Fatherly Asura

Zhu had once said that not a tournament in the land goes uninterrupted. Indeed, Fu had witnessed many across his tenure, and with the exception of junior contests, all had seen the appearance of scorned rivals, prodigal sons, or witnessed an end by some faction thought long vanished.

Such were the throes of [Karma].

Tournaments held some significance, he mused, perhaps beyond the banal explanation of trouble simply arriving due to so many gathered souls.

These spectating millions, arrayed upon some thousand, thousand floating stalls that deigned to orbit the contest grounds between… by the Heavens this would be no different.

“The next one is mine,” claimed Zhu, though the approaching-drunken tamber to his voice suggested anything but. “Twenty three vagrant cultivators, Empresses, Lords or otherwise inappropriately named idiots. Bah. I’ve no love for these constant interruptions.”

Shuidi hummed.

Hushi and Tanshuai shared small jests.

Jade Songbird City erupted once more as Iseul took her place at the table. If some expectation of speech was held, she did not give it, merely gesturing to the gathered aspirants of the Ninety Nine Palm Sect some dozen li beneath.

A sea of hanfu stood across one thousand platforms, the strata of which and the designation mattered greatly to both those that knew and did not.

The Ninety Nine Palm Sect were tenth highest, afforded their platform by merit of the Phoenix Melody Coalition. Those that shared it were the Immortal Reflections Palace, Brass Tiger Sect, Reckless Spear Society, Warriors Association, and some delegation containing the [Mantra of Heavenly Plums].

Iseul sat.

Zhu’s name was called, and here his eyes rolled as if in stupor. “If another Heavenly Demon, Empress or otherwise arrives before I sit down, you owe me ten dinners.”

“Oh? How shameful to try and erase your debt so soon,” Fu tutted, drawing deep of his pipe. “Was the last bet not that the Burning Remnant Sect had to defeated with only my feet? Twenty dinners rode on that.”

“Hushi has eight arms, not eight feet.”

The [Spirit Octopus] shrugged.

“Does he not walk upon them?”

A brow arched on Zhu. “Poor sportsmanship.”

“That remains to be seen,” smiled Fu, nodding towards the call. They were left alone in their bank of gentle clouds high above the tournament, spectating and placing a casual eye on the few tribesmates that Zhu had deigned to speak of.

Those with futures brighter than the rest. Strange how their furs and simple, natural affectations of feather and fang had them stand out where they should not, having them appear far more formidable than the Cherry River hanfu or simple monastic stylings of those that they shared a stage with.

The words of Zhu’s address were not of concern, only the twinkle of amusement he held as the venerable young geniuses he placed his tribe aside squirmed in revulsion from the proximity to his feral warriors.

“Cloud Dragon Hall,” was among the last to be called, and so, they descended.

[Arrays], [Dao] and [Intent] conspired here to have the floating tournaments warded against all manner of [Arrays], [Dao] and [Intent], for even the spectators were of such impossible nature that lava might spout from their breath or great calamities of earth might quake should their anger rise out of turn.

Thus the wind was calm as it breezed about an uncountable, realm-wide showing of spectators.

Fu, however, thought his disciples ought to arrive with a touch more drama.

[Sky’s Authority].

Teal ribbons gathered from all corners of the tournament grounds, whipping along, by, through, above and amongst the myriad gathered robes to draw no small gasp from the undisciplined. Upon it there carried a roar, ascending in both volume and violence as it wound about the latest platform to rise.

Five cultivators stood there, abreast their fable-like beasts. A variety indeed, though all shared commonality in lightness, the adornment of wisping clouds and a gait that had it seem like the very wind carried their motions.

All but Yasodhara and Samudra, for theirs was a differing cloud.

Yes, the platform rose, and delivered these five into a crowd of factions that held twice this number.

Ten for the Ninth Golden Reserve. Ten for the Pagoda of Chasing. Ten for the Verdant Tided Mare Tribe.

Albeit just one for the Cherry River Fool.

Chan Gui and his [Spirit Pirhanas] stepped first into arrangement, then Jihu Wanjie and her [Spirit Lioness], followed by the Baotai twins and their twinned [Spirit Eagles]. Samudra took her place above them, Yasodhara below.

Fu had the winds dim as he landed before them, receiving a single bow before winking to his seat on the speciation table some many li skyward.

“Ten dinners,” he whispered to Zhu.

His plum-eyed brother wagged a finger. “Truly? Unless I’m mistaken, a [True Golden Demon] walks there,” he said, levelling the finger up. “Those meals are mine.”

Shuidi hummed as the voice of Mingqin’s announcer reverberated about these skies. If, with a pause. “...Heaven’s Grandfather Sect.”

What appeared in the skies then was a great, widening smile upon the lips of Yongwu Long- well pleased with his own humour. The four carp-made-dragons ringed him at a scale that could have each of their jaws swallowed whole this tournament, and yet against them he seemed just as large.

Just as portentous.

Two cultivators flew at his rear, holding impossible dragons of their own. One of rotund form, much like Chan Gui, and the other, a woman of clear Numbered [Heritage].

They landed on the tournament strata above Fu’s own.

Upon the peak.

In a heartbeat, Long was seated between Fu and Zhu, setting his legs upon the table.

“I’m disappointed,” said Zhu. “Where is the drama?”

Long grinned wider. “My, a complaint. How unlike you, brother,” he teased, manifesting a slew of bottles from his spatial ring. These were shared among the table at a ratio of Zhu-to-none. “There’s drama enough to follow. Perhaps a drink might help.”

“Dry,” tasted Zhu, clinking a bottle with Long. “Suitable.”

Old master?

“It will be soon,” returned an inner voice. “Yet, this wizened soul believes it shall come… properly. A stage greater than all before. Yes. They will arrive accordingly.”

Such were the Jianghu’s demands.

Such was the ancient wisdom, known to all.

There are Heavens beyond Heavens.

So said, for Mingqin’s descent was most ceremonious of all. Merriful. Tranquil. Melodic. A descent that entered first through the ears and next through the heart, as the great wingbeats of her phoenix partners ushered in a tune that could not go unheard.

Fu heard Mei’s hum above the stove.

Zhu no doubt heard a cacophony of unstoppering corks.

The Heavens alone knew what Long heard.

Ancient necks twisted toward her with the same fervor or call of the young, hearing in it, feeling in it, an importance.

A tale yet unwritten. A song of promise. And for it, they fell silent. Perhaps in reverie, perhaps in curiosity, but the respect offered to what the Jianghu would see as some upstart noble, talented or spoiled, could not be denied.

Mingqin took her throne, a jade thing of phoenixes in flight, upon which her silken attire draped and danced. With naught but a graceful acknowledgement of the millions set beneath her solitary seat, a further silence fell.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

[Dour Faced Strategist] entered at her left, materializing with no pomp or affair.

Together, these Heavens looked further.

Moments passed.

Minutes turned.

Fu puffed deep of his pipe, demanding a scene appear for any who might watch. Then, with Hushi’s gentle nudge, he thought better of dishonouring this living history. This auspicious moment the likes of which… in truth, he was no historian-

“In record,” aided the Old One. “Once. The inception of the Clear Sky. Could we date such a thing- even then, it would be beyond count. None might say when last these ancients shared the same space. Does it not inspire lightning in one’s veins?”

The stoic Patriarch of Cloud Dragon Hall allowed his smile to show.

If one was to scale the Heavens, would it not be now? Here, among titans whose blood is older than seas and mountains?

[Immortal Arbiter’s Soul] churned with excitement and its zeal was rewarded as the Heavens above split asunder. What tore these fragile-seeming skies was not one grand arrival, but a concerted tear beyond all cardinal directions. No one soul there arrived before or later than the other, for in the eyes of the Jianghu, these existences were equal.

It was then that [Summer] turned in its vast wave, blazing a translucent shudder across the Jade Songbird Province, and yet if one looked close enough, they might imagine that the fulcrum of this change originated centrally between these monsters.

Perhaps it did.

The Cherry River were nine among these thirteen, though only fools would mistake hue for allegiance. Old texts told of their strife, and older parables had maintained from these times before memory. Three for, three against, and three that were swayed neither way by the Clear Sky’s pervading doctrine.

Myriad introductions had occurred this day. Fu wondered what details he would recall when all was over.

The [Cherry River Spear] and his tortoise of fable, perhaps. His compatriots flew a Clear Sky banner, if visible only by prior knowledge. They knew of him, Chutu Deqiang, and while wearying, thought to give each monstrosity a fair observation.

Thus came [Cherry River Sword] of this same allegiance, carved from iron itself. A man of middling years and hard, slender edges. Cherry-hued sashes wafted at his waist, and save for billowing trousers he wore naught but the dominating [Ink] of their [Heritage] upon his lean-muscled chest.

About him swam a [Spirit Precursor] of strange conveyance, for the fisherman-turned-patriarch thought it an older, more feral parent to any swordfish or dolphin that had appeared in his nets.

Strange in contrast to the third supporter of the Clear Sky, and to Hua’s knowing, supporter of the [Cherry River Spear’s] claim on the [Hollow Throne].

[Cherry River Alchemist] held the bearing of a fatigued cook, for her quite-average features were stained with a pox of darkened bags and worry-lines that put Sikou to shame. How she flew, and how she appeared while doing so, seemed a tiresome affair only invigorated by the two divine [Spirit Octopodes] beneath her.

Shuidi’s attention was rapt, so much so that she did not shrug free Tanshuai’s landing atop her shell. “When next this occurs, we shall stand there. While this Gao Shuidi cannot peel her peerless eyes from such wonder she knows too that such existences should not be. How conflicting a thought.”

“Will you recall that in five thousand moons, Gao Shuidi?” asked Long, bearing no bite.

She shook. “Do any above embody Change as we do. Yet… it would take a fool to claim a promise of this magnitude. When we stand above, we shall at least try.”

The wine clinked in cheers.

“Try. It’s amusing that already you stand tall enough to see what they cannot from the pinnacle.”

Zhu said nothing, and merely watched with hollow eyes.

Here, Fu ceased his observation of Cherry-hued things, foregoing Hua, [Cherry River Monk] and his sober-coloured [Spirit Sloth], and the last neutral participant - [Cherry River Pilgrim], who was youthful and juvenile in her jittering behaviour and below adolescent form - in favor of a sight rarely seen outside silken sheets.

For there stood a man whose beauty was matched only by his cruelty. Circular, plum-dark patterns lay about his sockets, and yet unlike his millions of progeny, these ran vertically into a great inversion of a plum-tree’s trunk. Of all, he talked most, exuding the warmth and safety of cherished uncles and celebrated party guests.

A single monarch butterfly flapped upon his hilt, and to look upon these drew both an inexorable sadness and delight, as though one swing of the wooden length might grant and remove each at once.

“Dry hair,” commented Hushi. “Nor does he wear plum well.”

Some small chuckle surfaced in Zhu. “That is a lie that none below the Heavens could ever believe. Bah. He wears it peerlessly.”

The wine clinked, and it took shameful moments for these once-ghosts to realise it had not come from Yongwu Long. Rather, a balded woman of slackened jaw and wild expression had caused the disturbance.

Shengcang Bulu, the [Cherry River Fool] had draped her arm around both men’s shoulders, one bottle in each hand. “Ge-he-he. We’re in your house, are we not? Better not to act so surprised,” she said, nodding skyward. “The others are itching to dispense justice.”

Fu noted two things then. Firstmost was that Bulu still stood above, and the second was an unflattering scratch that the [Cherry River Spear] set about rectifying on his arm. “Venerable Shengcang.”

“Venerable Shengcang,” repeated Zhu. “Already you bring entertainment. I enjoy it.”

“Entertainment, yes. Ge-he-he, or maybe, he-he-ge, who is to know? The words above begin to smell too fragrant, thus I thought to conspire with the insignificant. It is they that hold true perspective.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, yes. Those above possess all things, even when they lose. Truly, to own everything is to own nothing, and so I would treat with those that own something. So, tell me, who do you believe will win this little contest? More so, tell me who you believe will throw the first tantrum?”

Both men looked to Long.

“One answer to two questions, ge-he-he. How foolish that you seek to save an immortal time,” and she thumbed upward to her remaining fellows.

Those against the Clear Sky.

[Cherry River Doctor] was a woman greatly reminiscent of Udvah’s granted bliss. An oddity and miracle as the very sight of her brought a healthy stir within Fu’s [Core]. He felt lightened and rested, ponderous even, for even hale he mused that his unpossessed injuries might have mended at a glance.

Her partners were a cluster of cherry-hued wasps, and now they deigned to swarm and tease the immortal beside her.

Of all the [Cherry River Inheritors], he was most direct in his domain. The [Cherry River Fist] sat atop the air, ruminating the words of these others with closed eyelids and a grimace that could chase mountains from his path. Only once did he move the some-metres-long knot that fell from his crown, and he did so with all the grace of a horse’s flicking tail.

“And your answer?” asked Zhu. “I would know it.”

“My answer? My, it would take a fool to share such a thing.” Shengcang Bulu winked away, and…

“She will not return.”

“No,” laughed Fu. “She will not.”

Jinghui Hua needed no introduction, nor Ershiba upon her shoulder. Her conversation seemed prim. Cordial at best, answering in what his [Spirit] knew to be short, half-contented hums even though he could not hear them.

Most were in response to the monastic beast before her. [Fourth Under Heaven] was a most peculiar titan. One, if report and rumor were to be believed, that stood closest to the Two That Do Not Seek.

Highest known of the One Hundred and Eight Seeking Vajra.

Above the Lord of the Ninth Golden Reserve. Above [Sixth Under Heaven] and his Empire of Abundant [Spring]. Above the myriad souls of Numbered clans that Fu had either slain or fled from. He bore himself in loose robes of simple orange adorned with myriad prayer beads of taijutu heraldry, and while this alone was no fable, he held a further three upon both tusks and his sweeping trunk.

The elephantine immortal was accompanied by no [Spirit Beast].

Zhu knew more, for this was a thing of the Warring Tribes. Happenstance, however, decided then that the final greetings should be dispensed.

Thirteen impossibilities shifted in posture. Then shimmer-, flare-, warp-, myriad sights transposed themselves upon the Heavens behind them, too plentiful and abundant to be described with all of Fu’s vocabulary.

It seemed then that east or west, north or south, were not enough. Thus there showed a thirteenfold split, as though each immortal had become a cardinal direction unto themselves, and behind, a horizon flowed.

Most of rich, trailing blossoms with personal affectation inside. Songs trilled, or [Spirits] hummed to evoke a sense of Order, of Crossroads, of Fists and Foolishness, and then more.

Great roots spread behind the [Plum Axe], rich in his colour.

To speak on the twin Mistresses of the Cloudy Serpent Sect was akin to offering a puddle as a sea.

“Terror,” summarised Hushi.

“Love,” followed Shuidi.

And beyond this, the common theme across all allegiances. The pagodas, Warships, palaces, floating temples, clouds, spatial tears, branches, forests and winding paths - all split thirteenfold from a center upon which no force dominated - brimmed, replete with some thousand, thousand cities worth of followers, disciples, [Spirit Beasts] and distorted landscapes.

As though entire realms had followed their monstrous masters to this lesser province.

“In simplicity, youngling. They have.”

Fu suspected as much, and here his finger twitched. “How poor of me to grow so excited,” he smiled, and finally looked upon his greatest plights.

Seven and a half serpents dominated the skies with equal regality to Long’s four dragons. How they could remain within their thirteenth of domain whilst appearing to cross all boundaries was a testament to impossibility.

Vast things of scale and cloud, transcending mere fable to seem dream-like.

Boundless.

Never before had Fu, Zhu or any serpent in their stable witnessed these Mistresses share the same skies. These twins stood opposed as though some serene border of water ran betwixt them, reflecting the other in nigh perfect clarity.

Veils masked the undoubtedly flawless features of both, soft, crimson and graceful as some few words were shared from the lips beneath. From there the daxuishuan were aflow- writhing in such quantities of silken serpents that none might parse where fabric ended and scale began. A style of interest to certain plum-eyed brothers, indeed, and yet not of Fu’s.

His eyes lingered on the leviathanic [Spirit Eel] above. The heart-stopping folly of [Thrice Clouded Boa].

How sad it was that family might be torn asunder by so small a thing.

It seemed juvenile.

Sad.

And this prompted a nostalgia within and upon him, prickling a phantom heat where the [Three Eyed Spying Array] was once burned.

[Gleeful Viper] swept first, and her serpentine trails danced as she walked the skies towards a waiting throne.

All others did the same.

Mingqin hummed a call to silence many li below. “[Summer] has come,” she sung. “Let the tournament, commence.”

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