She was oblivious. Much to Grisla’s unsurprise, trailing behind.

Some families entrenched in previously mentioned paranoia stick to using servants of lesser accomplishment, or ability. In exchange for uninteresting and mortal caretakers they tuck in at night, having the pleasure of knowing no man or woman trapped by the limitations of their physiology could do harm, even if they were smothered in their sleep, at best they’d manage to annoy their victim. And after when they must task another servant to clean the stain off the wall.

The servant girl’s tour took the boy on hallway bends of differing lengths, and changing textures like from summer to fall. It was so easy he felt as if he needn’t to hide himself, and walk with muted steps. But, if she did stop, look at a portrait much too long or take too many turns for an absent purpose—she’ll be dealt with. That was a lie. He’ll turn away and bolt for the nearest exit if anything else. When she came to steps, well, Grisla prayed that all the boards were equally balanced, and equally structurally fine. Mortal she is, but deaf she is not.

He couldn’t believe that, despite being metaphorically in the jaws of the tiger—it was the least of his concern and took second place to a new immediate problem. The Shadow Company. He was aware of them—in rumor, anyway. Whenever the Chosen gathered to gloat about something other than themselves, Fang Lai and other Fang associates brought it up in vague mentions; if a Grittus talked boasted about their families’ propensity towards greatness in individuality, a Fang would say their family could always be unbeatably dominant in numbers. Neither Fang Lai nor these Fang’s spoke the name.

Till now.

A multipurpose unit filled to the brim with the dregs of their society; where a convicted man would lose his head and be buried with no marker, that man if he was a Fang would be drafted to fulfill something new. These people never let any working limbs be wasted. And doubtless they’d stop at that. Rape, murder, treason and telling a Fang his sense of style was horrid—all forgiven. If you acknowledge your body will never belong to you again.

Looking back, Grisla couldn’t finger as to why the Patriarch didn’t just task the Shadow Company to deal with him, and instead went to the Guild. He grimaced, why should he even care? Did it make a difference, in the end anyway?

But if they’re after his father…

He must do something, but what, exactly? There it is again—and he hated to admit it—but he can’t. And, well… if his father didn’t tell him where he’s going, how would the Shadow Company know? Maybe it was wishful thinking on the side of the Matriarch. In conclusion, whether his father was across the street or at the ends of the earth, their responsibilities delivered them someplace else. He’ll have to accept that.

She stopped. And from the corner wall that Grisla ducked behind he saw the servant stand before a majestic door; a thing grand enough to make him mistake where he was, the Fang’s or the Patriarch’s study? Her bow had a tinge of hesitation, of fear as she went and rose. It was all he needed to know.

The unlocked door was pushed with her hand, but that was as far as she goes. One hand over the mouth—its partner on her throat. Crushed windpipe or a broken neck, the sadism in having to choose sickened him, but…

In a hallway and estate filled to the brim of martial artists who can split trees with kicks, and separate boulders on a whim, the last thing he needed was a frantic woman but that’s what he got; instinctually she bucked against him, as though he were seeking her rather than what’s inside the room. May he be forgiven for it.

Grisla yanked her out of bare sight near the door, and back around his corner from where he hid before and it didn’t help. Her panic multiplied. Muffled screams and the darting of her eyes nearly as fast as a fly’s wingbeat; elbows to his side, nails in his forearms, kicks to the shin and worst of all—she tried enough times for a one hit knockout by way of his manhood; wondering if this was a questioning or a spar to keep what’s his.

“Quiet,” Grisla demanded, in as threatening as he could ever muster, “Calm yourself. I won’t hurt you.”

If it were possible to sound like a graceful yet frightening man, where could he find the instructions for that? He’ll buy two copies. She pretended as if she didn’t hear, keeping it up like a stubborn mule. Doubt in her action fueled by his cynicism made him consider that half of it was, well, not for herself, or her assumedly threatened womanhood—but rather the building and the family whose name is attached. Factitious pride somehow adopted from a name that owed nothing to her.

Her resistance whittled down in waves; what happens when one realizes that she’s up against a far stronger will, with a higher stake in this game; but it was far too late for his skin, which was punctured now. A docile cat, one who still shivered.

Grisla let his breath hum in her ear, “I mean what I say. Now, believe me as I swear with the heavens as my witness, I will see no harm come to you, but as of today I am not a patient man. If you do so much as yell it won’t matter in the end if you won’t live to see my punishment.” Reasonable excuse.

“Answer me with a nod, or a shake. Understand?”

The frozen servant, after a time that was neither long nor short, nodded. Good.

He let the executioner’s hand over her throat point. “Is that room the young master’s, and Chosen Two’s?”

Hesitation. He noticed. She nodded anyway.

“Asleep?”

Nod.

“And is there a tray and glass inside?” Since she wasn’t carrying one.

Nod.

“Perfect,” Grisla said, betraying the seriousness with a sudden note of glee in his voice. “I have a job for you.”

Somewhere not there.

A circular greatwood table was centered here, a room isolated for private conversation and debate and judgement and frowns or nods to the projections of the clan’s welfare in a period. Here, a High Elder held a seat from the day of their appointment till the day that the heavens saw to it the next was their final. Their assembly had been dismissed, and the dragging of their robes were now a forgotten sensation. But one remained.

On the highest seat, Patriarch Meng Grittus and Lord of Leimuth and the surrounding territories had a hand lifting one sheet and his spare tapping greatwood so expensive the zeroes could make even a great family wince. To the left of him, a further spread of them. The right, stacked neatly but with visible signs of disturbance. These classified reports will force his hand on a swift and severe punishment, should they ever leak.

But here, their ancestors had the forethought of designing a room where the voices of raised Elders enhanced by Juva and propelled by emotion brought nothing but a soft inaudible murmur to the neighboring wall. The Patriarch looks away, and back again. He recites:

Gong Nen—Seventeen, Inner Disciple of the Mountain and Mist Group, Second Step Houtian; Mai Jing—Sixteen, First Sword of the Unbreakable Hilt, First Step Houtian; Fei An—Nineteen, Chosen One of the Fateseeker Sect. Third Step Houtian…

Names and names. Age matched to cultivation would have the eyes of any cultivator blink twice, and on Hannamith every one written on this report was a young dragon in their respective organizations; the younger generation, has come.

And all of them—are the Chosen’s enemies.

When the seats before Meng were filled, these children were at the eye of their talk. Most of it was sword-waggling about their own juniors sharing the same name. His attention was there, somewhat. Soft words to placate; and a remainder in solidarity. He believed in his children, even the ones not directly of his blood, Xinrei goes without saying, but the other families were nearly as important as his own.

These reports weren’t his father’s handiwork—to ask such a thing would be insulting. Nor could he trust Lingbei’s depraved group to do it either; was a bloody sword an appropriate tool to write with? Always outsourcing. Years ago, the Guild. Today, his pockets are feeling a little light and it’ll stay that way till next tax collection. Cupbearers and stableboys of the royal houses at Eboncrown, whose own salaries made even the best paid guardsmen in their clan look exploited negotiated their own price to him, imagine that!

Yet, couldn’t argue. The dossier on all of the Rosewater Exchange’s confirmed entries, their cultivation, skills and, their Aspect made every decision going forward in the next two years in the training of their juniors go anxiety-free. Perhaps, he could say that for the rest of the Chosen, their victory’s guarantee was written right here, in his hand. He still frowned.

There was one missing.

Patriarch Meng put an eye behind his shoulder. The man was either getting sloppy or did it intentionally. A beggar would pity his wardrobe, torn and eroding off his very back. One time, he’d offered to purchase a new one as a gift, especially for his father’s day-birth, but was given a look as though he had offered to dance nude. He wasn’t alone, for a caw reached through the exit hallway. It wasn’t a dove and you’d be forgiven for mistaking. Ancestor Hao’s white crow landed at the crown of Meng’s seat, like it was the true seat of power in this room.

Ancestor Hao sat to his side. “What do you think?” He inclined his head.

Meng glanced at him, then back to the papers one more time before saying, “They’re a decade off from beating Xinrei.” Had he let this one fly anywhere besides Leimuth, sharp iron would be the only rebuttal to. It’s arrogance, he knew. To them. In his defense, he had the report as evidence.

“All of these contestants are talented. Very. Would go so far as to say that… these children, in time, will be challenging our clan’s supremacy. Especially our own vassals whose children are in that report. Victory won’t come easy, though with the this in my hands I can say we can even the deck.”

“Good.”

Meng squinted. That’s it? Xinrei competing versus an entire sect’s dreams and teachings in a child and, he’s able to defeat every single one of them as sure as my title’s Patriarch? And, that’s the most he could react? Because Xinrei’s triumph is an absolute? Or…?

“I reckon you didn’t come here because you’re so interested in our future generation,” Meng bitterly said.

“Hm? What’s with the attitude?” Ancestor Hao chuckled, “You misunderstand, child. They’re playing their role well, and they’re exceptional children, these Chosen our families within the Grittus clan raised, but“—He raised his hand to emphasize—”what we’re up to guarantees a greater feast for our children to grow beyond what the Queen is able, and willing—to provide. However, in the big picture they are… irrelevant.”

The oldest living man, and the one soul who held their entire people up by himself shrugged. Schemes and games, Meng thought; was it just a hobby to him?

He sighed and said: “Don’t give me that face. I will be watching and every individual there in two years’ time that excels will be rewarded like a king.”

But his father didn’t come here for no reason.

“You have orders for me?”

Ancestor Hao wringed his hands. “I haven’t thought of any, yet,” he said, but turned to the torchlight, burning violet with excellence, “my visit’s something of me checking in on you.”

“Concerning them, then.” He put the report down.

“These mainlanders have no respect, they consider themselves to be elevated to where no man can reach, though they wouldn’t be so haughty if they for once admitted to themselves there’s a mutual interest in doing what they cannot alone,” Meng said. Forwarding a smile outside while also having a lip-raising disgust inside was a dance that, he wasn’t particularly used to or fond of, it was a particular thing that those without power had to do, to play that game.

His father himself let his frustrations about that, fueling his desire to see the structure crumble on Hannamith and make reform with him at the top, and his family the puppeteers. But if so, why subject him to the agony as well? Surely, it’ll be a deal easier to get points across and pride stroked from a mastermind of. The Vermillion people who spoke with their fashion more than strength looked like jesters to him, for what serious discussion could he have with people who were more concerned with their appearance?

“It is because of that strength,” his father answered, “that they may think about trivialities like such.”

“Silliness. We ourselves are the sole rulers of the Hyiantha Valley all the way to the Orlith Pass and, despite this, haven’t fallen into decadence or base desires.”

Ancestor Hao raised a brow, a feature on him that only close blood knew what he was going to say before the words escaped. So Meng’s frown was premature. “That’s a colored view, wouldn’t you say?”

His son’s face soured.

“Don’t fret. Your irritation’s a small charge in comparison for what’s to come. The Suran Priest will fulfill his duty so long as Xinrei does his. I’m assuming that, won’t be a problem?”

“He complains. Much like any child. So no, it won’t be. His resistance’s been whittling down as of late.”

“From what I hear the girl’s beauty threatens kingdoms and empires in both hemispheres. Combined with her talent, for which I vetted, and she’s a perfect match to him. The boy’s still a boy, in the end.”

“I’m curious, who’s the entry for Her Majesty?”

“That… I don’t know.”

The ancestor’s eyes went to slits. Meng Grittus pretended he didn’t see, studying the report.

“Well,” the Ancestor Hao said, a sudden smile wide, “can’t do much about that, can you?” A finger at the lips, the room was silent until he broke it again. “The Silverwhite family sends a representative every year as for a show of force, though, as you know, they don’t go overboard and send a talent that’s guaranteed a win, but they always send the message that even their weakest stands above our juniors. For us not to know is unfortunate, but I do not worry.”

“Xinrei’ll win, isn’t that right?"

Ancestor Hao looked at him.

“Yes. It’s without doubt.” Otherwise, everything they’ve done will have been meaningless.

He’s done what he could for his father’s success, which’ll trickle down to Xinrei. Everything up to this point has been. And further along their path. They are cultivators, followers of the Path and the souls who shape destiny to their designs, not the other way around. If a family needed to be eliminated, a successor to be crippled, or anything else that stood in way of that; then let it be so. He wouldn’t apologize. Cannot, even.

“All the preparations have been complete, then. Keep up your…” Ancestor Hao couldn’t help the mocking grin off his face, even if it was half-complete, “diplomacy, with the mainlanders. Once Xinrei’s married to the girl we wait two years, until the day arrives.”

Nodding, “Right,” Patriarch Meng said.

“Also, it’s of little importance, but did you hear the Matriarch was livid? She didn’t tell me any specifics, but I haven’t seen the woman so infuriated in all my years.”

Ancestor Hao lifted his head. “Really? What could it have been?”

His son shrugged.