A tapped finger on a chair; sparse trickles of light, illuminating a face; cicadas and crickets arguing in midnight, while a man’s groans ran parallel. In this room, on this day—Fang Lai was wholly, and, unconditionally, at the mercy of Grisla Orlith. Watching him, Grisla couldn’t see just what it is that made him so special—why was his martial talent, or as of now his lack thereof, a trait in varying degrees, at its highest something he was gifted, exclusive only to him? Was it due to breeding? Destiny? Or a combination?

And, if it were true, did it mean that some men are just not meant to be special? To live and die chained by mortality, that is their lot? If so, that’s too cruel.

This day was only possible by divine intervention; and here I am pretending and questioning. Had I never “chanced” upon a trinket that conveniently had a portal to a second dimension, occupied by beasts that outstrip my comprehension by ten-thousand li and counting, I would be dead, Grisla thought, unconsciously touching the Sage’s Medallion below his shirt. If fate’s hand were in the making of it all, did it mean this very moment was predestined? He cannot accept that. Half-dead in the snow, the Northern Wilderness was just so close to claiming him, his bones; and afterward, the suffering to make it thus far was merely part of a payment, to this day?

Whether it was true or not served no purpose to why he was here. If it was, one day, he will become so great that even the piper called destiny will be watching from afar, powerless to tug him wherever it wished, and so—

“Tell me, were any of the Chosen accomplices in the Orlith plot?” Grisla said, meanwhile his fingers were so comfortably crossed and himself seated like the room was his own.

Fang Lai grimaced; an internal struggle he was facing, Grisla could tell. As he went through it before. He’s trying any method he could think about, to dig for, to mitigate the affliction to his core. Futile yet it can’t be mocked. Fang Lai couldn’t be bothered to look at him.

Tilting his head, “I asked you a question. Chosen Two,” he said, “In civil peoples, the other party gives answer.”

His defiance was, expected, but this… was denying he even existed in the room. No greater insult he could apply. Do as he’d like, however Grisla had things to do. Getting up, Grisla’s slap jolted him awake. Then, he got an answer.

Chuckling, bitterness in the air, Fang Lai looked at Grisla. A few of his molars on the floor and the ones that remained cracked, whatever sort of prettiness women saw in him was effectively ruined as of today. But laughed he did. “No, none of them are in the know. I was in the dark until later. Xinrei doesn’t know either.”

So, they don’t. Figures. There would’ve been a headache coming if he had to find a way to deal with not one, but all of the Chosen; Rangwha certainly wasn’t part of it, but it was in the cards that she was unknowingly included. But Xinrei? Grisla found that hard to believe. Perhaps? Taking Fang Lai’s word as whole truth is a path to destruction, so, for now, he’ll let that rest.

“What’s your endgame?” Fang Lai said, holding his bloodied chin. “There’s no hope left for you, Untalented. When they see what you’ve done to me—when they hear, you’ll never see light agai—” Slapped again.

Grisla sighed. It was hard enough getting in, now getting out with something substantial is in the air. “I didn’t ask for comment. Now, let’s get straight to the point then: Where’s the cure?”

“That’s right. You boasted about there being a cure, that’s why you’re so adamant. Believe that I came here just to talk?”

Fang Lai gave him a look. Not of hatred, of flesh-tearing malice, his eyes spoke too soon of what he thought, and if he knew Grisla noticed and didn’t care, that was beyond him. Calm. “No,” he breathed. “’Course, nothing’s simple when it concerns an Orlith. I have always believed that, though you may be the vermin leftover from the true Orlith warlords of the past, your kind always keeps things exciting. For better or worse.”

“I miscalculated. I didn’t know you had this much courage—folly, in you. That maid won’t make it five li outside of our gates. You know this,” he grinned, bloody and true, “but you didn’t consider that one, did you?”

“You know nothing of what I’ve—”

“She’ll die. Painfully or otherwise. Destination’s unchanged.”

“All because her fate crossed with you. You’re what we mean by a bad omen.”

I know what he’s doing. Trying to kill time while he thinks. A play that’d work on a simpleton, or even a man of arrogance. Not I. Grisla, to Fang Lai’s unsurprise grabbed his hand.

“Then,” Fang Lai said, stealing a glance at his hand and back to Grisla, “how about we make a deal?”

How could a man’s hand be so soft? A prince’s hand, pampered since his first breath, could also be a devil’s claw. A duality for the silk-laden and peach biting maidens in their court, and an iron fist to destroy their enemies. Him especially. Grisla seized a finger.

“Worry not,” Grisla softly said, “I’ll be gentle. It’s my first time, y’know.”

Fang Lai spoke quick, “Grisla, just what’re you doing? Even you’re above such base—”

That was easy, Grisla thought. Like bent grass, Fang Lai’s finger wasn’t doing so well. Perhaps, the Chosen could use his improved finger as a fishhook. A yelp unbecoming of a warrior erupted.

Grisla, looking from finger to face, the man’s distraught features spoke a feeling of absolute horror, for who would ever dare to do such a thing? “You’re mad! This’s pointless! What does it matter in the end, what you to do me if you’ll be a certain dead man!” Fang Lai cried.

Grisla sighed. Next finger.

“You got eight on standby. Are you really going to make me do them all?” Scratching his chin, Grisla raised a thought: “Hm. How about I go by twos?” The joy of watching Fang Lai’s heart shudder made this trip halfway paid for.

It made no sense whatsoever; to Grisla, breaking fingers was just him being soft, at least that’s what Seri might say. Blood and broken bones was part of their life, from an early age too. Sure, of course that didn’t invalidate the pain but… was the Chosen second this sensitive? Or was it…?

Squinting, “Oh,” Grisla said disdainfully, “you’ve never taken a real injury before.” A bolt to the heart; the knife of truth made Fang Lai’s face twist into sourness.

“Nonsense. How about, I break your finger and see what comes of it?”

He rolled his eyes. Two fingers.

No one could be this sheltered. It’s impossible—impossible if you intended to travel on the Path, the philosophical journey all cultivators under heaven must take to accomplish and shape the world as their hearts desire. How could he be a serious contender in the Rosewater Exchange if he’s so shaken by something trivial as this? Grisla’s eye drifted. The blade on the floor answered the unspoken question.

It was so obvious he’d wanted to laugh. He’s was likely never disciplined seriously in his life before, and even when he started training whoever was over him used a velvet hand. As a cultivator? He attacks from afar, never knowing what it’s like to be hit. Even Xinrei knew what it was like to have a broken nose, but him…?

“Okay! Fine! I’ll tell you.” Fang Lai pleaded with a dozen other words he never used to anyone but heard for himself.

In the end, Fang Lai gave what he asked. A little more than. If Grisla asked how high he could jump, it was given to the precise measurement. All of it must’ve been one big joke. First, he was convinced that getting his tongue to flap would be an impossibility and a fruitless use of his time. Then, with some incentive the boy was an open book with endless pages. He couldn’t even tease Fang Lai with a greater threat of pain; boy’s a glass tiger. More important was what he came for: the cure.

Fang Lai spoke in riddles, at least it sounded to him—his accent struggled pronouncing these foreign names. Made worse when he finagled it trying to wrap around things that sounded more like food than ingredients, which annoyed him a tad. He didn’t come all this way to hear of a cure. He came to retrieve it. So, he was still baited by Fang Lai’s half-truth.

Seri had to check the validity of his words, and yes, some of them, to her great amassing of knowledge had medicinal effects, would they work altogether and for the purpose he was seeking was a different idea. When Grisla asked, this time emphasizing his seriousness if the Fangs ever used it, and Fang Lai’s response was: “Yes, mainly for those who accepted mercy, and as part of the deal, they get their powers back, in return they serve us in the Shadow Company.”

The specifics of how Mortal Reminder worked was both too convoluted for Fang Lai to give a precise explanation, as he wasn’t an alchemist himself, so he summarized it to the basics. Mortal Reminder, though the name is terrible and its effect a unhealing scar, the poison worms its way into a core at the instant of ingestion, able to pass the barrier which isolates it from the rest of the body, embedding itself within. And, much like a parasite, it destabilizes functionality when it obstructs Leha production; leaving everything to fall like a house of cards. Ejecting it by conventional wisdom would prove to be futile, as, without even knowing of how to expunge it trying to touch one’s core is a gamble not taken in stride.

He made Fang Lai swear on the heavens to tell the truth and nothing but—he’d almost forgotten about it, really. With that, he made Fang Lai retell everything (and he meant everything), that’d been spoken to him thus far. Cultivator he will never be evermore, but with enhanced memorization the task was a child’s request for him. Or any cultivator.

Going on about how he didn’t curl up into a knot and die, or be struck by divine lightning before or after he talked, it was the truth.

Finally, when he exhausted all information held, his usefulness to Grisla Orlith the Untalented came at an end, and so—

There wasn’t much to speak about it. Though, if Grisla was asked to recall of his last words, it would’ve been…

Fang Lai backed himself into a corner. A cracking of already shattered glass ended up taking stinging bites to the sole of his feet. Mattered not, as a hungry beast lingered close. “Wait! Don’t…! Though we have different values and lives. You and I are still blood! However thin it may be! We’re clansmen, brothers-in-arms sworn to defend and annihilate those who threaten the security of said clansmen! You can’t!”

“I’m long tired of people saying what I can and can’t do,” Grisla said.

“It’s illogical, Brother Grisla. If living past tomorrow’s what you seek, then sparing me is the just way. How else, will you convince our clan and especially my Fang family about killing you, unless you’ve neglected to say you’re protected by gods and divine favor?”

He was lost at Grisla’s sudden grin. And that was the end of his wondering, or any wondering, since then.

“In the four years since the Chosen duel,” Grisla said, closing his eyes, sighing, “you’ve never called me that. Couldn’t care less….”

“…Die.”

Hunting rabbits was more exciting. He killed Fang Lai. But not as he was, but a shell of himself. He killed him twice, and it didn’t give him any joy. In fact, he’d expected to feel something. Anything. Instead, all he felt was relief. One less name, and one less problem. Skulking through the night to murder a man wearing less than a courtesan wasn’t a warrior’s way. In an ideal world, Fang Lai would die and the clan would witness his falling, in honorable combat. There, he would prove something no amount of words or edicts could say. Strength is everything. But he did not kill Fang Lai with it.

The man couldn’t even die with a shred of that pride he flaunted.

That would be the first, and last time he’d do something of the like.

Daybreak was on its way. The midnight concerto eased, like a man’s life, to a still silence. This’s where the similarity diverged; something will replace the emptiness, a new performer or plural; nature’s concert will restart shortly. Orange light overhead, torches blazing whilst a boy aging to man walked alone. His medallion though it looked reflective rejected such properties, hanging to the open air like a spoil of war.

He returned to Olimuth’s shop, around the back was the promised items, his treasure from the Well of Wonders, and extra that he didn’t ask or bet for yet was provided anyway; a debt owed without asking. He’ll pretend it’s because of his father.

There wasn’t a belated farewell on the backroad out of Leimuth, as the sun rose, in the coming hour a new servant that couldn’t find the first would find Fang Lai’s corpse, blood, and terror in the same room. Hated he was, Grisla couldn’t find a point to subjecting him to an unusually cruel death, so he made it quick. His smile was dead, and would be, to his estimation, for quite a long time.

And, as the dawn brought sunlight, it will also tell for the first time since the clan’s formation, Leimuth was devoid of even a single Orlith in their midst. A family will be struck the records, and as much as he hopes otherwise, erased. So it goes.

The first thing to do was to retrieve the ingredients on the list, and his power comes with. Then… then it’ll be the first true step to payback.

Seri.

Hmm…?

I think I need that meeting to be postponed further.

You’re courting death, welp.

I don’t have much of a choice. I have a feeling, albeit a slight one, that what I’m coming back to Limbo for won’t be a short lecture.

Two years, is it? If you want preparation and training for the Houtian Realm, you cannot ignore them forever. Especially concerning your Aspect.

Aspect? And that is…?

Better from the masters than me.

Grisla snickered. Always with the bait on a hook.

Question, will you miss them?

Is that a joke? No, nothing close. Just… somberness.

I see. I could relate.

…You could?

I’m not sure. I just feel like I can.

Grisla walked away from the dawn, chasing shadows to a horizon beyond the mountains, rivers, and cliffs all claimed by the clan’s name. If it was so much as associated with the Grittus clan of Leimuth, vassal to the One-City Kingdom as the Queen’s servant, then he will travel far enough away that the very name wouldn’t touch a blip on a villager’s mind. First, to chase the cure. Second, in solitude will he grow. In two winters the Rosewater Exchange will be, and so, he must show with nothing but strength to answer.

…Until then, not a soul will see him. Grittus executioners slept nights without food; and lost portions of their master’s favor by the day. So enraged the Matriarch killed a man for daring to say their manhunters were too inadequate to find a crippled boy. To request aid of the Shadow Company, already deployed to who knows where was an insult equivalent to slapping the woman herself. That said, the trail went cold.

And time passed.

A howl of anger; a cry of sorrow; for his breath and voice reached all corners of the world, from the highest peak of frozen rock, to the endless abyss of an ocean no man has ever reached, on that day, the clans were rent asunder. Merciless, his retribution. And after the dust had cleared, and fires died, the dawn raised anew; those terrified memories carried forth, to stories, later legend. He came, and went.

—From a translation of The Coming of the Sage by the chronicler Jang Quifei, Third Scribe, the Fourth Era