It was one thing to boast, another to fulfill.

In his years, he’d heard many tales. Enough that Olimuth became very good at discerning who had the chops, and who couldn’t even keep their laces knotted, and much less weave tales to him. He wasn’t a heartless man, as many regarded—just weathered—and prone to quick judgement allowed him the privilege to discard those who added no value to his life, or profession. He did enjoy the benefits of being one-of-a-kind within a thousand li, no doubt. Even without a direct request to the Patriarch, a suggestion, or implication would have whatever’s in the Patriarch’s power to be set up as perfectly as he would think in his head, or even better than he could imagine.

The Patriarch personally came to him—Patriarch Meng, the ruling head of both clan and family Grittus. Authority shaken only to one man, who most thought of as dead. When the Patriarch desired something, he got it, just as he, the sole Pillmaker with his entitlements. Wasn’t a shocker, the Patriarch came every year or so for specialty pills, either for himself or his pampered son.

A night and day comparison for both father-son duos. Xinrei—with overbearing demands that overstepped his own scope in Pillmaking; Patriarch Meng who put in requests that would take decades to fulfill. When they step out and leave, either one of them has a final word, a last say, or a subtle demonstration of their power, both real and bureaucratic. Intimidation was laughable in these parts—to him, what could they do? Where would they find another Pillmaker short of taking the trip to the Jadeflower Sect and get gouged in price anyways? Despite this, at least one of them wanted to mend their dampened pride at the thought of someone possessing more skill or knowledge at something than themselves.

Then there were the families proceeding in the wake of their ultimate string-holders, the Fang’s, the Rei’s, and the Orlith’s. Three shared similar attitudes in so much likeness Olimuth wondered why they even bothered to isolate themselves at all.

Time changes all, and to Olimuth’s strange curiosity, the Orlith’s fell hardest. He remembers Gihren Orlith well—more than he thinks he does, and that’s a given. The Gihren he knew then and now serve as antitheses, both very aware of the other’s existence. Knowing Gihren, knowing his temperament—should he have saw the future, he would’ve taken his life. Of that he has no doubt. He couldn’t. Because, like humans, there’re attachments when formed, can be impossible to break. A Husband. A Father.

To be enslaved to such things is an angel to this man, whether he realizes it or not.

He listened to the man’s plea’s for revival after that day; the final day of the Rosewater Exchange, a dashing and confident Gihren, who faced off at his final competitor for his bracket when he finished off all other clans, sects, families who played as crabs in a bucket for the Queen’s amusement, and for a golden ticket from heaven to become more than they are. Gihren was a marvel, that day. His sword, white, stainless, and sharp, even after a thousand cuts by its overeager master.

Gihren was vetted to be in the top twenty of the placings, but he raised an upset as he was grossly underestimated. Top twenty? He fought for top five. That placement was guaranteed some gift from the monarch herself. The upper four were impossible, a placing for groomed geniuses. But five? It would be a position for another genius—just not the one who was expected.

Grisla’s father had only one more opponent to leave this bracket and begin climbing out of the top fifteen, unannounced to prevent fixing or unfair preparation. He sat in meditation, and the breeze lifted his hair and let the loose fabric of his robe dance with the conductor. The audience began to pick up their cheers and surprise, loud enough that Gihren had sensed, and knew, his opponent was on stage now. He opened his eyes only to be shocked. A man who he recognized as a member of the clan was his opponent.

Normally, the brackets would be thought out so that members from the same organization wouldn’t be pitted against one another so early, a drama like that would be reserved for the top ten and above. As Gihren knew, the man he faced was a baby cousin of the Patriarch’s. One almost didn’t need to be informed of it, the qualities of a Grittus from the Grittus family dripped off them.

They bowed, they waited, then the official declared the start. Illusory, that tranquilness was from both. In their duel these familial clansmen threw blows at each other without any hesitation, supposed the drive to win trumped any sort of reservations either one might’ve had. Gihren’s spectacular dance with blade and movement in unison kept his opponent on the backfoot. Olimuth remembered being entranced for quite some time, then, they were evenly matched once Gihren’s opponent made his adjustment. Gihren swiped, his opponent dodged. The man put a fist to Gihren’s ribs but had to retreat lest he ends up taking a retaliatory slash.

The tit-for-tat became a battle of attrition. Both men were covered in wounds—severe, glancing, and unknown. Gihren’s hair long ago started to stick to the blood at his forehead. The stands were tight, and the Grittus clan couldn’t rip their eyes away from it, even if they wanted to. Though they shared the same clan name, it was untrue to think of them as both equally valued seeds. It was normal and expected for the clan’s household to always be treated and invested in for superior quality. An individual could see it for themselves, if they took a glance at the Grittus family who sat above the Rei’s. The Patriarch’s eyes were bulging, should he get any more incensed, it wouldn’t be surprising for them to fall out of their sockets.

Other families within the stands grinned at this new development, a branch family—the Orlith’s, small in numbers with nothing of note to say; now had a member standing on equal footing just like that?

After many years, the family finally groomed a gem to be looked at.

It was a cause for celebration, until—Gihren Orlith, clawed at his chest in agony abruptly, just as he was preparing to run his foe through. His opponent stole the opportunity presented, throwing out a beatdown the likes of which had Olimuth wondering how many times Gihren phased in and out of consciousness. Despite the table-turning attack, Gihren ignored the assault. His chest was of greater priority.

Gihren’s spirit kept hold, but his body could not. His foe took one step, and during, Olimuth saw that there was a victorious sneer painted on his face, and he threw a punch aimed for Gihren’s chest—for his heart.

The blow never landed. For a thundercloud clapped in from the west.

Every martial artist, every mortal, every laborer selling off treats to the stands turned, stunned—and staring. A woman appeared on the arena floor, and Meng’s cousin was dead thereafter. This woman, this stranger… they saw before, they knew who she was. However she paid none of the attention any mind, for her eyes went to one direction. Olimuth followed her frigid stare, followed the line it directed to, and there was only one thing in her sight—one person.

Patriarch Meng Grittus.

He would never forget what happened that day. Nobody did.

It was just unfortunate their time together had to end like this.

A miracle pill, a heavenly thing to undo the damage done, did not exist, or rather—it was beyond any skill that man possessed on this island. His son had no idea how used to this he was. Many a time off a shift Gihren would barge into his place, demanding for him to change something that couldn’t. A heart too weak to sustain the Juva he poured into it, a leg which couldn’t be mended by their best healers. It occurred so often Olimuth had some sort of booking for his rants, however the first—the first was a plea from a broken man. Their dynamic had never leaked to the public, no matter how much Gihren cursed him, swore that Olimuth descended from dogs, his mother was this, his father was that, and on it went…

In recent events, the Patriarch put in a request, of upmost priority and outlined the purpose to Olimuth, to be very clear of the severity of the commission. Words written in flowery script at the top of a scroll, stamped and sealed directly from the Patriarch. The Rosewater Exchange’s happening again.

“Again? So soon?” He blurted.

The Patriarch, in his understanding nodded, “I agree. But it’s as said.”

The orders were for two hundred high-grade Soul Cleansing Pills, fifty Marrow Enrichment Pills, thirty-two Lifetap Pills and fifteen Soul Revitalizing Pills. The total cost would be able to buy his position two times over. He couldn’t help himself from shaking in the number of hours this would consume. Cultivators relished their alone time, while he admonished the thought. Patriarch Meng might as well have told Olimuth to sleep at his pestle.

With one last scan of the scroll, there was one last marking he’d forgotten to take in. But he did not blame himself—the Patriarch had barely written it in! A quarter of the size and located at the bottom of the page it was in relation to the others. Olimuth read it. Blinking, he read it again. A second time, a third, fourth. He stopped.

“…I will be the one providing the materials. Don’t worry yourself.” Patriarch Meng said.

Don’t worry myself, he said! This pill… they have something in mind for sure.

Olimuth’s flick of a wrist had the scroll landing on a nearby workbench. “Long as I receive payment, what do I care? I am curious, do you think it’ll be necessary?” He said.

Meng flashed an abstruse smile, “If all goes well at the Exchange then we won’t need it. It’s just a precaution, the Queen’s been highly incensed as of late.”

The crowd, seeing as the show for the day was mostly through, dispersed in batches. A new thread of interest they carried home or on their walk, or wherever they had planned for the day. Grisha Orlith, first cycle of the Juva Solidification stage, wagering up his life to supply his pills. They hadn’t believed a shred of what he meant, irrespective of the strength of his boast, or the power of his declaration. Olimuth was there and listened to his ramble too.

Fate and destiny were never humanity’s friends, a fatal blow to a cultivator, a laughable concept to an immortal. He dares to spout nonsense, to defy what has already been laid out for him? Such foolishness extended into insanity, oh Gihren, how I pity you…

When he finished, this boy made not a flinch at the words said. Did he not process before speaking? Is he as daft as rumors said? Olimuth couldn’t figure out his writing. A feeling of something, that which he couldn’t reconcile with, that which wouldn’t tell him explicitly of what was in motion in his heart. Breaths had passed after his uproar but his poise—iron firm, shoulders straight. Like the young martial artist had spoken of it as a fact as any other. It pressured Olimuth to wonder if he was the one who boasted.

The conflict was too much for him to bare.

Just another liar, a boaster with the clan's arrogance who by chance manages to walk around in rags for robes. There’s no difference! Go ahead, get yourself killed! And then when you die, Gihren’ll finally have no more reason to stay in this world, all three of you can follow each other! You’ll only be hurting yourself trying to fight against that which is fated!

“I can only spare a breadcrumb of fortune for your trip, Grisman, may you understand,” He said. The duo kept walking, more specifically, the son who walked on as if his ears went bad.

Olimuth, with his furrowed brows had thought to speak out, when—

“Elder Olimuth, one more thing.” The boy, who was walking back whence he came with his father turned his head, “Stop calling me Grislan, or Grisleev, or Grisman. It’s Grisla, Grisla Orlith. Remember it.”

Olimuth sneered, This guy!

“You’ve got some nerve, little pest! You think you can come back alive, be my guest! Hell, come back in one piece and I’ll call you whatever you desire runt.”

The boy hadn’t backed down, not then, not now. He only… nodded. “Sure, easy.”

Speechless, Olimuth watched as they walked further and further away to disappear out of sight. But the boy’s spirit still lingered, hovering over the street with its power. Back inside the shop, an assistant came close.

“Some idiots. He’ll end up being Shade Beast breakfast in under an hour.”

“That’s some credit!” Another assistant said.

“What’re you all wasting time for! There’s an order to fulfill, worthless shits! Get to work or you can work on your charity performance outside the store!” Olimuth said. Watching his helping hands bolt to the workshop behind the storefront, with no customers near, he grinned as he looked out the window.

He’s got it… the fire of that mother of his, and the stubbornness of his father. If only things were different. But, if in a great hypothetical he managed to turn weakness into fortune then… There would be no doubt, that boy will possess something no other man would.