The Last Dual-Cultivator

Chapter 41: Chapter 41

Zhao Kun’s smile was the same smile Yan Shuo remembered from six years in the Outer Valley, the one that used to come right before a rice bowl hit the dirt. The eyes above it had changed. They had gone flat and patient, the eyes of a man who had spent a very long time lying on a straw pallet with crushed legs, staring at a cracked ceiling and thinking about one single face.

”You look surprised,” Zhao Kun said. ”Did you think I’d crawled down the mountain and died in a ditch? I nearly did.” He flexed his right hand slowly, finger by finger, and the knuckles popped. ”Then a kind gentleman found me rotting in a pauper’s hospice in Willow Ford, paid a bonesetter to put my legs back together, and asked me whether I happened to know a service disciple named Yan Shuo.”

Beside him, the masked escort stood with his hands folded in his grey sleeves and said nothing at all.

Ruan Tie had shifted half a step in front of Yan Shuo on the narrow causeway without seeming to think about it. His big hands hung loose at his sides. A faint slate-grey sheen was already crawling back over his knuckles.

”Brother,” he murmured, without turning his head, ”who’s the one in the mask?”

”The man who took my mother.”

Ruan Tie went completely still.

The escort lifted one pale, ink-stained hand and removed the grey lacquered mask.

The face beneath it was thin, bloodless and utterly ordinary, with neat dark hair greying at the temples and a pair of mild, colorless eyes. Yan Shuo had seen that face only once before, six years ago by lantern light, framed in the doorway of an herb-garden cottage that smelled of crushed mint, holding out a slab of milky jade.

Your hand, boy, the man had said then.

Now he tucked the mask neatly into his wide sleeve and regarded Yan Shuo across the wet grey stones with an expression of mild professional curiosity.

”I tested you myself,” he said. His voice was dry and impeccably courteous, a scholar reading back a receipt. ”I held the jade under your palm, watched it glow a sickly grey, and wrote the word unremarkable in my own hand. In thirty years of collecting, I have never once misread a child.” He tilted his head a fraction. ”I confess I’m looking forward to finding out how your mother managed it.”

’Brat,’ Qin Wuyue said, her voice dropping very low in his skull. ’Foundation Peak. He’s the strongest thing walking in this realm, and you’re standing on a plank over deep water. You cannot fight him here.’

”You were very close to her, as I remember,” the collector went on pleasantly. ”So I’ll extend you the same courtesy I extended to her. Walk across to me quietly, and no one else needs to bleed. Your large friend can turn around, walk back to the shore, and tell your sect you slipped in the fog.”

Ruan Tie laughed out loud. The sound boomed across the dead, still water and rolled away into the mist.

”Brother,” he said cheerfully, ”run.”

Then he charged.

He went down the narrow span like a rockslide, grey stone racing across his skin with every thundering stride. The Bridge of Burdens had weighed nothing at all on their way back, yet it woke under his charge. It remembered every footstep, and it gave back what had been carried across it, and Ruan Tie had carried a great deal. By the time he reached the far end, his whole frame had turned the dark, wet color of river slate, and the ancient flagstones were splitting open under his heels.

Zhao Kun cursed and flung himself sideways off the path but the collector did not move an inch.

He simply drew a brush from his sleeve.

It was an ordinary calligraphy brush, the kind every clerk in the Nine Provinces kept in his ink-box, with a handle of plain black lacquer and a tip of grey wolf hair. He flicked it once through the empty air in front of him, quick and precise. Where the dry bristles passed, a line of glowing black ink hung suspended in the fog, then another, and a third. In the space of a single breath, a finished character hung burning in the air between him and the charging giant.

Yan Shuo read the strokes as they formed. Bind.

Ruan Tie hit it at a dead run.

The character wrapped around his chest like a fisherman’s net of black fire. The ink bit into the stone of his skin with a wet, violent hiss, and wherever the strokes touched, the grey slate cracked and flaked away like dry river mud. Ruan Tie roared and kept coming. He tore straight through the burning ink and swung one enormous fist at the collector’s head with the whole crushing weight of the bridge behind it.

The collector stepped half a pace to his left. The fist whistled past his ear and stirred his greying hair. Then, with the unhurried calm of a scholar signing his name, he laid the tip of his brush against the center of Ruan Tie’s chest and wrote one single downward stroke.

The ink sank in.

Ruan Tie stopped dead in mid-stride, as though the granite under his boots had turned to iron. He stared down at the small black mark resting over his breastbone. The slate armor around it was crumbling away in dry, dead flakes, and beneath it a dark red stain was already blooming across his torn tunic.

He looked back over his shoulder at Yan Shuo, his square face slack with pure astonishment.

Then his knees buckled, and he hit the stone with a sound like a sack of ore dropped from a cart.

Yan Shuo never remembered crossing the bridge.

He remembered the heavy, sickening thud of Ruan Tie’s body on the flagstones. He remembered the collector turning toward him with the wolf-hair brush lifted and that same expression of mild interest. And he remembered the riverbed heaving inside his chest, frantic and violent, every buried layer clawing at the lid to get out.

He tore the lid off.

Nine full layers of Qi Gathering roared through his six open meridians at once. He came off the end of the bridge so fast that the collector’s next stroke sliced through empty fog. Yan Shuo dropped low and drove at the man’s knees, as Fang Lie had once come at him on the Cloud Terrace, and slammed the Silent River Palm into the side of the joint with every scrap of strength he owned. The collector grunted. His leg kicked out from under him, and for one precious heartbeat the brush in his fingers wavered.

Yan Shuo didn’t strike again. A second blow against Foundation Peak would get him killed. He spun on his heel instead, dropped to one knee beside Ruan Tie, jammed his shoulder under the big man’s limp arm, and heaved.

Ruan Tie weighed as much as an iron tub heaped with ore. Yan Shuo lifted him off the stone anyway, his spine screaming.

”Brother,” Ruan Tie croaked. A bright thread of blood ran from the corner of his mouth down his chin. ”I told you to run.”

”I am running,” Yan Shuo ground out through his teeth. ”I’m just taking you with me.”

He dragged the big man off the end of the causeway and lunged onto the nearest lotus pad, a great green disc as wide as a threshing floor, and kept moving. The leaf dipped and shuddered under their combined weight, cold lake water slopping over its curled rim and soaking his boots. He leaped from that pad to the next, and then the next, half carrying and half dragging his brother across the black water, while behind them on the bridge Zhao Kun bellowed in fury and the collector’s dry voice said something that the fog swallowed whole.

Then the mist closed behind them like a door.

The fog hanging over the lake was thicker than wet fleece. Within twenty paces the stone causeway had vanished entirely. Within forty, Yan Shuo could barely see his own boots. The giant pads loomed up out of the blinding white one after another, and he threw himself from rim to rim on instinct and luck, Ruan Tie’s dead weight grinding down on his bruised shoulders, his breath sawing in and out of his lungs like broken glass.

’Left,’ Qin snapped. ’Cut left. There’s an island past the reeds. I can feel roots in the water.’

He wrenched himself left.

Behind them, deep in the white gloom, a faint light bloomed. A thin thread of black ink hung in the fog, glowing with a cold, greasy sheen, unrolling through the damp air like a long finger feeling its way along a dark wall.

’A tracking stroke,’ Qin hissed. ’He’s written a hound into the mist, and it hunts by moving qi. You’ve left the riverbed wide open, brat. You’re shining like a watchfire out here. Shut it. Shut it right now.’

He slammed the riverbed shut.

It was the hardest thing he had ever forced his body to do, with his heart hammering against his ribs and his brother’s hot blood soaking through the collar of his robe. He shoved all nine roaring layers back down into the hidden dantian, deeper and deeper, packing the silt over them until his upper channels showed nothing at all, only a guttering ember so dim he could barely feel it himself.

Back in the fog, the glowing thread of ink hesitated. Its tip swung left, then right, tasting the dead air, before drifting slowly away across the water toward nothing.

Yan Shuo didn’t spare a breath watching it go. He splashed into the muddy shallows of the island, dragged Ruan Tie up onto a bank of thick grey moss, and collapsed to his knees beside him.

The island was tiny, choked with ancient mist-willows whose long, pale branches trailed down into the black water like the hair of drowned women. Heavy white fog drifted between the gnarled trunks in slow, silent eddies. Water dripped from the leaves onto the moss, and nothing else moved.

Ruan Tie lay flat on his back with his eyes half shut. Every trace of his stone skin was gone. Dead in the center of his chest, right over his heart, the collector’s single brushstroke sat burned into his flesh like an iron brand, and thin, jagged black lines were creeping outward from it beneath his skin, branching like frost across a windowpane.

Yan Shuo ripped the blood-soaked tunic open with shaking fingers and stared down at it.

’It’s a seal,’ Qin said. All the sharpness had drained out of her voice, leaving it flat and grim. ’A Ledger binding-stroke. He wrote it straight into the meridians that feed your brother’s heart, and it’s strangling his qi. That ink is mixed to take down lineage bodies like yours, brat, bodies with somewhere deep to hide. On an earth body like his, with all that raw mountain qi slamming into the seal and fighting it—’

She stopped.

’How long does he have?’ Yan Shuo thought.

’If your little physician can’t get her needles into him? Until tonight. Perhaps not that long.’

Ruan Tie’s eyelids fluttered open. His irises were warm brown again, clouded with pain, and they wandered through the white gloom until they found Yan Shuo’s face.

”Brother,” he whispered, in a ragged, wet thread of a voice, ”you look awful.”

”You ought to see yourself, you great ox.”

Ruan Tie tried to laugh. It broke into a wet cough that brought fresh blood to his lips, and Yan Shuo held his head up off the moss until it passed.

”The man who took your mother,” Ruan Tie rasped, once his chest stopped heaving. ”I wanted to hit him for you. Just once. I thought, for your mother, I’d hit him so hard his teeth came out his ears.” His huge, trembling hand fumbled through the moss until it found Yan Shuo’s wrist and squeezed, weakly. ”I missed. Sorry, brother.”

Yan Shuo bowed his head over their joined hands, and for a long breath his throat refused to work.

”You carried me across a bridge that was built to break men,” he said at last. ”You carried me the whole way and sang about that wretched goat the entire time. You’ve done enough, Tie.” He gripped the big hand hard. ”Now you’re going to lie still and let me carry you for once.”

”Carry me where?”

”To Bai Rou. Back across the lake. She’ll scold us both for being idiots, and then she’ll fix you.”

The corner of Ruan Tie’s bloody mouth twitched.

”She’ll scold you more,” he whispered. ”She likes me better.”

His eyes drifted closed. His chest rose and fell, shallow and slow, and with every breath the black lines crept a hair further across his skin.

Yan Shuo knelt in the wet moss with both palms pressed flat over the burning seal, as if he could hold the ink back with his bare hands, and tried to think.

The healers’ pavilion lay on the far side of the lake, past the causeway, past the collector and his searching ink, past Zhao Kun. He was at the ninth layer of Qi Gathering with his riverbed buried and his brother dying under his hands. Lanying was somewhere on the far shore with five core disciples, and she had no idea where he was.

He lost track of how long he knelt there. The mist drifted. The willows dripped onto the back of his neck.

Then the skin on that same neck prickled.

It was the old instinct from the Outer Valley, the one that had warned him of Zhao Kun’s boot a thousand times before it landed. Someone was watching him, and they were very close.

He looked up slowly.

High in the branches of the largest willow, perhaps ten paces above his head, a figure crouched along a pale limb, perfectly balanced and perfectly still. She was slender, dressed in close-fitting black, with a long braid thrown over one shoulder and a short curved blade resting across her knees. Her face was hidden behind a mask of red lacquer carved like a fox, its narrow, slanted eye-holes black and empty.

She had been there, he realized, the whole time.

The fox mask tilted slightly as she looked down at him, at his hands on Ruan Tie’s chest, at the black seal and the spreading lines and the blood soaking into the moss.

The blade on her knees turned, very slowly, until its edge caught the pale light of the mist.