], [Control] or [Constitution] spirited him away upon the storm itself.

A spectral dance from near to far and near once more, blurring across cliffside and sky with such speed he was certain he saw spectres of himself in his wake.

The Fatherly [Asura] did not grin in triumph for these steps were yet wayward.

A vestige of his prior path and experience.

We are no longer the loose tether. All we have weathered pushes at our back. The destination is that of our making.

Thunderous gusts defied this notion at its very thought, tearing a fist of spectral flesh from his [Heavenly Spectre’s Shroud].

Another panged an immensity of pain from Hushi.

Upon the screaming zephyr there came a challenge. The resonance of a dare carried throughout the thousand, thousand cutting ribbons, as though the Heavens themselves were gleeful at this fool’s attempt to wrest the storm.

When Fu’s blade danced next he found himself a li from the cliffside.

Adrift in gales.

A second li came at the next, multiplying faster than his heart might pound.

“This Gao Shuidi thinks it is the Heavens that dare! To deliver such a dangerous wind is no folly but theirs.”

Fu tightened his grip, intent on the path that only grew more distant, and slashed.

🀨

The serenity set his skin ablaze in warning.

“Amituofo, pilgrim. This wind-swept seeker welcomes you to the peak.”

Fu’s mask was not donned, thus the monastic Vajra woman suffered no blade to her neck. She received a low bow in its place. “Sister pilgrim,” he met. “This humble cultivator welcomes your hospitality.”

Here jutted the cliff’s final edge, though to what lay below even his [Pale Mists Hegemony] could not peirce. Only the vague accumulation of myriad clouds severed the seventh and eighth rests with their presence, resting as seal between undeniable tempest and the breathy touch of the pinnacle’s grounds.

Hushi crawled to the cusp, ruminating on the vastness about them.

His cultivator entered the lotus beside him.