Chapter 80: Perpetual Power
A razor-thin smile touched Su Yao’s lips, the kind that never reached her eyes. She opened a graphics-intensive game and set it to run on maximum video settings. The phone screen blazed, a chaotic swirl of particle effects and combat animations. Su Yao watched it with the analytical focus of a pathologist performing an autopsy.
Her mind, a repository of both ancient alchemy and forcibly acquired modern physics, sifted through possibilities. A perpetual power source was something physical, something that defied entropy.
Nuclear, she thought. It was the obvious, mundane answer for such a dense, long-lasting energy signature. A radioisotope thermoelectric generator, scaled down. But which isotope? Plutonium-238 was the classic choice for deep-space probes. Its heat and radiation would be a detectable giveaway.
No, Plutonium-238 was too risky for a consumer device.
Then, a more cynical, modern thought occurred to her. Nickel-63, a beta emitter with a half-life of over 100 years. It produced no penetrating gamma radiation, making it relatively easy to shield. It was a ‘clean’ beta source. The public would never know.
A cold smirk touched her lips. Of course.
The moment a watchdog like Greenpeace got a whiff of it, the scandal would be catastrophic. ‘Tezca’s Phones are Nuclear Waste!’ So they used something quiet, something they could hide behind layers of polymer and legal disclaimers.
“Clever,” she murmured to the glowing, shrieking device. “And utterly cowardly.” Fear of public perception was the limiting factor. It was so perfectly, pathetically corporate.
But the theory had a flaw. Even a nickel-63 battery, while long-lived, would have a measurable, gradual decline. It wouldn’t sit at a perfect 100% for hours under maximum load.
Her eyes narrowed. The diagnostic scripts showed no power draw because the power was being supplemented in real time from somewhere else.
Her phone continued its frantic display, unfazed. The battery indicator remained locked at 100%.
Impossible. It was an affront to physics, to alchemy, and to her own considerable patience.
A slow breath left her lungs. She was a celestial fox, a master of schemes spanning millennia, and she was currently losing a war of attrition against a consumer electronic device.
Enough.
With a sharp tap, she force-quit every application, plunging the phone into a silent, black oblivion. She slipped it back into her pocket. The unnatural warmth of its casing was a persistent, mocking presence against her hip.
Some puzzles required a clear mind, resources, and the specific brand of bureaucratic leverage that a certain government agent could provide. Trying to solve it now, in the back of a moving car, was beneath her.
The rideshare pulled up to her apartment building and she got out. The night air was cool against her skin. She filed the mystery of the phone in her mind. There were, after all, still more pressing mysteries, like a fox hunting its own.
Tomorrow, she would hand the radioactive shrimp and the impossible phone to Zhang Wei. Let Stabilization earn its keep. For now, the only investigation that mattered was the one she was going to perform on her own sleep cycle.
Behind her, the sleek black door of her apartment hissed shut. The locks engaged with a series of solid thunks. Su Yao’s eyes adjusted instantly to the dark, parsing the familiar contours of her sparsely furnished living space. Her first action was to withdraw the evidence bag from her pocket.
The shrimp within was still glistening, a pathetic little vector of corporate negligence. She held it up, examining the seal. Her containment bags were woven with spatial-alignment threads and stabilized by her own foxfire. They could hold a miniature supernova without a flicker. The radiation wasn’t going to leak. She placed it on the kitchen counter, a single, contained problem among many.
Her gaze then swept the room, lingering on the shadows. Sleep was a biological necessity for mortals, but it was also a vulnerability even for her. The black robes hunted foxes. They used relics to track spiritual signatures and preferred to strike when their target’s conscious mind was offline when the ancient, automatic defenses of the soul were just a hair slower to react.
Was her guard at its lowest now? In the quiet dark of her own home?
A cold smile touched her lips. Let them try.
She walked to her bedroom. The thought was a challenge thrown into the void. Come find me when I’m dreaming. It would be more interesting than investigating battery life.
She lay down on the bed. Her senses were stretched to their finest, most passive edge. She was bait in a trap she herself had set. The phone, now silent and dark in her pocket, felt like a second heartbeat, waiting.
The night passed without incident. Su Yao opened her eyes to the gray light of dawn filtering through the window. She lay perfectly still for a moment, assessing the state of her own consciousness and the undisturbed space around her.
She sat up. A low sound of displeasure hummed in her throat.
“Disappointing,” she announced to the empty room. Her voice was flat. She had offered a vulnerability. The world had lacked the courtesy to exploit it. It was insulting.
Her gaze fell on the kitchen counter. The evidence bag with the shrimp sat there, inert and undramatic. Next to it, the Tezca phone remained dark. Two puzzles, one mundane, one impossible, both refusing to provide any immediate entertainment or leads.
With a sigh of pure exasperation, she swung her legs out of bed. Fine. If the enemies of the day were going to be sloth and corporate evasion, so be it.
She snatched the evidence bag and the phone from the counter. It was time to delegate. Let Zhang Wei and his government lab coats run their geiger counters and power analyzers. They could do the tedious legwork.
Su Yao phased directly into Zhang Wei’s cubicle. The air cracked with the sound of displaced reality. He jolted, nearly spilling his coffee. A stack of forms fluttered to the floor.
“Test this,” she commanded, dropping the sealed evidence bag onto his keyboard. The single, glistening shrimp landed with a soft, pathetic thud.
Zhang Wei stared at it, then at her. His expression was a mixture of exhaustion and dread. “What is that?”
“A shrimp from the Tezca gala, contaminated with Caesium-137 as confirmed by a reliable source.” She said nothing about the source being a UFO-obsessed ancient wolf spirit.
His face paled. He picked up the bag with two fingers, holding it at arm’s length as if it were a live scorpion. “Caesium-137? At a Tezca event? Do you have any idea the kind of scandal—”
“That is your department,” Su Yao interrupted. Her tone was dismissive. “I have identified a flaw in their operations. You will now exploit it. Run your scans and trace the supply chain. I want a full report on their negligence by the end of the day.”
Before he could protest, she placed the Tezca phone on his desk next to the shrimp. “And this. The battery does not deplete under any load. I have attempted to brute-force a drain. It remains at one hundred percent.”
Zhang Wei looked from the radioactive seafood to the impossibly powered phone. His professional composure cracked. “Xiao Ling, I’m a field agent, not a—”
“Then find me someone who is,” she said, turning to leave. “The shrimp is a lever, the phone is a mystery. Both are now your problems.”
Su Yao left Zhang Wei staring in dismay at the shrimp and the phone. She phased through the sterile corridors of the government facility with single-minded purpose. Her path took her through a high-ceilinged training area. There, she stopped.
In the center of the matted floor, Li Xiu stood. Her eyes were closed in concentration. A visible aura of pale gold spiritual energy shimmered around her.
With a sharp exhalation, Li Xiu thrust her palms forward. A wave of energy shot out, striking a heavily warded dummy with a resonant thump that echoed in the vast space. The dummy glowed, absorbing the impact, but a hairline crack appeared on its surface.
Li Xiu opened her eyes. A bead of sweat traced her temple. She looked at the crack. A small, triumphant smile touched her lips.
“Your form is undisciplined,” Su Yao’s voice cut through the hum. It was flat and clinical. “You’re channeling power from your dantian as if shoveling coal into a furnace. Seventy percent of the energy is wasted in diffusion before it even leaves your hands.”
Li Xiu jumped. The golden aura around her flickered and sputtered out like a cut wire. “X-Xiao Ling! I didn’t see you there.”
“Obviously.” Su Yao walked closer. Her eyes scanned Li Xiu from head to toe. “The power is there. You have a surprising depth, likely unlocked by the stress of recent events and those pills. But you are trying to wield a surgeon’s scalpel with the finesse of a lumberjack.”
Li Xiu’s shoulders slumped slightly. The triumph faded from her eyes. “I’m trying. Director Hao said I need to learn to defend myself. That I can’t just rely on Yumi or, anyone else forever.”
“A prudent, if belated, realization,” Su Yao acknowledged. She circled Li Xiu slowly. “Your error is in the conduit. You’re forcing the energy through meridians that are still too narrow for this volume. What you need to do is refine the flow. Otherwise, you will burn yourself out from the inside.”
She stopped in front of Li Xiu. “Again. But this time, imagine the energy is a laser. Focus it to a single needle point.”
Li Xiu took a deep breath, nodding. She closed her eyes again. The golden light re-ignited around her. This time, it was brighter, more concentrated. She thrust her hands out once more.
A thinner, sharper beam of light lanced forward. It struck the same dummy with a quieter, higher-pitched tzennn. A small, neat hole was punched straight through the warded material.
Li Xiu’s eyes flew open, wide with shock and elation. “I did it!”
“You created a pinhole,” Su Yao corrected. “It’s a start. Now, do it again fifty times. Then we will discuss why you’re still engaged to that useless Jian Feng.”
Li Xiu’s elation vanished, replaced by a familiar, flustered anxiety. “That’s—! It’s a family alliance! It’s not that simple!”
“All things are simple,” Su Yao said, turning to leave. “It’s merely a question of applying the correct amount of force to the correct point. Continue your drills.”
Su Yao watched, arms crossed, as Li Xiu began the repetitive drills. After the tenth attempt, her form began to falter. The laser-precise beam blurred back into a diffuse wave.
“Stop,” Su Yao commanded. “You’re regressing. Survival is about enduring, adapting, and creating an opening for escape or reinforcement.”
She gestured. A shimmering, semi-transparent clone of herself materialized on the training mat. “This clone possesses a fraction of my speed and none of my techniques. Its sole purpose is to attack you. Your goal is to avoid being struck for the next sixty seconds.”
Before Li Xiu could even nod, the clone blurred into motion. A palm strike aimed for Li Xiu’s center of mass.
Li Xiu yelped, throwing up a hasty, wide barrier of golden light. The clone’s strike shattered it effortlessly and sent Li Xiu stumbling back. Her forearms were stinging.
“Too slow, too broad,” Su Yao’s voice was a cold commentary from the sidelines. “You’re trying to block an ocean with a wall when you need to deflect a river with a stone. Minimal energy, maximum disruption.”
The clone pressed the attack, a flurry of simple, direct strikes. Li Xiu, panicked and kept trying to erect full-body shields, each one crumbling under the onslaught. She was being driven backward. Her spiritual energy was depleting rapidly.
“Stop defending everywhere!” Su Yao snapped. “Predict the point of impact! Form a localized shield, no larger than your palm! Now!”
On the next strike, a fist aimed at her shoulder, Li Xiu focused. A small, intensely bright disc of energy flared to life just over her shoulder. The clone’s fist connected with a sharp crack of dissipating energy, but Li Xiu held her ground. The shield held.
“Good. Now move! A static target is a dead target!”
Li Xiu began to weave, creating small, precise shields at the last possible moment, deflecting blows rather than absorbing them. She was still on the defensive, still breathing heavily, but she was no longer being bulldozed. The clone’s attacks were being redirected. Its rhythm was slightly disrupted.
“Fifty-five seconds,” Su Yao announced. “My clone will now simulate a capturing technique.”
The clone’s hands moved in a weaving pattern. A net of spiritual energy began to form around Li Xiu.
“Break the weave! Be a needle, not a hammer! Find the weakest thread and sever it!”
Li Xiu’s eyes darted across the forming net. She saw a slightly dimmer strand near the top and thrust a finger forward. A needle-thin beam of light lanced out. It snipped the strand. The entire net flickered and collapsed into motes of light.
“Sixty seconds.” Su Yao dismissed the clone with a wave.
Li Xiu collapsed to her knees, gasping for air. Her body trembled with exertion.
“You prioritized defense over offense, conserved energy by using localized shields, and identified a structural weakness in a complex technique to exploit.”
“Adequate,” Su Yao looked down at her. “You would not have won. But you might have survived long enough for that mutt Yumi or even that fool Jian Feng to arrive. It’s the foundation of a passable defense.”
Li Xiu looked up. Sweat was dripping from her chin, but a hard, new glint of determination was in her eyes. “Adequate isn’t enough.”
“Then stop complaining about political engagements and train until it’s,” Su Yao said, turning finally to leave. “The world care little for your complications. It only recognizes power.”
Su Yao had barely taken two steps when a voice, smooth as polished stone and just as cold, cut through the training hall’s hum.
“This is inefficient.”
Yumi leaned against the doorway. Her arms were crossed. She watched Li Xiu’s exhausted, kneeling form with an expression of confusion.
“Why is she struggling to block? Why practice deflecting?” Yumi’s head tilted. Her gaze was utterly sincere in its bafflement.
“If an opponent is superior, the solution is simple. You identify the one instant they are overextended, vulnerable. Then you kill them over and over again until their dead are permanent. All problems of defense become irrelevant if the attacker ceases to exist.”
Li Xiu stared at her bodyguard. A fresh wave of horror dawned on her sweat-streaked face.
Su Yao paused, glancing from the pragmatic gumiho to the heiress. “Because, you blunt instrument, not every situation permits, or requires, maximum lethality. Sometimes, the political fallout of turning a rival cultivator into a fine red mist is inconvenient.”
Yumi considered this for a moment, then shrugged one shoulder. “Then make it look like an accident. Make it like a qi deviation, a tragic training mishap, or a sudden pre-existing condition.”
She looked back at Li Xiu. Her voice took on a tone of instructive patience. “Little Mistress, blocking is hard. Killing is easy. It’s one motion, one focus. All your energy goes forward. There is no waste. Survival is guaranteed.”
“That’s not what Director Hao meant by ‘defending myself’!” Li Xiu stammered.
“Director Hao is a bureaucrat. He thinks in terms of liability and paperwork,” Yumi countered flatly. “I think in terms of your continued heartbeat. The most effective defense is turning your opponent into a corpse that can no longer attack.”
Su Yao let out a short, dry sound that was almost a laugh. “A refreshing, if sociopathic, perspective.” She looked at Li Xiu. “Consider it your final lesson for the day. When all else fails and the rules of engagement have shattered, remember the gumiho’s doctrine.” She gave Yumi a nod of professional respect. “It has a certain brutal elegance.”
Yumi nodded back. A silent understanding passed between the two ancient predators. Then she focused her unsettlingly calm gaze back on Li Xiu.
“The drill is still flawed. But the objective is clearer now, yes? Stop trying to endure the storm, learn to become the lightning that ends it.” She pushed off the doorway. “When you’re ready to learn how to make it clean, I will show you.”
“Precisely,” Yumi’s voice echoed. A note of satisfaction was in its chilling clarity. “The best part is the silence. Dead men tell no tales. They can’t dispute your account of the event. You can claim they attacked with forbidden techniques, that they were possessed by a demon, or that you merely tapped them and their spirit combusted from sheer inadequacy.”
She gave a slight, elegant shrug. “The narrative becomes yours to control. Every action you took is justified self-defense by default.”
Li Xiu looked utterly appalled. Her face was pale. “That’s monstrous! And dishonest!”
“It’s efficient,” Yumi corrected, unmoved. “And it keeps you alive. Honesty is a luxury for the powerful, Little Mistress. You aren’t yet there. Until you are, survival is built on plausible deniability and decisive outcomes.”
Su Yao watched the exchange. A faint, approving smirk was on her lips. “She’s not wrong. Did you know the Celestial Court itself runs on such principles? The official record is often the only truth that matters.”
She looked at Li Xiu. “You wish to protect your family? Then understand that sometimes protecting them requires making sure certain voices are permanently silenced. It’s the oldest form of governance.”
Yumi nodded in agreement. “See? She understands. It’s about resource management. The resource is your safety and the cost is their existence, a simple transaction.”
Li Xiu hugged herself, looking back and forth between the ancient fox and the lethal gumiho. A sense of isolation was on her face. She was being taught statecraft by assassins and cosmic manipulators.
“Now,” Yumi said. Her focus returned to the training dummy. “Shall we practice a ‘self-defense’ maneuver that targets the celestial nexus? It severs the soul’s connection to the body instantly. The corpse shows no outward marks. It’s very clean.”