His world was in motion; constantly, and as far out of his control as the day when fate, or, rather, men, changed everything for him. He saw two sides of his world, and had about a half-second of quiet, till his face roared with pain and he flipped to the other. An eye was shutting, now—the left socket, nearly shattered—even when the man paced himself, while limiting his strength so as to not pop his head like a melon on the first round of strikes, Grisla already felt himself a step near the great unknown. A rivulet of blood wouldn’t stay away, it stung his last working eye and concealed the next tight fist to batter him again, as it has been for some time.

Any more, and he’d have to be buried where he laid; Fang Lai pretended not to see, he let fly two more fists in the rhythm he liked, and the blood he pulled back as if it were a prize made his eyes shine. The man had never been this dominant over him, never that he would allow—he was indulging himself as though this chance would never occur again, or did he really intend on slaying him, against common wisdom?

Yulin was further way than ever and, discontinued watching near the same time Grisla realized that resistance or, whatever he tried immediately after being pounced on, was futile. He was used to a beating: a necessary for continued survival. But however much he knew it did nothing to quell the turbulence inside. The difference in power was staggering. Fang Lai handled him even with a full basin of Juva at his side; the man acted as though he wasn’t a cultivator whatsoever!

His nose? That was the first to go, and Fang Lai tapped it again like he was trying to see how much of a human’s red juice he could squeeze out. Later, when Grisla’s consciousness hung by a thread, he eased off the pressure—a trick pulled from the Fang’s interrogation techniques—and allowed the boy to regain himself. To think, and maybe give him what he wants to hear: the plea for mercy, of course and an assortment of degrading behaviors to make Fang Lai’s bells ring.

Fang Lai was not breathing hard because of his exhaustion, but rather— “Had enough? If I keep up, who knows if you’ll pull through at medical” He said. Beaming with a wide, true smile at the worm beneath him, barely animated, Fang Lai pushed a finger on the swelling and at any other time the victim would shriek like he was being murdered, but now, only a low moan could be heard, if barely.

“You know,” Fang Lai said, smiling still, “I’ve kept my ear to the wind, and it said that you’ve been running all over like an ignited hound to find a cure to your affliction; I can see why, as it’s a must, right? You crave it, even while being ten-thousand li away from ever touching the source again. Power, the right of the strong, the birthright of the Chosen. Even when being a discarded tool for the clan’s purposes, you, Grisla, carry with you that inborn arrogance that you cannot shed; regardless of how much you scrape and beg and make them pretend otherwise.”

He paused as if waiting for a reply, but only the whimpers came. “From start to finish it’s all been a game to you, a prince dressed as a beggar. You and I are the same. I despise you just as much as you despise me, because—we know each other’s true nature. You were, once, the most overbearing of us all—and now look at you,” he said, sighing, “a could’ve-been.”

Whether Yulin had any reaction, none would know; the afternoon dark shaded him. The bleating of crickets went arm-in-arm with the hesitant breaths throughout. Meanwhile, clouds who strolled to a crawl above the Grittus land acted like a distant friend, returned home. There were no cheers earlier for the savage assault, nor were there words of pity for a boy beaten half-dead. Their world was separate from many others; even mortals who lived in cooperation, or service to those-who-go-beyond had a different life story than those who did not. The farmer from Leimuth’s values would be separate from the farmer from who-knows-where.

Which’s why no man offered a word for intervention, a word for anything—when the whims and acts of men who could divide rivers at their peak crossed their way. There was nothing for them to do, nor would anyone sane bother. The wind blew, the sun rose and fell, and a season’s change would come. On and on.

“With my power, I drive forward for greater entertainment. ‘Course, my duties to the clan come first, but thereafter my motive rewards me with the most pleasure. Honestly, beating you wasn’t too bright of me—sadly sometimes the idea to nail you deeper in the hole consumes me, and I lose sight of what brought me here in the first place.”

Fang Lai got up and took himself to Grisla’s side to caress his cheek as though he was already resting in bed. He whispered, “Beg. Plead. Do anything, and if it pleases, I… will give you the method to fix your core. To make yourself whole again. I hold the cards now, Grisla, and I’m the only player left in the game weplay.”

If Grisla had eyes to widen—My…core? He’s… he’s known a way, all this time…? Of course, the Fang’s—they would be to saucers. And, all he had to do was swallow his pride? Would it be worth, just to reclaim his power? To struggle as he was, for more power, and again and again, when he’s barely scratched the surface of what the Chosen are capable of. What he, was capable of, once.

A raindrop fell; two, and more. A light drizzle with signs of a heavier downpour yet. The laborers began to scatter, as exciting as this scene may be, would the drenching be worth it? Fang Lai and Yulin stood unaffected; a basic application of Juva so simple they learn it when they’re barely out of the cradle is to force raindrops to slide off one’s skin, rather, less of sliding and more that the two entities never interact—a silk-thin barrier of their energy prevents.

But Grisla was laid bare to the element. Unresponsive. His hearing did work undamaged, clearly Fang Lai knows what he’s aiming for. The blows didn’t matter. Pain from a fractured skull was a roar he long since ignored—and blood changed nothing, he’ll clean up later. He wouldn’t be breathing with ease for some time, though. How many years will I endure, to find their strength? And if, somehow, I reach it while handicapped—the gulf between us will be greater, beyond my comprehension, even. What am I to do? How will I kill the Patriarch and—In the end, nothing matters but power; ill-gained or otherwise. Power. Power. Power…!

…And when darkness of unconsciousness claimed him, a sickening taint welcomed him back. Welcomed him home.

“Hello…? Grisla, are you conscious?” Fang Lai said. He put an eye over his shoulder before sighing, “Oh, don’t look at me like that, there’s no way he could’ve died with some light roughhousing.”

Yulin’s permanent scowl made the man carry a potential for deception greater than Fang Lai, however his own nature would never coincide with it; an absurd reality if it ever occurred, but that impossibility made Yulin’s character more resolute. He was old, in comparison to the younger and coincidentally higher-ranked Chosen but nevertheless, he approached to the other side of Grisla. “There will be consequences…”

Snorting, “Consequences, that won’t happen if you don’t open your mouth. Isn’t that right?” Fang Lai said. “Or are you trying to spark something between us, no—our families? You’re not that far from Grisla’s pathetic position if we be honest here.” And Fang Lai studied him.

The once-in-a-millennia genius spawning from a family of farmers jettisoned the clan into a tumult nineteen years ago. His mother birthed him only to find out the child split rock with his bare hands—stones holding a spine-breaking weight—whenever he was finally let loose to play with Leimuth’s children. Children who’re natural talents rarely and unknowingly begin manipulating Juva on the advent. Not a feat to the great families, especially when the thickest bloodlines have sparks of it in the womb. But his father was a tailor, and his father, and his, and…

A child who did nothing but breathe and play propelled his family into a precarious position when he was only five. At that, Yulin gave a hint of change, if you could call it that—he merely blinked at the sentence. The spymaster’s child checked Grisla’s vitals. Giving a shallow nod, he stood up.

“When he wakes, the only thing I want to hear from him is… ‘Yes.’ How about master? That’ll be good. ‘Yes, Master Fang Lai.’” He chuckled. “It’ll be great!”

“Making the Orlith family’s heir some toy? Is this a new play you’re getting at?” Yulin’s voice was deciding whether to be neutral or vexed.

“Oh yes, the script’s been written some time ago; only now I get to finally see my work on stage. Mother’ll be pleased for sure.”

Fang Lai stood. That allured hair of his that only the maidens he favored got to play with, concealed his side to Yulin. Flawless; yet the man’s appearance was only second-best again. The ranking of talent was irrelevant to him—Xinrei was born with a sole purpose: Grittus family superiority within the clan. Fulfilled, somewhat. Fang Lai couldn’t complain about much, he got what he wanted and had nothing else to do but prepare for an inevitable victory at the Rosewater Exchange. But he was missing something.

A drive integral to his purpose; to his Path.

Fun, in whatever way that amused him.

Whosoever lay in his sights, well, their fate on his web is all but decided. But first— “You can stop staring at me, otherwise I might blush,” Fang Lai said, while looking at neither Grisla nor Yulin. “Well? What might you do, since you’ve invited me all the way here with no one to watch, with the arena close.”

“I intended to defeat you here.”

He squinted. “To take my spot, I presume?” He’d already known of the farce they kept up, while walking together here; pretending to be cordial. It just had to be now that his own mask dropped. “How callous. Grisla’s appearance has become a gleeful happenstance for me, your tender spot about your rank can be alleviated later, when I take him to the infirmary.”

Yulin blinked again, and his eyes shifted with such speed it was like watching a tortoise decide to sprint. And his lips parted, and he muttered with a soft whisper, “Though, anything I had planned… is now taken out of my hands.” He stepped back. Fang Lai’s face of bewilderment met a surprise.

A chill raced up him, as if someone was tickling his lower back with a knife. A Chosen’s battle preparedness was excellent, Juva came to him rather than he to it; a reaction of an expert, and in this state, any one of them could kill on command. The aura of a second step Houtian lay over the area, enforcing a king’s will over all life above and below ground. But where was the threat? He scouted out with his eyes—and the threat came from an aura he’d never felt before. A threat with a million words washing over his skin. Hugging him. Swallowing. He shuddered; was this fear?

But he would not shy back within his own clan, “Show yourself! Yulin, join with me and—”

A line was drawn; replaced by blood. Fang Lai’s shriek was soul-piercing: a howl of pain, a gasp of shock. Touching it in disbelief made him unaware of the violent kick to meet his face. He did his best impression of a pond-skipping rock over the sodden mud. Only stopping when the energy imparted allowed. But no matter the shock—he was Chosen! He spun around, ready to kill the interloper but froze again, this time with a knot in his throat gluing all words and gurgles shut. Yulin’s own face hung; although Chosen Two was taken by a surprise attack from an unidentified attacker, he made not an attempt for anything when the attacker struck him.

Their eyes locked on another soul.

A half-dead boy stood in the rainfall. Half-dead, and yet he was up, albeit standing at an awkward lean. He couldn’t be. They both thought. As would anyone. No one moved, or talked; like game meeting humans, but just who was the game?

Fang Lai rested a hand on his face, grimacing: “Gr–Grisla! You… worthless… I’ll swear an oath to my soul to make sure you end up as my slave for eternity! What have you done to my face!” His gaze could ignite firewood though, however much staring he did the recipient showed nothing of response.

“Your father’s somewhere, bastard! And when I find him, when I get him back to the clan—I’ll let him be flayed for you to see, hell, I’ll even make you do it for me, that sounds better. Your whore mother? She was a beauty, so I heard. It’s only a damn shame an idea of mine is for nothing! Even I wouldn’t believe you do something so utterly stupid, as to touch me, but my face?”

Grisla drew a sardonic smile. But his eyes were as animated as a dead fish. “Your face was pretty; I’ve always hated that about you. I just figured, since I can’t have it, why not take it so no one can see it?” Spoken so plain that while his tongue wagged, they had to convince themselves that it was real.

“What madness are you speaking?” Did he beat him too hard? Well, now nothing’ll get better with a stupider slave.

“How about,” the unknown variable tilted his head, “I take something else of value.”

The Chosen felt a headman’s axe with no trial needed. Death was a bloodied corpse standing in the rain, staring back as though everything that would happen will be on the tune he selects. It was impossible. He’s a Solidification cultivator, if barely at that. Then why the hesitation? Why did their skin crawl looking at him now, just what had changed? Yulin had his mobility and none of the emotion which anchored him here. Yet the man was a pinned rat like himself. Death’s head leaned forward; the next move he made would be their last.

Yulin yanked his head. “Fang Lai, I agree, we may need to…!”

Suddenly, the pressure vanished. A charitable soul spared them from this would-be murderer, somehow. Fang Lai would wish to thank that person, as he watched Grisla blink and his face slacken. “Huh…? Did I say something weird? Sorry about that, if I lose my focus or concentration… the leash will slip, and he will come back. I don’t have it fully trained yet.”

He had to think. That was fear, wasn’t it? It was chilling. Xinrei, in the rare times he’s angered, could freeze the world over. But it was more than a feeling, it was certain fact, with such honesty no man would ever admit to anyone besides themselves. How did he do it?

Just how was he afraid—afraid? Fang Lai’s face twisted. Ridiculous—how could he be startled by someone who looked like he’d been at war with bees his entire life? To his side, Yulin’s hand was tight around his sword grip behind the back. He was still shaming himself! They’d just been caught unaware by a trick, and here he was still buying into it!

Fang Lai would shed a tear for his face later, as an uppity disgrace needed to be dealt with, once and for all, “Any last words as a free man? You attacked a Chosen. Your status in the clan is so low at this point banishment would be the only thing sparing your life. With”—he swiped off a rivulet of blood— “this, your life is over. The second anyone in the clan sees this. So, speak, I’ll allow it.”

It was only out of stubborn pride for his words, that prevented him from killing Grisla on the spot when he noticed the boy wasn’t listening to his words any more than the clan does for him; absorbed in staring at his palm instead. The words the former Chosen One spoken weren’t directed at either of them, in particular; and it stoked his rage more! He pulled a nasty trick somehow and stole his face from him. He would make him lament the day and extract every payment for it; Fang Lai will make Grisla Orlith remember it better than his own birthyear! On his soul he’ll swear!

He could see every movement of Grisla’s face now, and when his lips twitched and no audible words came to ear, “What was that? Speak!” Fang Lai screamed.

Grisla raised his head not too slow or too fast. The world was moving on his own time, and his attitude reeked of it. “I said,” Grisla declared, “That I will add one more name to the list.”