A Thousand Li: The Third Realm: A Xianxia Cultivation Novel Page 4

  “Then, it seems, we have the overall outline of an agreement for your stay, Expert Long,” Chief Pan said, smiling a little.

  “We do,” Wu Ying said. He did not forget that they had mentioned only one of a few things but had now cut the discussion short.

  Whatever it was they had wished to ask him, the chief had chosen to discard it for now. Perhaps in the future, it might be brought up. In the end, it mattered little. Wu Ying could wait and see. He was, after all, in no hurry.

  ***

  Nearly a week later, a week of long languid days spent being shown around the hills and gullies of the land, the chief and the other Elders returned to confirm their agreement in full. Their bloodline records, their experimentations, and even access to their secret medicinal bathing areas were all part of the offer, though in turn, Wu Ying was to teach Pan Chen the Long family style in its entirety whilst parting with his collection of sword manuals.

  It was a small sacrifice, since the collection would be copied by students and scholars from the Pan family before being returned to him. His travels had allowed Wu Ying to purchase a variety of such documents, but none of them were particularly secretive. Like a squirrel, Wu Ying had hoarded manuals from passing merchants, auction houses, and bookstores, acquiring them without care for origin or quality.

  As such, the volumes of work he had acquired included everything from martial art manuals written by those who barely understood which side was the pointy end to the everyday martial arts manuals of the Shen army to private manuals from defunct martial art sects and fallen families.

  It had become a hobby, reading them late into the night whilst gathering, practicing and laughing at the inaccurate representations. All of it in an attempt to weave together or gain enlightenment of his own family style from exposure to others.

  In the secret chamber of his heart, where unspoken ambition dwelt, Wu Ying held hopes of weaving his style into a complete sword form. Building upon his understanding of the Long family style to create something powerful, something that reached beyond the manuals he had collected and been gifted, beyond the fifth form that he had only begun to practice recently.

  For none of his family had ever reached the heights of Nascent Soul formation, at least not recently. And what sparse notes there were explaining forms in the fifth style, the flow of chi and the projection of energy, all came from those who had reached Core Formation. The original notes offered only the sparsest of guidance for one at his stage.

  Leaving Wu Ying… bereft.

  And if perhaps inspiration or understanding might come from works that were as fanciful as they were practical, so be it.

  In the meantime, while Wu Ying had waited for an answer to his request, he had spent the time being a grateful guest. Even for one who had grown familiar with the rigors of travel, the long months from the Seven Pavilions residence through country roads and ill-kept inns had taken its toll.

  A chance to rest, to wander through conditioned fields of tea and wild plains of sheep, to clamber across windswept lands and dance among the clouds without care was gratefully taken. Time to breathe the air, to relax the soul, and to cultivate.

  Days where Wu Ying’s greatest dilemma was whether he made it back in time for dinner. Hours spent cultivating on lonely hilltops and under cloudy skies, while the wind danced and he bathed in medicinal baths meant to strengthen his body and leach out impurities.

  All the while feeding the Nascent Soul in his core with the glimmering touches of enlightenment, improving his body as he practiced the forms of the Seven Winds manual in the blowing western wind as he danced through the sky. Days where that nascent soul grew as the Formless Realm cultivating method fed it dao and enlightenments, and Wu Ying sought his dao.

  Cultivating, filling his dantian, and waiting.

  For in stillness, there too was growth.

  Chapter 4

  The child prodigy was truly a child. Standing four and a half feet tall, barely under Wu Ying’s armpit, he was a well-proportioned kid with his hair tucked into a high hat. He had been chattering away excitedly with a girl child until Wu Ying and his escort of the Fourth Uncle arrived at the empty training courtyard. Set aside and a distance from the rest of the village, it was a perfect location to work upon new techniques—away from prying and curious eyes.

  Once the children realized who had arrived, the little girl was sent away and the child prodigy—Pan Chen—transformed, maturing in the space of seconds as he straightened his back and grew a serious expression.

  “Expert Long, this unworthy one looks forward to your instruction,” Pan Chen said, bowing low with his hands clasped together.

  Wu Ying smiled a little, noting the tiny queue the boy had tied his hair into to get it out of the way. “No need, Cultivator Pan. I am grateful for the chance to meet one so skilled at a young age.”

  “Student. Or apprentice,” Pan Chen replied. “If you would take one as unworthy as myself as your student, that is.”

  Wu Ying paused, running through the options of what he should say. The role and responsibilities of official student and teacher were expansive. It was not a mere form of address, as the way the Fourth Uncle had stiffened and glowered at the youngster showcased. As the saying went, “A teacher for a day, A parent for life[1].”

  On the other hand, Wu Ying had to admit, having a student reach the Soul stage of understanding of the sword would bring much prestige to him. And safety. A small, greedy part of him desired the benefits taking the youngster’s overelaborate courtesy would bring. Taking advantage of his naivete…

  Wu Ying regarded that small and mean and greedy part of himself. Time seemed to stretch as he considered that portion of himself, as he assessed it and his own desires. Then with a swift mental kick, he breathed out, consigning that greed back into the corner of his soul where it belonged.

  Such an action, it would diminish him. Devalue his sense of worth, the hard rock of honor he had built his own ego upon. He would not grasp at such small markers of reputation, not hide under the uncertain shade of obligation.

  If perhaps his choices were foolish, so be it. The journey to immortality was a fool’s dream anyway. And he, a true fool.

  Seconds, long seconds in which the Fourth Uncle grew redder, caught in the binds of hospitality and courtesy while the blades of future disaster and foolishness closed on him. Seconds, while Pan Chen shifted from foot to foot, awaiting an answer.

  And then Wu Ying spoke. “No, Cultivator Pan, I will not take you on as a student. For I am not ready to take on a student. Nor have I judged you, sufficiently, to do so.” He leaned down and, deliberately, ruffled the child’s carefully maintained hair. “Choosing a teacher should not be a matter of whim or courtesy but of deep and certain thought. For a bad teacher will lead you wrong and place your feet on an incorrect path. Whether deliberately or by dint of failure. I choose to do neither for you.”

  Pulling away from Wu Ying’s hand, Pan Chen glared at the other man for a second. Shame at being rejected disappeared under the petulant rage of a child, smothered only by the hard-won control of martial arts and cultivation.

  “This one apologizes for disturbing Expert Long.” Pan Chen’s voice was high, rough as contained emotions leaked around the edges.

  Coughing into his hand, Pan Hai stepped forward and gestured to the open courtyard. “Perhaps we should start now?”

  “Of course,” Wu Ying said, hiding his smile from the glowering child. Irritation would go away, but shame could scar souls. “Is there a way that you prefer to learn, Cultivator Pan?”

  Pan Chen glanced at Pan Hai, seeking confirmation. When he received it, he offered Wu Ying a half-smile. One that had a hint of mischief in it.

  “Would Expert Long show me your style first? In its entirety?”

  A good enough starting point. The bargain was for the teaching in its entirety, after all. “Of course.”

  Unsheathing his blade, Wu Ying strode to the center of the courtyard. Smooth paving stones lay beneath his feet, the open air courtyard allowing the winds to come in and play. Whispering secrets of dalliances and napping bear-kin. He acknowledged their words before dismissing them from his mind.

  A slow, trickly exhale. Then he spoke, low but loudly enough for the others to hear. “Long family sword style—first form.”

  Stillness.

  Then, hand on the hilt of his sword. The Dragon unsheathes its Claws. The first motion of the form, a sword draw. Step forward, twist the sheath and blade as he drew. Cut and end with the sword on the high outer line.

  Thrust, transitioning forward. Twist and cut, disengage, block. Wu Ying flowed through the motions of the form. He chose to showcase the original form, as it had been taught to him by his father, without adaptations for Wind Steps or the Twelve Gales, without adding in the Shen Kicking style or any other minor variations he had created to better suit himself.

  Falling into familiar patterns were easy, though Wu Ying noted the most minute of hesitations as movements or transitions he had altered caused him trouble. When he was done, he had returned to his starting position, his blade sheathed.

  “Beautiful. Expert Long truly is an expert in the jian,” Pan Hai praised.

  Wu Ying smiled and offered a little bow but otherwise ignored the courtesy praise. Instead, he watched the slight frown on Pan Chen’s face. And like a good teacher, he asked, “What is wrong, Cultivator Pan?”

  “It’s not very good, is it?”

  “Ah Chen!” Pan Hai said, sounding scandalized. He raised a hand to strike Pan Chen on the back of the head but stilled when Wu Ying raised a hand. Remembering he was but an observer here.

  “Why do you say that?” Wu Ying asked.

  “That’s not the style you use, not anymore. It’s some
thing you learned, but that’s not your style,” Pan Chen explained. “I’d like to see your real style. Not this.”

  “Truly, one with the Heart of the Jian,” Wu Ying said, offering the kid a half-smile to show no offense had been taken.

  Taking position once more in the center of the courtyard, Wu Ying half-closed his eyes. He breathed in and out. Settled his nerves and soul. Found the rhythm of the blowing wind.

  And moved.

  ***

  No hesitation, no breaks, no gaps. At least, none that he did not know of—that were still transitions that were being perfected. In the course of altering the style to suit his own body of knowledge, there were gaps, options that Wu Ying tested and discarded. Not many, of course—two or three in the entirety of the first form. The rest were smooth motions, transitions between flowing kicks, elbow and fist strikes to thrusts and cuts.

  Elegance in motion, efficiency in every action. A myriad range of options opening and closing lines of attack and defense with each raise of an arm, cut, or thrust, the sinking of a foot or the tilt of the body. Angles that were created and denied, feints and false openings in equal measure that could transition to other motions.

  A form was not a static thing, not in the mind’s eye of an expert. Each motion was but a prelude to dozens of reactions, each action an invitation to an opponent. The final result, whether a string of cuts like the Flashing claws before Dinner to a series of circular blocks or disengages like Cloud Hands were all dependent upon an opponent’s reaction.

  What differentiated a good style, one that was an intermediate or peak battle technique from a poor beginner or novice one, was the range of options and reactions provided with each action—or conversely, the range of options and reactions denied to an opponent.

  The sun rose, the clouds drifted, and leaves danced in the wind as Wu Ying found a peace in the sword and his forms that he had been unable to locate as a child. Hours every day spent practicing the jian long before his friends rose to see the morning. Early hours, when the sun was barely more than a sliver—for they were farmers and the day started when the dawn truly began.

  Oh, how he had fought and screamed and complained, sometimes out loud and later, after learning his lessons, in his heart. He had hated his father for the strict discipline, the endless hours of repetition of each motion, each form he displayed. Talent replaced by sweat and tears, blood and blisters until he got it right. Only to do it again the very next day.

  Peace, from the knowledge that he was doing a job well. Not perfect, though he chased that elusive concept. Peace from repeating actions that had been drilled into him from hours of practice, peace wrapped in the alloy of fond memories.

  And then it was over and Wu Ying was standing in the same spot, sword sheathed. His audience was silent, even as Wu Ying approached the pair.

  Biting his lower lip, Pan Chen was looking at Pan Hai who, after shaking himself a little, spoke softly. “Hah. I apologize, Expert Long.”

  “For what?” Wu Ying said, frowning.

  “I had doubts about the need to have a stranger showcase his arts to Pan Chen. I did not believe that revealing our secrets to you was appropriate. And yet…” He gestured. “It seems the world is wider than even I expect.”

  “It was a small thing…” Wu Ying said, waving dismissively. “A minor modification of my family’s style to suit me better.”

  “Minor perhaps, but even though I am not well-versed in the jian, I too can tell it suits you better. You truly are at the tipping point to achieving the Heart of the Sword, are you not?” The last question was more rhetorical.

  “It seems so, but still, I cannot seem to find my way there.”

  Pan Chen, shifting from foot to foot, spoke up. “Can I?”

  “Can you what?”

  “Try it?” He gestured at the training ground. His fingers danced across the hilt of the jian he wore, the weapon shortened to suit his size.

  “My style?” Wu Ying hesitated then shrugged. “Go ahead. Stop when you are uncertain. Don’t try to push ahead or else you might learn the wrong thing.”

  Pan Chen was not listening as he strode into the center of the courtyard. Wu Ying sighed but knew better than to argue with the boy. He was a kid after all, literally. Better for him to learn. Prodigy or not, children were prone to rushing.

  Standing in the center, Pan Chen closed his eyes for a brief second, centering himself. He breathed in and out slowly, mimicking even Wu Ying’s start before he began.

  At first, Wu Ying watched Pan Chen for the basics—his sense of balance, the linkage between his body and weapon, the angle of his cuts and the speed of his thrusts. In no time at all, he understood that such basic lessons—important though they might be to build the foundation of a swordsman’s skills—were wasted on Pan Chen.

  He was perfect. Or at least, so close to perfection that Wu Ying could not see the difference. Someone with a higher degree of combat skill, of experience, or a sense of the weapon might be able to do so. He, in the end, could not.

  No, once he gave up on the idea he could teach the other anything as mundane as that, Wu Ying watched Pan Chen flow through the Long family jian style. Through the first portion, the second, the next.

  He flowed through Wu Ying’s variation of the form, never hesitating, never stopping. One motion after the other.

  Until as suddenly as he’d started, he was done.

  “Well done, Ah Chen. You copied the style perfectly.” Pan Hai sounded just a little smug.

  “He did not actually,” Wu Ying murmured, too awed to be irritated. He had met many prodigies in his life—Gao Chen, Li Yao, Tou He, even his martial sister Fairy Yang. But this level of genius, it was on an entirely different level. “Descendent of an immortal indeed.”

  “What do you mean, he did not copy it perfectly?” Pan Hai replied, sounding incensed.

  “I did not, Fourth Uncle,” Pan Chen replied. He bowed to the other man then turned to Wu Ying, a considering look in his eyes. “Did you see?”

  “I did. I saw, though I’m not sure I understood.”

  “I didn’t.” The Fourth Uncle crossed his arms, looking a little put-out. This was not his weapon, and even if he had expected his general sense of martial arts to carry him through, the pair were speaking and observing things at a level he could not catch.

  “He improved on my own variations,” Wu Ying said, still sounding amazed. He understood some of what had been changed, the why. Some changes had clarified ideas he had begun to explore; others were new concepts he had never considered. “Returned some to the original.”

  “And was it good?” Pan Chen asked, suddenly a shy child asking an adult for his approval.

  “Mostly, I think,” Wu Ying admitted as much, though a part of him believed that the majority were for the better. He was just uncertain.

  And a little ashamed, if he dug deeply enough into his own emotions. To be shown up by a child…

  “Let’s talk about what you changed, shall we?” Wu Ying said, offering the boy a smile.

  Wu Ying acknowledged those petty emotions, then discarded them to that same ignominious cave that greed lived in. Let them wither and die. He had much that Pan Chen did not have.

  Like height.

  ***

  Toward the end of the day, after hours of discussion with Pan Chen, Wu Ying chose to extract the urumi from his Spirit Ring. Pan Hai had wandered off not long after it was clear that the pair was ignoring him. They had already passed the Fourth Uncle’s knowledge of the jian, delving deep into forms and variations, testing both theory and practice in the courtyard. The pair barely noticed being left alone, only pausing to eat and stretch.

  The moment the urumi—the strange, flexible, whip-like sword Wu Ying had purchased—made its appearance, Pan Chen almost flew over to Wu Ying’s side. He gripped the weapon carefully, testing the blade’s weight and edge, perusing the grip and the steel’s flexibility. When Wu Ying showed him the manual, Pan Chen traded weapon for document without a word and flipped through the pictures, ignoring the unknown language it was written in.

  Bare minutes later, he was done and had taken the weapon away from Wu Ying as he returned to the training floor. Wu Ying hastily moved back, even as the child gave the oversized weapon—for him—a few experimental flicks.