PRESENT DAY.

The mist was heavy on Yunji the following morning, hanging like a milky specter over the jagged landscape. Craggy precipices too shallow for anything but birds were the only sight to break through from afar; the morning blanket rested plushly atop the heads of wind and elevation molded evergreens that thrived on weaving their roots through rocks and drinking cold mountain runoff. It would be another two hours before the sun woke and greeted the bodies stirring inside of the hollow husk of that esoteric landmass.

Even though he remained groggy from little rest, Ren Li was always diligent in the tasks he’d been given. He woke the lot of his companions before the moon had yet to bid them good morning, shaking their shoulders and disturbing the darkness of their slumbers with the annoyance of light. He, along with Hua Jin and the princes Tian, returned to the Pai’ou Tracer Pavilion to have Tian Yuhui’s weapon set, and when that was through the group split in twain—the Tians sent for training, while the inlayer and the noble remained behind to collect a few more artifacts from Luanshi’s collection, its heart of howling ghosts.

The princes made it to the sparring arena mid-way through Xueyu’s third opponent of the morning, the older of the Wei sisters, as she held her own against the formidable sword master. Yuhui took his place next to Laike to watch the rest of the match, affectionately bumping his shoulder.

“What’s wrong old man, can’t keep up?” Chongwei laughed like a villain in the body of a teenager, carefully dodging her teacher’s rapid advances. “Had a fitful sleep full of war flashbacks, g-pa?”

“Wait—have you actually been practicing in your spare time?” Xueyu responded to the taunting, surprised like this girlchild was nothing but a delinquent. “I’m shocked.”

From the stone lined edges of Xueyu’s training yard, Jiewei was consumed in wide eyed wonder at her sister’s impending victory. Chonkwei nestled in the fold of her dress above her waistband, chubby arms and face hanging out so she too could observe the commotion.

“Fuck him up, sis!” the girl shouted like some bloodthirsty bookie. “These kids about to lose their cooking sugar!!”

Laike, however, was a little more concerned, less overjoyed at his mentor’s shortcomings. Regardless, the boy smiled when the prince arrived at his side, bumping Yuhui’s shoulder in return. His smirk betrayed their late night, bright eyed despite the tinge of night lingering upon his lids.

“You might be lucky today,” Laike whispered fondly to Yuhui before he looked back at the fight. “I think Master Xueyu’s not feeling well. I tagged him out in thirty seconds.””

“Thirty seconds for you is probably going to be an hour for me.” Yuhui grinned in his lighthearted retort, even as he intently watched the methods in which Chongwei fought. Except for the times when he spectated in the arena next to his parents, this was a rare glimpse into the lives of other fighters; a curious peek behind the curtains of those mysterious children hand-picked to be the famed swordmaster’s own disciples.

“These don’t usually last more than five minutes, ten tops,” Laike replied informatively, like Yuhui actually intended on spending an hour in the ring with the swordmaster. Suddenly remembering, the shadow-walker snagged Yuhui by the wrist so he could inspect his friend’s new artifact, no longer interested in the battle being waged before him.

Chongwei, for her part, was not letting up. Emboldened by the promise of excess sugar as a hard earned reward, she doubled down in what turned into a final blow. Pushing past the young girl, Xueyu stumbled and landed on his knees. The older of the Wei sisters was immediately at his spine, dawn-illuminated weapon threatening death upon the movement of a single muscle.

“HAH! HA HA! HA HA HA HA!” The youth declared, raucous laughter echoing out from the center of the training field and into the nearby forest. “Got you, shifu! I got you SO GOOD!” She retracted her weapon and moved to help the man up.

“That you did, Chongwei, that you did.” Xue replied, kind in the throat but stern in expression. How could this have happened? How could he have lost three matches to his students in a day? Nowadays he expected that he would lose to Laike, but Meilin (whose abilities in the ring were still so green) and now Chongwei (who spent more time grifting than trying to get better at fighting)—would the day see him bending to the rest of his opponents?

Dusting off his knees, the swordmaster looked upon the rest of the crowd. “Alright. Who’s next?”

Tian Xiaoxu, roused from his quiet observation along the edge of Master Xueyu’s domain, took a single step forward, feet planted squarely within the perimeter of a challenge. The crown prince was not one for boasting; didn’t care much for taunts; only talked shit for strategic advantage. Instead, he stood tall, quietly scanning the faces around him until he spotted the shy blonde from the night prior. The corner of his mouth twitched into an uneven grin, cracking the stoic facade he always wore before a match.

“What are the rules here?” Xiao called over to his teacher. “What am I not allowed to do?”

“It’s no different than when we have lessons at the palace. Very similar to the arena,” Xueyu responded, sword arm resting at his side. “Killing and maiming is strongly discouraged, other than that, every scratch is an invaluable lesson on one’s faults.”

The swordmaster rolled his shoulder and lifted his weapon for the fourth time that day, preparatory stance assumed for their match. Behind him, the white haired girl waved and gave that handsome prince a thumbs up.

“Ready?” Xueyu asked.

Instead of drawing Boon, Xiaoxu seemed more concerned with the ground, the dust, the open air. Regardless of his state of armament, his footwork read affirmative to his teacher’s question and the prince rounded the perimeter just outside the swordmaster’s reach.

He kept Tiao in his peripheral; he didn’t really know why he kept her position in mind when all his focus should’ve been on that iron-ore arena champion opposite him. Could he afford the distraction? It was just background awareness. Yeah—he was just aware of her. Xiao could handle that. His reflex bucked his better sense: she was worth the extra attention.

Brow knit, Xiao bit his lip, tracing out tree roots beneath his feet.

Xueyu moved in a semicircular path, eyes not needing to see the ground he was so familiar with as they focused upon the prince who’d traveled up the mountain to learn with him. In all their days prior, he bested Xiaoxu every time. Surely this day would be no different—surely the losses thus far were the result of his students conspiring to make a fool out of him and not a symptom of a greater problem.

Quick like a magnet drawn to its polar opposite, Xueyu was immediately in Xiaoxu’s space, sword kissed by the first light of the sun and coming right for him.

Without hesitation, Xiaoxu fell back, seeking to maintain some breath of distance between him and the swordsman. Boon was a flash of light at his wrist, zipping up like a rocket before it came careening down with the same arc as the rise and fall of the prince’s guiding hand. The sword impaled the earth with a great cloud of dirt to show for its effort, hilt like a shark’s fin as it zigged and zagged across the yard, ripping through vines as it sought Xiaoxu’s hand once more.

As soon as the prince’s sword broke the earth, a creaking gnarl of roots broke the space between Xueyu and his target, tying up the swordmaster’s feet in a knee high tangle of knotted vines.

Xueyu sliced through the knot attached to his left foot, kicking the remnants away in his quest for freedom. His right, however, remained delayed. Normally, and with Kaizhan’s spectral assistance, Xueyu would be able to summon and wield multiple weapons under his beck and call. With the sword spirit’s cooperation, he was a true master of swords, the summoner of an endless arsenal, the commander of a malicious tyrant’s thirst for blood—

but without any of that, without the Blood Blessed Blade, he was just Xueyu: a poor man with average ability.

Even as his fingers worked their last ditch magics to call forth another blade to save the situation, Xueyu knew. In the back of his mind he cursed his abandonment. He loathed his recklessness in the previous night, his mouth, his bitter acrimony, his pride. The swordmaster of Yunji stood with his free foot out and furiously fought the earthen bonds of his captivity.

Boon was back in Xiaoxu’s hand, flight module hyper-responsive to the prince’s every beck and call. Before Xueyu could free himself from his snare, the future King of Fanxing had the tip of his sword pointed at the swordsman’s bobbing throat, even as the tangled roots drug the struggling man’s captive leg into the dirt.

“You don’t have to go easy on us, shifu,” the young man said, waiting for his opponent’s concession. “Each of us wants to train to our limit so we can make you proud.”

“It’s just warm up,” Xueyu replied, weapon falling slack. “This will get more difficult. Easy does it on your first day, okay?” Taking a breath and letting it out slowly, Xueyu looked up to the crown prince’s face, free leg kneeling to accommodate his body being pulled into the ground. “Would you release me now?”

“Yes, shifu,” Xiaoxu obliged, gaze flicking up to search out Tiao along the edges of the training grounds. The roots pulling Xueyu down relaxed but left their mangrove mass above ground in a tight snarl scarring the yard’s otherwise smooth surface.

Xueyu pulled himself out of the ground, head obscuring the prince’s view of the blonde. For a passing moment she appeared elated, clapping joyously before the swords man’s obstruction thwarted their briefly shared line of sight.

“Good match,” Xueyu said as a means of dismissing Xiaoxu, gesturing for him to return to the sidelines. “Who’s next?”

Scanning the enclosure, Xue paused on Tian Yuhui excitedly whispering into the ear of his favorite student, sticking his wrist out to show the younger boy his inlaid gem. For a while, the swordmaster was afraid to look over at Laike, worried for the disappointment that would shade the youth’s face. Now, he only felt frustration, disappointed that the boy couldn’t manage to concentrate on the matches now that the middle prince joined the crowd.

“Yuhui—” Xue called, certain that he would beat the chaos-plagued boy. “Why don’t you come up?”

“Yes, shifu!” Yuhui responded. He spoke at a lower volume then, ducking into the arena with his eyes kept on that boy of shadows. “Don’t laugh if I lose, okay?”

As the Crown Prince exited the yard opposite the way he came, close to where Tiao stood on the sidelines, Laike laughed. He was hardly willing to release his friend’s wrist but he disguised it well, giving Yuhui a grin to see him off. “It’s your first time,” Laike called after him, a beaming joy lighting all the angles of taunt and affection in his teasing tone. “Just make sure you get up—don’t lay down in defeat!”

The older boy smiled and turned away from Laike, focus finally shifting to his teacher. Yuhui stopped a few feet away from Xueyu and drew his sword from the air, a flurry of shimmering six point stars aggregating into the smooth shape of a sapphire-tinted blade, deep in the meager light of morning like the navy ocean kissed by first glimpse of twilight. Xueyu matched him in stance, raising his weapon in challenge.

“Are you ready?” The swordmaster asked for the fifth time that day.

“Ye—” Yuhui was barely able to respond before his blade was thrust up in defense, loudly clanking against the heavy iron of his teacher’s sword. Knees apart, the heels of his boots sunk into the disturbed ground left by his brother as the middle prince braced himself against the blow.

Yuhui was the type of fighter who would always struggle with contests of strength. He was a lean thing, limber and agile rather than sturdy and staunch, pliable rather than rooted. He was meant to be quick and crafty—Xueyu, having taught this boy on the side for years, knew this about the prince and used that as his sole reason for attacking Yuhui in such a manner.

The swordmaster was expecting an easy win out of the Tian’s middle child. Even without Kaizhan this would be simple. To know Yuhui’s mind remained preoccupied with thoughts of his favorite disciple was to know that his guard would not be completely there. The older man correctly anticipated where the boy’s thoughts stayed, however there were too many forces at work for him to come out the victor of that fifth match on that day whose auspices favored the fancies of an old bet.

Yuhui, in a cunning display of lucky ingenuity, twisted himself to be free of the hold, leaving Xueyu’s sword to wedge itself deep into the grainy earth. Spinning on one of those previously set heels, and while the man was struggling with inherent magnetism of the dirt versus the metal of his weapon, the prince darted to Xue’s side. In an instant, Yuhui brought his sword down upon the back of his teacher’s neck, sharpened blade gently resting atop the dip between C4 and C5.

“Concede,” he demanded from that throat so full of commands.

“—Not yet.” Xueyu abandoned his sword to suddenly reach out and snatch the prince’s ankle. Yuhui, unfortunately, let him have it, slamming the toe of his boot into the swordmaster’s stomach. Xue gasped as his breath left him and fell to the open palms of his hands, knees bent beneath his body’s weight.

“Now, then?” Yuhui asked, cold metal again meeting exposed nape.

“Yeah, now.” Xueyu choked out, slow to catch the air that was knocked out of him.

“Good match, shifu.” The prince dissipated his weapon and began to help the older man up. Xueyu turned him down gently, a waving hand dismissing the assistance.

“Good match,” he replied in kind, a necessity more than some expression of a warrior’s humility.

Laike’s eyes lingered on the swordmaster’s defeat, a question sewn into his brow that didn’t fade even when Yuhui celebrated victory at his side. It remained even as the gale of surprised shouts and excited chatter overtook the prince and, in turn, Laike, sweeping them toward the dormitories and away from the five-time defeated swordsman.

Xueyu was alone with that long dead laughter, viral in his head.