Their clash was like a duel of swordsmen: measured steps, dutiful blocks. The push and pull. Avarice chased Seri’s shadow around Limbo; two users of ‘Steps of the Alpha’ made it so those below their level would see nothing but blurred figures, as if confused whether they wanted to become corporeal or not. Many a time when they did their mock sparring Grisla was forced to concede only because of the limits of his stamina; however, the impostor here used that body with a seemingly inexhaustible supply of it. Avarice caught her mid-step; with a wild punch at his command.

The girl in the rose-plum dress snorted as she too, could vanish when needed. He assaulted air and managed to catch the flaps of her dress coming to a stop a span behind him. With that settled, the two stared.

Well, well. He’s gotten a tad better.

Being honest, it’s a trouble for her to deal with him at an equal Juva output. More than her pride would care to admit. And, the longer they stall, the likelier Avarice will think of something—something that’ll scrape him out a win, eventually. She thought it’d be a fun exercise to mess with him, but for some reason… it’s just not the same.

Avarice put a hand on his hip. “Regret?”

“I’m not here to play with you. I’ll finish this right now,” said Seri, whose shoulders began to relax. “Avarice. Shield yourself or you’ll die.” The impostor’s peeved glare didn’t betray what he might’ve been feeling, for once. She noticed something, though; despite Avarice’s effort of trying to defeat her, he hadn’t gone nearly as savage as she’d expect. Clearly not with the intent of mauling her for a win.

She offered a small grin. In the end, no matter how separate he is from the whole… it’s still Grisla. Which means I can end this. Suddenly, her arms began waving. Stepping with grace, and etherealness laced within. She wasn’t worried about her vulnerable state; Avarice had his own pride. Nevertheless, her warning fell on deaf ears. He raised nothing in his defense, well, all the better for her. He’ll do as she says in a panic.

An endless dance that foretold the coming of destruction, a ritualistic cleansing of the world way back when. When one beast was free to do as it liked, to roam and dominate the skies everywhere under heaven. Coloring its wake with an unhealthy dose of red. A beat of the wings and a kingdom fell. A cry unlike any sundered the earth. The survivors were only so because of the unknowing mercy on its subjects. Had it cared, had it bothered to ever spare a piecemeal of its attention to those pitiful, wingless creatures—extinction is but a fact. Those who understood that, who accepted the inevitable to tragedy or otherwise, prostrated to their God. Undefeatable. Incomprehensible. Eternal.

For thousands of years, they studied the movements of their God and the indiscriminate victims of its rage. A step learned; a thousand years would pass. But that step was passed on to a new generation, who also studied the God. Another step. And three, and four…

Unlike the teachings of the White Tiger, the techniques of this Cardinal Beast were not devised by it. It was created by humans, for humans—to worship their God the only way they can. Years of study culminating to: a dance. Seri’s dance proceeded a thousand years forward with every step; generations that have come and fell. The turning of history while she spun. Juva singing with their maiden.

In this, she felt what their God felt. The bubbling of energy, warping, twisting and colliding with each other in excitement for the ritual to begin anew. This time, there were no mountains to cleave, no cities to raze and no bodies to count. There was only but one target—a someone who, objectively, could die a million times and still not be worth the kingdoms of ages past that were barely worthy of the God’s touch. Her Juva leaked out of her; and from raw energy they exploded into an excited blaze.

Upon realizing his folly, it was too late. Avarice’s run wouldn’t save him. This technique covered too large an area for it to be avoided. Her twirl was coming to a slow stop. However, her arms slapped down—as a beat of wings!

—Vermillion Dance: Ashes!

The sun descended on Limbo. And, like someone took a pin and popped it as a bubble, the brilliant crimson washed over everything in her sightline—and beyond. The cry of a bird—the cry of the Vermillion Bird screamed out a righteous fury! Yet, the one behind her was in a solemn silence. There was nothing to burn but it was as though the flames cared not a whit about that, a pointless concern. They burned what they wanted to burn, even though they stood over nothing. Seri twirled once again for the last time, and her helpers dissipated. She swept over the area with her Spiritual Sense.

If I didn’t level myself off to him, he would’ve been incinerated…

The Four offered her a candid eye, but a heavier one lay upon her from the bird herself. When the last brush of light faded, a haggard figure rested after them. Motionless. It put a fright in her heart; did she overdo it? No, not precisely. It’s just that… the Vermillion Bird’s destructiveness can’t be diluted no matter the purpose. White Tiger, the bloodthirsty; Vermillion Bird, the living calamity.

When she met him, everything he had been wearing died with the flames. She cringed as well, for his hair wasn’t spared. When he comes back she won’t hear the end of it. But, the more she studied him the greater her shock. His skin: scuffed, but relatively undamaged. The burns he suffered were allotted to his extremities. Did she have more control than she thought…?

She shook her head. No. It wasn’t my doing. His—this… sickening Juva could resist even a direct blast from me! The Seven Gates should’ve never been taken out from its trash heap. If he were stronger, and it took control of him…

He shivered awake, and his voice sounded parched beyond redemption. “That power… if I return to him, will it be mine?”

“Maybe. You lost Avarice, a deal’s a deal.”

“Yes,” he croaked. “But I cannot say that he will make it. I can give him a road, but if he cannot, or does not take it… that’ll be the end of him. And I will stay.”

“You know even more than I, that that’s not possible.”

He ruefully smiled. “True. I underestimated you, your knowledge of their arts surpasses what I would think of a mere… ‘Herald’. Your history must be quite interesting.”

She paled, and the thoughts in her brain tripped. How do I know what I can do, even? I know how to do it, but I don’t remember ever being taught. My masters created me with an express purpose, so being able to perform isn’t surprising. But…

Little by little, like chiseling at a stone, the person she thinks she is didn’t seem so sound or complete. A promise to someone, they said. The Cardinal Four have no obligations to hold a promise for anything. And who would dare keep them beholden to it? Who could that be? Things stopped making sense, and a cold knot met her. Despite all of it, she knew at least one thing: Grisla isn’t the only one with secrets.

“I’ll be seeing you; in one way or another,” said Avarice as he closed his eyes. Leaving Seri to her lonesome as she waited.

He needs to come back. For there is still work to be done.

Somewhere, a boy floated on the fleecy ends of a cloud suspended on a space absent of gravity, absent of physics; for they were unallowed here. His thoughts, he heard aloud. A million Grisla’s and more, all talking at once, but the numbers meant nothing. Each voice talked independent of the rest. “What will I wear today?”, “Has Rei Han recovered from his injuries?”, “Last night’s soup wasn’t so good, maybe next time…” And so on. Multiplied by a million.

Projected screens of memories floated by on their own business. Details that he hadn’t seen before he caught with a second glance. Memories he thought he’d never recall again for he had aged away from them. All for him to see, an art gallery of sorts. And new memories were at work, too. He saw them—images that horrified him. His willingness for violence in the name of cultivation astounded him. At the same time, he accepted it quickly; some drifting thoughts of his that he would never hear in the real world were said here. And they clamored for it—voices that desired things even he himself were unaware of. They came in and blended with the population.

Grisla knew he wasn’t dead, yet, in a way, he knew he had died. Whomever was in the driver seat for his body knew him as much as he knew himself—as though he had a twin that stole his skin. In some way, he felt at peace here. Should he do nothing, he won’t have to do anything. No more running for his life, not enduring troubles trying to crawl for strength; no more, no more…

His eye caught something. A fragment buried below the other countless memories playing simultaneously. Focusing a little, trying to squint didn’t help but he felt it was. A girl stood against him; he saw his arms trade blows, catch loaded fists and deflect kicks like a master in his own right. However, that memory wasn’t his. Seri’s lithe figure fought him at an intensity he could never bring up in practice. She was fighting him? No, not him, the other him he knew was out.

Groaning, he thought: Is this how I leave it? For someone, a friend to deal with my mess, once again…?

After getting up his head swiveled either way. His platform was softer than any pillow he could find within a thousand li of the clan and sturdy enough to hold him, and as he’s guessing, someone else if he dared. There were others like it too, so he jumped to the nearest. Beside him, a Grisla smiling with his father in a memory. But he pressed on. Without a sun or an hourglass in reach, he was forever lost as to the time outside of…wherever this is. Grisla had been cloud-jumping for some time, he thinks. But how long really? When will it end? Or is there even an exit?

Teeth clenched, he looked for something—something that’ll show him the way. Will I be stuck here, forever?

“Seri!” He yelled. “Mister White!”

"…I’m alone, again.”

Suddenly, a screen dimmed. Grisla looked to it, and with its transparency he could see the same phenomenon happening on another. They all dimmed, flickered, and died. A dread from nowhere parked in his stomach. Knowing this, he swiftly jumped to the next cloud. But—his foot—touched nothing. The cloud dispersed as though in fear of him; and the rest too, vanished. Every cloud around him.

Falling, he reached out. “N–No! Seri!”

To let the black swallow him again, as it always had.

He experienced it; saw it; and now was forced to see it again, a memory of a time ago. A man and child trained in the early dawn. He knew that about five minutes later, the child’ll finish gathering his Juva and strike the tree. It happened. A couple more minutes afterward the man will speak some words, the boy will frown and pout, but his resolute smile will come anyway. And they leave the training grounds, with the same stranger watching them take the corner.

Grisla’s frown put definition on his face. Why am I being put through this again? I don’t understand! Is this some test? What point is there in something I do not know what I’m being tested for!

As he knew, the sharp rebuke hadn’t lessened in its fury in the least. Making him slide against the hazy walls in the memory. He squinted. That exact same response happened the last time. If say, my conjecture is right then that might be… a rejection to my answer? A reprimand of sorts?

In a blink, he was at the training field. His old self at the same position, and he himself was at the same. Thinking about it, he’ll have a memory of him being within a memory if that inner world wasn’t a dream. Folding his arms, he watched the playback as though it were his first time seeing it. If there’s a clue on how to escape, or what’s bringing the pain, it’d be here. The same happened as fate recorded. He trains, loses, and tears up on the side. The bubbling guilt inside pleaded for him to leave, but he didn’t. Instead, he wanted to watch it to the end.

By now, past Grisla was the last soul on the grounds. He also remembers sparing a nickel of gratefulness to their clan’s appreciation for black. Tear stains? What tears? I’m wearing black; would be how it goes. Determined to watch to the end, no matter how much boredom he felt, he made a face. What’s he—me? I? Whatever, what was I doing?

The boy’s face was a blank slate as he stared at the stars. Under heaven, every man was dwarfed under its immensity. And man trains; cultivates, to become as great. It’s said that the first cultivator to take the Path was inspired by such heights; he reached up, and though he may jump high with his power, split mountains on a whim and be the envy of countless—he is still but one man, under heaven. Grisla’s ear caught something. A soft giggle.

Grisla raised a brow. Even I’m lost. What’s there to laugh about? You just got blown out. His musings would never be heard by his younger self, who soon giggled himself over into open-mouthed laughter.

He dusted himself off and sighed. Before the older one had time to think, he was training again. In the dark, with only some of the generous moonlight illuminating his exit.

So, this is what I look like to her. I get it now. A bit.

Like a child who was checking if he’d get a reprimand, Grisla waited. But nothing came. At that instant he knew what this was about. And it troubled him even more than being lost about it if he had to say. With no random smiting, he started. However, he stopped just as quickly.

His ear picked up someone. The rustling of clothes was unmistakable. But that didn’t make sense—there was nobody in this memory he talked to, save for his father after he got home. The old self trained without a sign of noticing. And he got his answer: an expert, well, relative to his freshly crippled body at the time. At the gate, the silhouette was shielded by shadow who offered itself up as if it were an invisibility cloak. But to fine eyes aided by Juva; there was no hiding as simple as that. He squinted, then blinked and squinted again.

Wait, is that…?

Twintail hair and delicate eyes. She peered out from the gate’s corner. Her Grittus blacks marked her from the same field as he. She gripped the corner, but it wasn’t the act of it but the way she did that sent a bolt through him. The corner: much like her father’s sleeve. The girl’s name kicked a door open in his head, screaming loudly and pronounced itself as if it were expected and true. It was—

Bei Mei.

Bei Mei, who hates him? Among his old acquaintances, Xinrei ignored him; Rangwha was too busy on her own affairs; and Rei Han wasn’t a friend of his till now. The rest of the Chosen considered him dead. If he didn’t get it from Elder Jinshi, it would be Bei Mei on his tail to remind him of his failings. But… here she was, watching him. Strange indeed. When Grisla finished up his futile-yet-habitual training again, she smiled. And that knocked his head for a loop.

…What the hell?