The shard in his hand, a fragment of porcelain, shed blood twice: in his hand from an iron grip, and the Chosen Two, who was also victim, was dropped to lay exactly from where it was taken. He was burning from a heat breaking through a door he left closed, or so he thought. He lost himself. He lost to Avarice, again. That shade of himself did not run wild, but rather he was the one who reached for it in his weakness. I swore never to use it again, and I… broke it? It took a moment to regain himself, and every step of the way it was like pushing boulders. A hotness making his heart beat like thunder.

The melody of Juva—not one he and any other cultivator who has, or ever will walk this earth knows faded; but this Juva was tainted, intermixed with an intangible that violated all precepts of a cultivator. But it was seductive. Sin, was. It loosened him, made him feel that the troubles and stress that made campfires on his conscience were small, trivial things. If he reached out more—he could do anything. The Gates of Hell: Envy, presented that twice for him. Twice, he had dominated his enemies. He raised an eye from his hand over to Fang Lai, who stared back with more words than he could say. But at what cost?

I won’t touch the gates ever again, Grisla had said. Oh, will you? My power’s already open to you, you just have to scream the words, Avarice told Grisla. And if the day comes you use it, and doubt yourself—I will be back, with all my fury. At the time, he’d blown off the interaction as sore loser’s talk. What could he say now, then? What’d happened was only a tenth of what could’ve occurred, had he fallen off the pedestal the damage would be unspeakable. What he needs to learn is control. To keep it at bay he must—

“Your death is now!” Fang Lai shot. On his command, a flurry of steel flew from his sleeves. Knives no bigger than a hand and with no grip to hold them soared for Grisla, where murder’s the only thing their master will accept.

The attack of a Houtian cultivator is beyond his level to defend against, within all reason. Dashing forth with speed nearly equal to his Steps of the Alpha: Godspeed at a casual flick of his wrists, Fang Lai without effort once again revealed the gap between them. A swarm of sharp metal, beelike, surrounded Grisla. One “sting” and his ear hung strangely. Another nailed itself in his shoulder. Jumping backwards and half of them were already there and shredded his back under agonized cries. Fang Lai was a conductor of death, letting his fingers sail on the air while his victim was being skinned alive.

Grisla shielded himself only to find that the bastard focused most of his vengeance on his very arms, nibbling at his sole line of defense for his face, which he would certainly aim to even the score. He’ll deny that with everything he has. If he fails, he won’t be alive to see his face. Fang Lai will be the one living with the shame; not he.

“Fair is fair, Grisla! Stop hiding, else I’ll shear off your arms piece by piece till you can’t hold them up anymore. Let’s be friends,” Fang Lai sneered derisively.

And Grisla? All but laughed; perhaps if the pain didn’t concern. The mud slowed his haggard escape to a crawl. The flying piranha’s made it to the muscle quick at his arms; and Chosen Two wasn’t pleased at having to spend, what, a modicum of effort letting his daggers “chase” Grisla down, if you could call it that. A trio of his tore at his calves, some landing in his thigh. He felt the book of his life, ending.

He was going to die.

Could he resist? Not in any meaningful way whatsoever. Seri could try something but the risk for discovery was too high. If she was going to do so, she would’ve already. Whatever he was thinking, there was little time to ponder. Every nick, scrape and graze sapped vital strength. Between the teeny slice of light in his arms he saw an exasperated Fang Lai show his instructions, and then, the death-by-a-thousand-cuts reduced by half. The blades converged in a circle around Grisla, leveled to his neck, every inch of skin no longer belonging to him as they hovered.

Fang Lai, whose trickling blood finally met at the neck of his robe, said gravely, “Enough. I’ll behead you then. No shielding this.” The conductor snapped his fingers. A hundred knives thrummed with the new command; zipping forward as though they needed extra speed to somehow catch a stationary target. A Chosen’s technique wouldn’t have room for doubt; the cut will be clean.

A hundred blades with no escape—Grisla had long since closed his eyes. There was no use in struggling against the inevitable. Let it end.

…Or so he thought, until a new presence alerted him.

Suddenly, the knives hit an invisible wall surrounding Grisla; tips breaking off and the remainder fell to the ground, powerless. Fang Lai’s exasperated snarl betrayed his surprise; someone who wasn’t involved or detected before they acted had already slapped the cards out of his hands, a stranger who managed to go unnoticed before a Chosen; a happening that occurs with High Elders or above. In any event, Grisla’s anxiety fell two stories. To the side, behind their stolen attention Yulin’s hand rubbed his hilt, eyes running off to the newcomer who’s yet to appear.

The rain had a solo performance, but, just as if it were waiting on cue, the once absent wind whistled and kicked around the area, reminding them that it did exist, and it brought a friend. A cloak fluttered over three heads; falling slowly, like gravity was on his schedule. Landing near Grisla, how could the two Chosen’s expressions be so separate. The man’s hood disguised all but his nose, and he would have to twist his head in front just to see inside. But—

While Yulin offered a slight, but humble bow, Fang Lai said, “Why are you here?” Grisla’s signature on his face seemed to get worse the more anger the man showed with it.

What does the reason matter, whatever it is? Grisla thought. A random intervention continued his breathing, for however long that’ll be. Did this stranger assume his gender with his growing hair from afar, thinking it’s time to be a hero and get something as a reward? He couldn’t even take offense. Knives ever so close to an Orlith’s murder returned to orbit around their master, broken tips or not did little to reduce the fear on looking at them.

Bowing, “Thank you, honored Elder for saving me,” Grisla said, of course, he couldn’t see the person’s face or really tell who they are, but to deflect a Chosen’s attack meant he could take caution and address them as such, “A pebble like myself cannot find a way to repay you, but—”

“Answer me!” Fang Lai interrupted. He looked as if, given the wrong answer, he’ll decide about killing both together. Yulin’s eyes flashed with indignance at him, he long since released his weapon, but the man could, without hesitation draw it and its mountainous weight if ordered.

This stranger raised his chin. “My instinct is always right,” he said, to no one in particular. He turned his head, much to Grisla’s surprise. “Been a while, Grista.”

The Orlith heir made a face. “Grisla,” he said, as stone-faced as an injured man could show. But his heart bubbled with feeling. He pretended not to show it; he had appearances to keep up. Lest he be murdered while bawling his eyes to a person he somewhat knows.

“Right. Right, you returned, didn’t you? Okay, Grisla Orlith. You’ve proved my bet wrong. Though, I’ve never been the best at, I’ll admit.”

“…It’s good you came back, and, maybe, not so.” Olimuth said.

Olimuth, Pillmaker for the Grittus clan and a minor Elder in the hierarchy arrived and saved him? Against the Chosen? Grisla looked at the man as if seeing him for the first time and compared it with the image from months earlier. Nightfall had delivered a savior drenched in rain and a head of grey hair, whose intentions he was still in the dark to. Olimuth studied him; a man evaluating a something even Grisla couldn’t answer for him; he wasn’t meant to, probably.

There was something in his left hand—a vase with flowers?—now out of place, as their Orlith graveyard wasn’t far from here. He was on the move here anyway, and so happened to saw them. Respects to whom?

Two other fingers revealed themselves from his cloak; the very same symbol Grisla weaved to raise a formation back then, which made him squint—there were no talismans around, so how?—he raised them to the duo warningly.

Olimuth huffed. “Have you forgotten yourself, child of the Fang?”

Yulin acted as though he wasn’t involved, standing as far as gap from any side to be a metaphorical fly on the wall. The laborers were gone, leaving the site devoid of a soul except the three—now four. But the tools of their trade remained, leftovers of what once was now scattered fragments and debris around and below their feet. If left untouched the area will, gradually, be turned into a dumping ground. The only attraction of an uneventful death here would be, at least Grisla would perish on his land. Over his “home”

Fang Lai had half his usual calm to work with, and the abnormal rage he’s never experienced created a man near his breaking point. His talk was a trial of patience. “F–Forgotten myself? I am in no mood for your jesting. Pillmaker, step aside and allow me to dispense justice on this invalid.”

“What has he done?”

“What hasn’t he done!” Fang Lai exploded. His floating knives thrummed with his anger. “The walking curse has inflicted a wound upon my face, his superior! Death would be mercy; he deserves a creative torturer! Better to ask why you’re sitting here barring me from it.”

Olimuth again, sent a fast glance to Grisla’s face and compared it with his. About a hundred questions with no answer could be said for Olimuth’s, and he slowly, carefully, said: “Is this true, child?”

“Yes,” Grisla said, giving no attention to anyone but the Elder’s back.

“You do not sound remorseful.”

“Would never.”

“There you have it,” Fang Lai said as he squeezed a ball of invisible rage, “guilty. We are both proceeding as things should. So, move.” That was not a question. Strange day when a man only second to Xinrei was denied twice in the same hour. He could likely never recall anything of the like. For someone so accustomed to moving pieces in the shadows confrontation never went as well as it should; a fault in character or his trainer’s ineptitude, a flaw that’d never see the light of day unless pushed to an unusual circumstance.

Olimuth moved his gaze, “Then why is he not chained?” he said to Yulin, who didn’t give an inch of anything for Fang Lai’s hot stare and rolling knuckles. Yulin’s jaw worked, as though the man had one jawbreaker yet to finish.

“Because there was no reason to. Chosen Two had decided unilaterally to execute Grisla for his crime,” Yulin said.

Fang Lai surely wanted to turn the knives in Yulin’s direction. “Unilaterally…?”

“I did not come here to hurt Grisla, nor was I aware of his arrival back till now.”

Counting on Yulin to lie for you would be like beating a fire with your hands; if there’s anything to know about him, that’s the first thing to know, Grisla thought. It wasn’t the time to pop a sneer—nothing had changed, just a roadblock before the destination. Heavens, if he made it to a cell the last request of his life would be for a shower. Please, if anything. Olimuth’s just here to see what’s happening. As soon as he understands he’s getting in the way of a Chosen, he’ll leave. Because, that’s what everyone does around the Untalented.

Olimuth grunted. “Then, do you still have business here Chosen Four?” Grisla could tell he still held Juva, but why was he so willful about it was lost to him. In the years of his life, in every interaction with or without his father near Olimuth had substituted Juva with the flipping of his tongue. But the case seemed to be that he thought it would require both, to reign this in.

“It seems…” Yulin said, with a shrug, “that my idea is over. Another day, Fang Lai.” The walking wall of a man turned, and, with a final look over to Grisla: “It’s nice to see you again, Orlith. I hope to see you at the Exchange.” At that moment, every face changed. An awkward silence lay over the remaining three, each more lost than the last. And it stopped at Grisla.

Before he had time to ask, Yulin faded behind the rain. Night and shadow covering his leave. Were he to reach out to check for his presence, he would find that the man had vanished to wherever he came. Fang Lai, however, forgot about Yulin as fast as he could, and instead resigned himself to trying to burn a hole through Olimuth’s face with his stare to Grisla. He noticed Fang Lai hadn’t released his technique at all.

“You’ve heard the tale,” Fang Lai said. “Now move. Please.”

Olimuth brought up his finger-sign again, “I will not.”

“You will! It’s an order!”

“My orders come from the Patriarch; my customers, too. I’ve no obligations to the Chosen or any of you special children unless its wartime.”

“Are you senile? What is your point, here?”

“He will not die unless deemed guilty of his crime in our courts, that is our way. We’re not animals.”

“Indeed,” Fang Lai mockingly said. “However, one broke the leash and decided to write their own execution. I’m merely heeding to cause and effect.”

The Pillmaker shook his head, and every word that came about sounded as though he were lecturing a child rather than a talent from heaven. “I am not here to argue with you, Chosen. It is my decision.”

“Oh, so you say. But,” Fang Lai said, sneering, “how will the Lord Patriarch react, if he hears the target of his ire shielded by a man owing all loyalty to him first?” A trap card indeed. The child wouldn’t be prepared to take the spymaster’s helm one day if he refused to resign himself to all methods; despicable or not. “I can quite guess that—”

“Say one more word, and I will be forced to discipline you on Lingbei’s behalf,” Olimuth interrupted. The Matriarch of the Fang family’s full name was Fang Lingbei. Said by no one but the Elders who grew up with her or have a friendship true enough to be called such. Olimuth was neither; he said it anyway. “Whatever the Lord Patriarch has to say about it, he will. His opinion on the matter is something else. Law and custom shift for no man unless changed with power; he won’t expose concern over a crippled child. To think you’d waste our Lord’s time with thinking of a matter such as this… well…”

With one step forward, Grisla thought he was seeing things when the Elder’s eye took on a dangerous glint. “Before you proceed, think on it again.”