The Last Dual-Cultivator

Chapter 21: Chapter 21

’Three meridians,’ Qin Wuyue said. ’Three, brat. Do you have any idea what that means?’

It was the second night after the burned chamber. Yan Shuo sat cross-legged on his bunk in the pitch dark, the barracks snoring around him, and listened to his own body.

Three channels lit inside him now. Not just the old, scarred one he had nursed for six years. Two new ones sat beside it, bright and raw, running down the inside of each arm from his shoulders straight to his palms. Qi moved through all three in the long loop of the Single Stream. It ran faster than it ever had. When he flexed his fingers, he could feel it pooling in his palms like warm water.

’It means I can cultivate faster,’ he thought.

’It means you can fight.’ Qin’s voice was dry. ’Until now, you’ve had one meridian, and a single meridian can barely carry enough qi to warm your own hands. Now you have two that end directly in your palms. So tonight, I’ll teach you something useful to do with them.’

’A technique?’

’The first combat Chapter of the Scripture. The Silent River Palm. Most sect techniques are built to look impressive. Roaring flames, crackling lightning, swords of blinding light. This one is built to look like nothing at all.’

Yan Shuo frowned in the dark. ’Nothing at all?’

’An ordinary palm strike, from the outside. Just a clumsy outer disciple slapping wildly at his opponent.’ He could hear the faint, sharp smile in her voice. ’Inside, all your qi pours into the strike in one unbroken stream passing straight through the skin and into the meridians beneath it. Your opponent feels a harmless tap. Then his arm goes dead, or his breath stops in his throat, or his qi stalls in his channels for three heartbeats while he stands there wondering what went wrong.’

Yan Shuo sat very still.

’No one would see anything.’ He asked.

’Not a thing,’ Qin agreed. ’Which, for a boy who must never be seen, makes it the most useful technique in the world.’

The next inspection came three days after their night in the burned chamber.

Lanying came down the lift exactly as she always did. Pale robes, silver hair, posture like a bare blade in a rack. She had added only one thing: a bracer of white leather buckled snugly around her left wrist, completely covering the place where the brand sat.

She handed Hao her token. She asked for the same guide. She walked into gallery seven without looking at Yan Shuo once.

At the red markers, well out of the watcher’s hearing, she finally spoke. ”We will continue the sessions.”

”Yes, Senior Sister.”

”As before. Hands only.” She pressed her jade disc against the rock wall and studied the faint glow inside it with immense, sudden attention. ”Nothing has changed.”

”Yes, Senior Sister.” Yan shou replied.

She glanced at him sharply, as if suspecting he was mocking her. He kept his face perfectly blank and respectful. After a long moment, she looked back at the disc.

”The brand,” he murmured quietly. ”Has he said anything?”

Lanying’s fingers tightened on the edge of the jade.

”Nothing,” she said. ”He has been exceedingly pleasant. He sent rare flowers to Frost Lotus Peak yesterday.” Her mouth thinned. ”He hasn’t asked about my wrist. Not once.”

They both understood the math of that. Chi Yao had poured fire down a leash, only to feel the rope go slack in the dead of night. He knew something had broken it. A man like Chi Yao who said nothing about a broken leash wasn’t forgiving it. He was simply waiting to mention it somewhere it would draw blood.

In the burned chamber, she held out her palms. He laid his hands over them. The thread of resonance spun out between them, fine as silk.

Neither of them mentioned that it came effortlessly now after the very instant their skin met. Neither of them mentioned that the ruined brand beneath her leather bracer stayed dead and cold. When the quarter hour was up, she took her hands back, stood, and brushed the ash from her hem.

The tips of her ears stayed pink the entire time.

He practiced the Silent River Palm every morning before his shift in a quiet stand of pines behind the outer disciples’ dormitories, where the ground lay thick with damp needles and nobody bothered to walk before the first bell.

Ruan Tie had insisted on being his practice dummy.

”Hit me,” the big man demanded on the first morning, planting his feet wide and spreading his arms like a man waiting to be measured for a winter coat. ”Go on. Hit me as hard as you like, brother. I’ve been kicked by farm mules.”

Yan Shuo hit him.

It looked like nothing. Just a flat-handed slap to the meat of the shoulder, the casual kind an outer disciple might give a friend in the morning meal line. It made no sound beyond the dull smack of a palm against rough cloth.

Ruan Tie’s right arm dropped to his side as if someone had taken a knife to the strings.

He stared down at it. He tried to lift it. The arm hung there, completely dead, his thick fingers twitching feebly against his thigh.

”Brother,” Ruan Tie said in a very small voice. ”What did you just do to my arm?”

”It’ll come back in a few breaths.”

It did. Ruan Tie flexed his returning fingers, stared at his own palm in wonder, and then split his face in a massive grin.

”Again,” he demanded. ”Do it again. Harder.”

By the fourth morning, Yan Shuo could put Ruan Tie’s entire arm to sleep with a passing tap, or stall the qi in his heavy legs long enough to sweep them clean out from under him. By the fifth morning, Ruan Tie had started fighting back—and he was a great deal harder to put down than he looked. He moved like a boulder rolling down a steep hill: slow to start, and nearly impossible to stop. When he finally caught Yan Shuo by the collar and hurled him across the clearing, Yan Shuo hit the pine needles flat on his back and lay there wheezing at the sky.

”Sorry!” Ruan Tie bellowed, rushing over. ”Sorry, brother! Are you dead?”

”Not yet.”

”He’d be considerably closer to it if your aim had found that rock,” a mild voice noted from the edge of the clearing.

Bai Rou sat on a fallen log with a woven basket of herbs resting in her lap, watching the two of them with calm interest. She had clearly been sitting there for some time.

”Physician Bai,” Yan Shuo wheezed from the dirt.

”I gather moonleaf in these woods at dawn. The sap is best before the morning dew burns off.” She rose, walked over, and crouched beside him, pressing two cool fingers briskly against the side of his neck. ”Pulse is steady. Ribs are whole. Pride may require a poultice.” She glanced up at Ruan Tie. ”You throw very well.”

Ruan Tie turned scarlet to the very roots of his hair.

Bai Rou laughed lightly, reaching down to catch Yan Shuo by the elbow and help him sit up. Her hand was still resting on his sleeve when the temperature in the clearing dropped by half.

Frost crept across the brown pine needles from the treeline. It crunched softly under the boots of the woman stepping out of the shadows.

Lanying stood at the edge of the clearing in a plain practice robe, her sword hanging at her hip, her silver hair bound back in a tight, severe tail. Her eyes went first to Bai Rou’s fingers on Yan Shuo’s elbow. Then they lifted to Yan Shuo.

”Junior brother,” she said coolly. ”I was told you train here.”

Bai Rou released his elbow, picked up her herb basket, and inclined her head. ”Senior Sister Su. The moonleaf grows thicker further down the slope. Ruan Tie, would you mind carrying this for me?”

Ruan Tie looked at Bai Rou. Then at Lanying, then down at Yan Shuo.

Then he snatched the basket and fled after the physician into the trees.

The clearing went dead quiet.

”You are fighting in the tournament,” Lanying said, stepping forward. ”Half the inner sect is talking about the Law Hall’s sudden late bloomer. You will be facing outer disciples who have trained with live steel since they were children.” She drew her blade. Frost raced down the flat of the iron like running water. ”Show me what you’ve learned.”

”Senior Sister, you’re a full realm above me.”

”I’ll hold back.”

She came at him.

She did hold back. He could feel the restraint in every stroke. Her cuts were slow by her standards, angled deliberately wide. Yet they were still faster than anything he had ever faced in his life. He spent the first dozen exchanges simply trying not to get hit, ducking and twisting, dry pine needles kicking up in clouds around his boots. Her frost bit sharply at his sleeves. Her blade sang past his ear.

On the thirteenth cut, he stopped retreating and stepped straight inside her guard.

It was the only play he had. He slipped past the biting edge of the steel—close enough to taste the winter coming off it—and tapped the inside of her left wrist with the Silent River Palm. Just a gentle, open-handed brush.

Her sword hand went instantly numb. The heavy blade tilted in her loosened grip.

She recovered in less than half a breath. Her free hand shot out, fisting in the front of his rough robe while her boot hooked cleanly behind his ankle. They hit the pine needles together in a tangle of limbs, her knee planted firmly on his chest and the cold point of her sword resting precisely at the hollow of his throat.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

She was breathing hard. Her silver hair had shaken loose from its tie, spilling across both of them like a cool curtain that smelled of high snow. Her face hovered inches above his. In the grey dawn light, he could see the faint pink flush climbing up her throat, and the small spot on her lower lip that was still faintly bruised from the dark.

Neither of them was thinking about the sword.

Her pale eyes dropped to his mouth. His gaze stayed locked on hers. Between them, the thread of resonance stirred without either of them calling it. The steel at his throat wavered. She leaned down, just a fraction, close enough that her next breath brushed warm against his lips—

”Su Lanying.”

Lanying was on her feet so fast she nearly left her sword in the dirt.

Elder Shen Qiuhua stood at the edge of the clearing, her hands tucked neatly into her wide sleeves.

Yan Shuo had never seen the Frost Lotus Peak master up close. She was narrow and rigidly upright, her iron-grey hair pulled back so tightly it seemed to lift the corners of her eyes. Her irises were the exact pale blue of Lanying’s, only faded by the decades into the color of old, sun-bleached ice. She didn’t look angry. She didn’t look anything at all.

”Master.” Lanying bowed low. Her face was burning red to the tips of her ears. ”I was testing the guide’s footwork. Ahead of the tournament.”

”So I saw,” Elder Shen said mildly. ”Return to the peak, Lanying. Your morning forms need work.”

Lanying hesitated for half a heartbeat. Then she drove her sword into its scabbard with a sharp click and walked out of the clearing without looking back. Her frost trailed after her into the pines.

Yan Shuo pushed himself up from the dirt, brushed the needles from his chest, and bowed deeply.

Elder Shen studied him for a long time without speaking.

”Outer disciple Yan,” she said at last. ”I do not know what you are to my disciple. I have no desire to know.” Her voice was quiet, dry, and perfectly level. ”But you ought to understand the arithmetic of this mountain, since no one else seems to have taught it to you. The vein beneath our feet has one year of life left in it. The Chi Clan’s dowry vein will feed the Azure Cloud for the next fifty. And that vein arrives on the day she drinks the wedding cup. Not one day sooner.”

She let the words settle into the cold air.

”If that marriage fails,” Elder Shen continued softly, ”two thousand disciples go hungry. Their mortal families starve. This sect withers and dies. And whoever is found to bear the blame for its failure will not live long enough to regret the mistake.” She tilted her head a fraction. ”That betrothal is not a romance, boy. It is the lifeline of this mountain. Do you understand me?”

”I understand, Elder.”

”See that you do.”

She turned toward the trees. Then, right at the edge of the shadows, she paused and glanced back over her narrow shoulder.

”One thing more,” she said. ”The Sect Master announced it at dawn. As a courtesy to our future allies, the Outer Sect Tournament will host a guest examiner on the high dais this year.”

Her faded ice-blue eyes locked onto his.

”Young Master Chi Yao has graciously accepted the seat.”