Immortal Connections - Chapter 12 preview

Chapter 12 – Wu Ying

Wu Ying adjusted his hairband and hair clip one last time, ensuring that everything was tied down and pinned. All but a single stray lock that stubbornly refused to stay caught, as the wind grabbed at it and threw it from his questing fingers. He wondered why he bothered, for in the heat of battle, his hair would likely grow in disarray once more. But it was a ritual, and rituals before battle could calm the nerves and settle the mind.

Something he was much in need of.

“Ascendant Long!” Lan Song was not the first over, but instead the talkative member of his entourage. “We have not been formally introduced, but I am Gao Chao Dong. Some call me Chatty Gao.” A wide grin showed that it was not a nickname he minded at all. “Will you do me the honor of exchanging pointers with me?”

“My apologies but I had promised to do so with Ascendant Huang,” Wu Ying countered, turning to look at the fast moving combatants within the arena. Unlike the pair of them who were still on the ground, having entered the arena through the enchanted and protected gates, the rest of the fighters were sparring in midair.

“He is in the midst of a bout right now. Once he’s done, I’m sure he’ll be happy to cross swords with you. Till then, he won’t begrudge me the opportunity to test you out myself.” Chatty Gao said with a smile.

His words revealed more than he knew, or perhaps, exactly as much. Wu Ying was certain now that Chatty Gao had been sent over to meet him first, to feel out his techniques and ensure that Ascendant Huang would not be embarrassed in a battle with him. It was his punishment for speaking out of turn, to be beaten by a hung rice sack filled with weevils or to bully a new Ascendant and thus, lose face for his poor choice of opponent.

Either or.

“Well, in that case, I’ll be in your care.” Wu Ying bowed to his opponent, watched as Chatty Gao kicked off lightly and floated away at an angle to give him more room. He strolled after his opponent, not taking to the air yet, though he knew staying groundbound would limit his options and mark him at a disadvantage. 

One thing many fighters forget was that many battles could be decided long before the first sword was drawn. Manipulating the mind and the perception of yourself in another opponent was an important trait, one that more tactical fighters ignored but found themselves fallen pretty to. It could be simple things – and tricks – like adding weights to one scabbard, to make it hang low and heavy on a belt or as complex and long-standing as faking a limp.

The goal was to throw off the assumptions of an opponent, to give yourself a single moment – or moments – to strike back. In this case, by refusing to take to the air, Wu Ying was projecting either a high degree of inexperience at higher level battles or arrogance.

In this case, of course, he was leaning towards arrogance. Which included not drawing his weapon, though he did take hold of it with his other hand, freeing the first cun(4) of the blade with a push of his thumb. Doing so broke the seal around sword and scabbard, allowing for a faster draw.

Same with the rotation of the sheath, though that would come later, a motion so studied and practiced, it was second nature to him by now. Yet, though he might be ready to draw, his hand still hovered over the hilt. 

“When you’re ready,” Wu Ying said.

His opponent nodded, continuing to float back for another score of feet before he came to a rest. He extended his hands sideways, a fighting pick dropping into his hand as he called it forth. Wu Ying raised an eyebrow at that sight, for the pick – while being one of the eighteen arms of wushu – was an unusual choice still. Few gentlemen would choose to learn it, in comparison to the genteel jian that Wu Ying carried or the aggressive dao. Even the gun bang, the simple staff, was a more common choice and its presence spoke of hidden depths in Chatty Gao.

They stared at one another across the intervening space, dao’s consolidating around their weapon. His time watching – and the hint provided by Lao Song – had allowed Wu Ying to grasp what the others were doing. Not too dissimilar to some cultivation techniques he had studied in truth, the concentration of dao concepts into their aura and weapons. Intensifying and honing the edges to become weapons.

That being said, the actual act itself was similar to reaching within and activating a specific muscle in one’s back, one that had been in use for decades but never consciously. His actions now was to grasp at that muscle, activate it and then control it’s very use – in this case, the muscle being his connection to his own dao and the greater Dao.

All existence lived within the Dao, for the Dao was the Way and everything was part of it, though humanity and many sapient creatures had a tendency to wander away from the true Dao. Taking part in whims and the quest for knowledge, for the need to impose order in a chaotic world or reason on an unreasonable existence. In so doing, rather than accepting existence as it stood, they strayed from the Dao and found themselves taking actions that placed them ever further from the flow of optimal reality, generating unhappiness and discontent.

Perhaps he was concentrating too hard, perhaps his momentary distraction at contemplating the act of concentration was given away by an inattentiveness in the eye, a slackness in the grip or a hesitation as he shifted the point to cover a line. The results were the same, as his opponent flickered forward, pick raised and swinging overhand.

A simple strike on the face of it, but now that he was facing his opponent; Wu Ying found himself realizing that the battles in the arena – so simple on the outside – was conducted on levels that he had not been privy to till now. Conceptual attacks of picks rising and falling, the piercing of metal through stone and flesh, the glistening muscles of workers in dimly lit caverns tore through the air, burdening his own movements and slowing his reactions down. 

Behind the swing itself was another concept, another dao that gave the strike weight. Instinctively, he understood it to be his opponent’s true dao, the conceptualization he had chosen to embody to rise to the heavens and which, by making it part of himself, had also given him his place.

It was a familiar dao, one that resonated with Wu Ying a little on a conceptual level, in the parts of him that still thought of himself as nothing more than a simple farmer done good. It was a dao of hard work, of the worker – but not just any kind, but only those who were physical workers, who put sweat on their brow undertaking the tasks that few enjoyed. 

Though part of the dao encompassed Wu Ying, the dao itself was even narrower in ways he could not grasp in such a brief period of time. It was that lack of specificity that allowed him to shake off the slowing effects, to push aside the spiritual pressure his opponent exerted to complete his own instinctive block.

Dragon unsheathes its Claws was part of the Wandering Dragon, the modified sword style that Wu Ying had created, though its origins were entirely part of his inherited sword style. There were minor modifications to suit his body, a slight tilt more of the sword, a twisting of the sheath to allow for a smoother draw and a turn in his foot as he stepped forwards to give him the angle, but in large part it was unchanged.

It was still as effective as before, the sword draw allowing him to unsheathe his weapon and block the attack in time – if only barely. The clash of weapons sent Wu Ying skittering backwards, the ground beneath his feet digging deep furrows as even modified and hardened earth cracked and shattered beneath the strength of the blow.

His own opponent had been stopped, hovering in mid-air, mild surprise registering on his face. He waved his pick in the air a few times, dispersing the hold Wu Ying’s own dao had placed upon him, turning his pick to stare at the mild nick Ren had laid on the hilt when it was blocked. 

“Well, well, well. The dragon has sharp claws after all,” Chao Dong said. “Though I would not have thought you a conceptual ascendant.”

Rather than engage in conversation, Wu Ying chose to charge his opponent since he was within range, kicking off the ground and freeing himself from the earth in an explosion of dust and wind. Once before, Wu Ying might have reappeared right next to his opponent, displacing himself to be where the wind was. Now, that ability had been discarded, his connection to the seven winds faded.

Even so, he was fast, faster than his opponent expected. His blade – aimed at his opponent’s chest to pierce only slightly within – was dodged but a touch too late, the clothing tearing and a pinprick of blood left behind. Moments later though, the pick clashed with his own jian, Ren bouncing off.

Only to be hooked and dragged back, his opponent closing the distance in an attempt to capture and grapple Wu Ying. All the time, a heaving spiritual pressure stymied Wu Ying’s movements, the clammy and sticky and strong hands of the conceptual workers gripping him tight.

A shudder of atavistic fear ran through him, knowledge that if his opponent managed to get his hands on him, this battle might be over. Yet, the grip on his robes and arm was unyielding, dragging him close and refusing to let go.

Lucky for Wu Ying that he had the Heart of the Sword, an understanding of the jian at such a deep level that he could embody the weapon. In this case, he let the dao inspiration flow into his opposite hand such that he could strike with it at his opponent.

Once more, his opponent dodged, twisting and throwing him aside by his free hand, robe tearing as he was swung away and the mere mortal garment failing under the sudden change of direction and pressure of immortal strength. Beneath the garment, dimpled flesh and slowly forming bruises could be glimpsed through torn cloth, a gift from Chao Dong. The entire exchange had taken mere moments, only for the pair to reset once more, facing one another.

If Wu Ying found himself smiling, a grim and strained and joyful expression in turn, none who truly knew him would have been surprised. After all, his path to the heavens had been one wrought with tragedy and battle alike, and injury was but an old friend that constantly returned with household gifts both terrible and long-lasting.

Footnote: 

4 -  Cun –Chinese measurement, about half an inch.