“You should leave. Once you do, I can take my treasure in peace. Your Junior Beggar—Junior Brother—will have to stay here, however. He has a few things to tell me before I let him go. Such abilities.” Sword-face spoke long and slow, but loud. His eyebrows were still just as sharp, cleanly cut it seemed, but not as immaculate as his robe. The White Cloak of Blue Moons Mountain didn’t have a speck of dirt or misplaced thread. He tilted his head as he pulled his arms up, crossing them in front of his chest.

  By salt, how long have they been watching? Have they just arrived, or were they here last night as well? Hao looked to the other side. The face of the girl, young and red-faced, told him. They saw far more than just his Cultivation treasure, but his personal treasure, too. He didn’t mind, but if they saw him bare, they saw the Spirit-Holding bag strapped to his chest.

  “Ptui,” the man in the Blue Drifting Stream robe, nearly as clean, spat down into the cave. A strange, wide smile grew on his face. “Your treasure? It belongs to the Drifting Stream Sect, can’t you tell? Look. There is a junior brother, the two of us.”

  Hao didn’t think anyone could look more smug while spouting nonsense than the Sword-Face. Yet this Martial Brother pulled it off while dragging others down with him. Not to mention, Hao had a Cultivator’s eyes now. He had to watch the spit fall and splat a few steps away from him.

  The man from Drifting Stream stood taller. Walked closer towards the edge of the drop, his arms spread. “You alone are here trespassing. What use would a Yin Cultivator of the Blue Moons Mountain, flaunting a sword, have for a Spirit Herb treasure? It would be wasted on you!” He got angrier the more he spoke. His face turned red.

  It was quite a difference, the calm, clean of the White Cloak, against the battered sheath and dirt-speckled blue robe of his Martial Brother. Not that Hao thought much of him beyond the face, he was another human being.

  “Don’t compare me to those disciples on Blue Moon.” There was a sting in the voice of Sword-face.

  Hao turned his head back fast, it felt like there was a blade being drawn over the whole cave. A sore spot must have been hit. The bloodshot eyes and red face popped out, resting on the white cloak. Those disciples?

  Sword face continued keeping his expression neutral, trying to hide his annoyance, but his voice and color betrayed him. “I just need to get that hag Elder off my back!”

  His sudden words caught everyone off guard, especially Hao, who had observed him for quite some time.

  “And you. There in the center, did you think no one would find you skulking? You aren’t bad, but nothing more than mortal ilk born from mortal ilk. A blind monk could see it, but he ignores the ant when he steps on it.” he spoke faster, harsher, his handsome appearance remained, but something was twisting behind his eyes.

  Hao didn’t care for the insults, he got worse than being called mortal in the past. Ant was new, though. He almost wanted to laugh, but he felt like a fool. He let the words and perceptions of others be a spring for his confidence. Praise got to his head.

  Either way, he was surprised that someone in Reclamation, the same realm as everyone else in the Mid-Summer cave, could notice him when all others couldn’t. Some even, when they knew he was around, had trouble keeping track of him. How? How did he do it? To make it worse, he kept track of Hao without Hao catching wind of it.

  Hao’s eyes danced from one side of the cave entrance to the other. And so were the people at either edge, looking at each other and him. There was only one entrance, and the same served as the exit. They were all prepared to kill each other. For Hao, he had to; they knew too much, or wanted the flower at his feet, and they weren’t going to let him go.

  The only one who wavered to kill was the girl. No older than Hao. Her red face was getting paler by the second as her hands locked around her elbows. Hao had never killed a girl before. Never a woman, either.

  “Some old waste like you, wanting such a treasure is a joke, anyway. Trotting around with that baggage,” Sword-face said, pointing at the girl. All the color in her face faded one last time.

  His sleek sword was drawn. He held it up to his face, waving it past his chest, his eyes peering over its edge. “Proudly wearing the blue robes of a sect that is famed for raising a demon.” He pointed the blade from Hao to the girl, to the man, who responded in kind.

  The result was the same, but it lacked the effect. His blue robes didn’t flutter, the wooden sheath didn’t sing. Yet his blade pointed out, and his words seemed far sharper based on the face of one he stood against. “Ha! I heard those Yin arts can drive a man mad before they turn them into a woman. The sausage shrinks underneath the energy of the moon!”

  Hao wanted to place his hand on his face. He had heard something similar. It was just the words of this Martial Brother were obviously meant to offend. Hao knew little of other sects or his own, the Drifting Stream; he hardly got a welcome for completing an auspicious trial. Many of the techniques of the Blue Moons Mountain Sect relied heavily on Yin energy without a counterbalance of Yang. Very powerful techniques when mastered, but they made a man’s skin smooth and more feminine, transforming them into a woman altogether was hearsay. Though there were specific techniques for such things.

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  Sword-face was obviously enraged by the comment. Perhaps far more offended than he should have been. But the sword wielder was probably just a few years older than Hao. he had his own youthful pride.

  The man from the Drifting Stream Sect laughed, enjoying the sight of the man across the cave. His laugh halted when the swordsman leapt and ran across the natural stone bridge that split the cave entrance in two. The sword passed by his face. And a clash started.

  The four people were prepared for a fight. Hao and the girl seemed the least ready. In more than one sense, Hao was caught with his pants down. A treasure he didn’t know—he knew a little now—one that was coveted by others for its effects. People he underestimated. As for the girl, she stuck to her Senior Brothers’ back, her arms yet to uncross. Dragged around, she would only do what she was told, only timid, because it was impossible to have full autonomy when the world was out to kill you. Even your allies only wanted you for your use.

  The two men dropped down. A duel started the moment their feet touched the ground. But there was a clear winner before swords crossed. Still, the man from the Drifting Stream, Hao’s Martial brother, as crude as he was, held his own. He showed his ability to knock a blade away when his life was on the line. But every clash was a step back from the blue robe, each one bringing them around in a semi-circle towards Hao. The young lady broke away, as things escalated by the breath, breaking away and going the opposite way of them.

  Hao didn’t wait, watching their movements from the corner of his eye. They only knew a tiny bit about his treasure. Other than the ruby and red thread, the Spirit-Holding bag looked like a normal holding bag. What could they guess about the plant growing fast? It was just a little sprinkling of a gold crystal that caused the effect; such a thing could be explained away as a one-time thing, a treasure he got by chance. If he had to, they would tear each other apart before looking away.

  Hao wanted to take what he could and leave before they knew any better. The moment he bent down, however, a small voice like a dove’s wings, just as soft and fluttering faster, whispered to him. He didn’t hear the words. He knew who spoke to them, there was only one left to say anything to him, and only one person around that would be so timid when death was walking around the edge of the cave.

  When Hao lifted his head, he could see the duel getting closer to him. Then he changed his attention to the girl. She pulled out a blade, thin but sharp and not cheap, if he had to guess. Yet she didn’t have a holding bag on her waist. She isn’t some young lady then, not an Elder offspring or descendant at least.

  He read the words on her lips this time, the sound barely passing her throat. “Please, don’t take it and go, Senior.”

  Hao guessed she was told what to do. But he could understand, she knew the man she traveled with, not Hao, and certainly not Sword-Face, who was bursting with arrogance and bloodlust. Better a beast you know than one you’ve never seen before.

  There was harshly a hint of the will to fight in her bones when facing Hao. Her fingers twitched while she held the blade. How did she make it this far without… Hao stopped himself. Every path was different, even if they led to the same place. His thread was just bloodier than hers. His hands were clean, yet he could feel blood in his fingernails, his own and others. I wonder if that Bai Ling had ever killed?

  Hao looked away from her, she was not going to swing that sword at him. He knew it for a fact, why he knew he was not sure, but he learned more than he was prone to arrogance in the Secret Realm.

  His eyes passed the two men again. They shifted and spun. Already, they had made steady progress towards him, they were not far from the girls’ backs. The sound of metal clashing made the clucking of chickens or the muttering of drunken fishermen a pleasant sound.

  I’m really out of my element. Or was he? His hand ran along the grass, he found roots, dozens under each of his fingers. He used his untrimmed fingernails to break the surface grass. He reached the stem. Milky sap was running through the mass of flowers. There were no seeds, just pollen sticking to the inside of the petals of both the white and black flowers.

  It was silly of Hao; he knew as much, but he preferred to harvest in a way that preserved, somewhere inside, there was still a piece of an Islander. The one day of calm reminded him. He went back to the roots, lifting dirt and pulling half of them up carefully.

  “Junior Brother! I can protect and help you!” A voice called, which shook the cave, it was louder than the clashing swords, and in Hao’s focus, one he found more grating.

  “We are all members of the Drifting Stream. Help us, and when we harvest, you can have a share!”

  Hao didn’t bother lifting his head. It was a little annoying though, us and we. He much preferred I, unless it was breakfast with a good friend like Yi Shou or Lingli, or two beautiful older women, he missed Meiqi’s cooking more every morning.

  “Junior Brother!” He called again.

  Hao turned his head this time. They were much too close for comfort; the man could have stuck out his leg and blocked Hao’s hands, but he was stuck in the fight. Still, he had time to smile at Hao, kind of, it was nearly friendly, but he looked like he had finished chewing a piece of tree bark.

  Hao looked back down, continuing to extract the flower as the fight got too close to ignore. That really must have bothered this Martial Brother as he groaned, falling back more.

  He shouted again. “Hua Yi’Er! Stop him. Kill that beggar now if you have to. Then help me with this one.”

  Hao felt a buzzing in his head. The insult, he barely heard. But the man just smiled at him, asked for help, You want me dead because I didn’t comply? The buzzing was like a dozen flies. His eyes passed the girl named Hua Yi’Er. Her hand was shaking more, her knees were bouncing, yet her feet were frozen. A tear was stuck on the corner of her eye.

  The calm Hao gathered over the day was waning, but he kept it; he cherished it. It got harder to find each time he lost it.

  That little piece of him that was still a life-loving islander was drowned in red, painted black. An urge made his fingers twitch on a flower’s stem, to bring the man’s life to an end. To kill him, to push a knife into his neck. The world would be better for it.