Zhao watched the flame flicker, bordering on dying before managing to cling onto life. He huffed despondently and, in doing so, accidentally killed the stubborn little fire. Smoke swayed hypnotically upwards, barely visible in the darkness, until Gu Hong reached over and touched it with his Qi.

As the vapor ignited and thereby relit the candle, Zhao couldn’t help but smile. It was sad, in his opinion, that such tiny snippets of joy were all he could manage after their sojourn into the world.

“Zhao, are you okay?” Gu Hong asked innocently, tugging his sleeve to gain his attention. “You’ve looked different since we got back,” the boy observed before adding, “more like a raccoon than usual!”

The joke allowed a slight chuckle to escape Zhao, but it soon faded into a grimace as he rubbed his ever throbbing eyes with calloused palms. “It’s just been difficult to sleep,” he stated, hoping to divert any further questioning.

Focusing on the candle before them, Gu Hong nodded. “I think I understand,” he observed, “Everytime I close my eyes I see Bao Chi laying there… broken.”

Shrinking in on himself, the youth continued, “I feel so guilty about my weakness.”

As his companion’s knuckles turned white Zhao chided himself. It was selfish to let his own inner turmoil blind him to Gu Hong’s struggles.

“That’s not a healthy line of thought,” Zhao assured, discounting that he had come to a similar conclusion. Reaching over to give an awkward shoulder squeeze he met Gu Hong’s eyes. “Listen, obsessing over what happened isn’t what Bao Chi would want. You have to live for him. For all of us.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” the boy asked with deceptive naivety.

Zhao frowned. “Don’t worry about me,” he insisted. “Focus on yourself for now. I’m your senior brother after all; it's my responsibility to take care of you, not the other way around.”

Rising in the dim light, Zhao made his way towards one of the few so-called rooms in his cultivation cave. The action made him feel stifled, like his head was touching the ceiling.

It was almost instinct for him to seize control of his breathing from his subconscious before the hyperventilating began.

The few steps and the stuttered ‘Goodnight’ he left behind took nearly as much effort as surviving Elder Long’s crushing presence. Once the door sealing him off from Gu Hong clicked closed Zhao gripped at his chest, at the rising pressure buried inside.

What was wrong with him? Almost losing control of himself in front of Gu Hong, suffering from more anxiety, and failing to wrestle his insomnia.

The younger disciple was clearly fighting his own demons but, for Zhao, Bao Chi’s death was only one amongst a plethora of invasive memories.

Zhao remembered every time he’d taken a life. For an inexplicable reason he couldn’t recall their faces, as if the people he had murdered were nothing more than expendable fodder. He didn’t like it, and his natural distaste was amplified by his experience breaking into Foundation Establishment.

Even now a spirit fragment bobbed patiently within him, waiting for its turn to be cleansed from the material world. He didn’t know how many he had freed before the rest calmed down, but there were certainly thousands left. Waiting for him.

He didn’t want to feel the knife on his throat again. It reminded him too much of his own actions. But it wasn’t the spirit fragments’ fault that Zhao had to suffer their final moments before freeing them.

His thoughts were everywhere. Zhao couldn’t even begin to focus. He idly realized that the last time he had slept through the night was so long ago that he couldn’t remember it.

The rock walls were smothering, seemingly closing in. A detached part of him recognized the sensation as claustrophobia.

A constant thrumming, the beat of his heart, exacerbated the tenderness around Zhao’s eyes. He gripped a spirit stone from the glittering pile scattered around his room and yanked the Qi inside, his only lifeline.

Invigorating energy flooded his pathways, the Myriad Voices cycling and actually helping abate the feelings plaguing him for once. It wouldn’t be enough, he knew. If Zhao tried to sleep it would all come racing back.

Instead he settled in to cultivate and continue purging the spirit fragments inside him. Those practices quickly came to a close as fatigue overtook Zhao. Despite his exhaustion he was well away of the dangers of losing control during a cultivation session and suffering a Qi deviation. Sending off a spirit fragment was an equally delicate task, and Zhao had no wish to find out how disastrous a mistake in the process would be.

With a sigh Zhao ran through the various other Spirit Arts he had memorized. Moments later he rediscovered the frustration of being unable to adequately manifest any of the combat oriented arts.

He could bathe the room in mist as a result of his far more developed mastery of the Misty Breath and Rotating Breath, but utilizing the resultant dew to enable one of the combat oriented arts was still beyond him.

Every time Zhao painstakingly constructed the framework for one of the other Spirit Arts it inevitably destabilized before the Qi in its pathways resulted in any meaningful effect. After suppressing his growing rage, he turned to the sole remaining art he had at his disposal: Daydreamer’s Bliss.

The useless cantrip taunted him once more. Zhao cycled his Qi, recited the mantra thoroughly ingrained in his memory, and waited for a sign that this attempt would be different from all the previous.

When no such miracle appeared, his simmering exasperation tilted towards perplexion as Zhao came to a realization. Upon close reflection it seemed that, unlike the other arts, the matrix for Daydreamer’s Bliss had stabilized before dissipating uselessly.

The fact that he never noticed the discrepancy before gave Zhao pause, until he considered how much more powerful his divine sense had become since entering Foundation Establishment. He hoped his oversight could be attributed to inability rather than the fallibility of his own mind.

Regardless, having identified the anomalous issue Zhao repeated his performance until Daydreamer’s Bliss was at the cusp of activation. Then he released the Qi to activate the art, focusing intensely on its path.

It snaked through the prepared pattern, readied itself to manifest under Zhao’s command, and then seemed to seep away. The Qi wasn’t escaping him but instead digging deeper into him. Following it led his mind to transcend the physical realm and enter what might be described as the soul space where he perceived the spirit fragments to be.

Once there the Qi wove around the assorted souls, though strands of it appeared to be caught by curious fragments every so often. Zhao scrunched his closed eyes as he observed the Qi split into several branches. Continuing down one revealed a repeat of the behavior, his Qi breaking into a maze trailing through the spirit fragments.

Gritting his teeth, Zhao determined to follow a single trail to its end. As his consciousness passed by the spirit fragments they reached out, begging for his attention. Flashes of gruesome deaths and excruciating pain forced him back.

He tried again.

And again.

And again.

Over and over again until Zhao lost track of how many attempts he had made. Each new foray into the depths of his being let him advance the spiritual equivalent of a single step. That, however, was more progress than he was making with any of the other arts, so he persisted in unraveling the mystery of Daydreamer’s Bliss.

Eventually Zhao reached the end, a point where the myriad paths converged. The Qi whispered to him as he approached, a familiar face rising to Zhao’s mind as he squinted through the pure energy to what it encapsulated.

There, in the midst of the Qi, was Zhao. Or, more accurately, Zhao Mi.

The spirit fragment of the original.

Just as Zhao gazed upon it, the fragment’s attention fell onto him. A shiver passed down his spine.

Opening his eyes, he stumbled out of his room towards the nearest water basin as he recalled the sensation of resentment that the spirit fragment emanated. A few vigorous splashes of cold water later and the intensity of the memory began fading.

Zhao glanced around the room, noting that Gu Hong was absent. Chuckling to himself, he began rubbing his temples defeatedly. “Guess I lost another night of sleep,” he commented dully.

“Better get used to it,” taunted a voice.

Spinning towards it, Zhao found himself facing the wall of the cave.

“Down here,” whispered the unwelcome guest.

Gazing up at him from the water bowl was Zhao’s reflection. Except, it wasn’t following his movements. A cruel smile split its lips, only interrupted as it made an exclamation, “Boo!”

Though surprised, Zhao remained unmoved. Fear percolated in the back of his mind, but it was muted by the lassitude that completely encapsulated Zhao’s existence. “Boo?” he repeated stupidly, blinking at his distorted likeness.

“Yeah!” insisted Zhao’s counterpart, “That’s scary, right? Sounds ridiculous to me, but it came from your memories Jacob.” Having apparently proved the panic-inducing nature of the word ‘boo’, the spirit fragment’s manifestation let a self satisfied smirk overtake its face.

Over the following minute the expression warped to one of confusion, soon followed by a question, “Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

In response Zhao snorted. “You’re the least of my problems right now,” he said conversationally, taking the supernatural cultivation nonsense in stride. That seemed to offend the specter trapped in the wooden bowl, the water containing it rippling angrily.

“No!” the original Zhao Mi screamed, “I’m the worst of your problems.” When the living Zhao failed to exhibit any more emotion than polite disinterest the disembodied voice continued. “You can’t use Spirit Arts because of me!”

The assertion finally managed to draw Zhao’s ire. “You?” he mumbled, “Of course it would be you.” Rubbing his temples, the cultivator took a deep breath. “What would it take to make you go away?” Zhao asked dejectedly.

“Give me my body back!” yelled the meddler immediately. When Zhao told it that wouldn’t be possible the creature threw an unintelligible tantrum of demonic screeching. Groggily, Zhao recalled his prior conclusion that the being was unstable.

“Look,” Zhao offered, “how about I promise to get you a body.” The drowned visage paused its mania at his words, so he continued, “In exchange, you work with me instead of against me.” Hesitation played out on his mirrored reflection, so Zhao argued further, “Helping me would mean hastening the deliverance of your new body.”

The remnants of the former Zhao Mi appeared to mull over the proposal for the time it takes an incense stick to burn. Finally, with painful slowness, the spirit fragment agreed. “Okay,” it said, “but I have a condition.”

When Zhao nodded it continued, “I want a good body, no wait, a great body; like, the best! Heaven grade spirit roots at the very least.” Rather than protest the absurdity of the claim, Zhao cupped his chin as if considering the demand. Internally he debated how to best take advantage of the situation.

“Well,” he soon stated, “I suppose that’s doable.” Narrowing his eyes, Zhao added, almost as an afterthought, “But that would likely lengthen the amount of time you would have to wait.” He proffered a hand at the water bowl. “Would you be willing to accept that additional time?”

The illusory figure grit its teeth as its expression hardened. For a moment Zhao thought he’d pressed too hard, only to be relieved a moment later when it eventually bellowed, “Fine! I, your granddaddy, will demonstrate my boundless magnanimity and unending patience in this endeavor.”

Suppressing both laughter and an exasperated sigh at the crazy spirit fragments declaration, Zhao instead nodded seriously. “Good, then I swear before the heavens that I will accede to the terms of our agreement so long as you do so.”

Clearly caught up in the moment, the ghost excitedly repeated the vow with a wild smile. As the heavens’ pressure descended to witness their agreement the two faces finally matched as a wry grin escaped Zhao.

“I look forward to working with you, Zhao Mi.” he said shrewdly.