Far, far away from the Thirteenth Lotus Empire, in the lands that would, half a century later, come to be called the Solar Whirligig, there was a mountain range. So tall that it almost scratched the edge of the world, so wide that no cloud could pass by without being caught on its mountain peaks, like divine hair on the bristles of a giant brush - such was the grandeur of this mountain range.

And nestled among its peaks and ravines, there was a lake, filling up a canyon so sheer that not even a single blade of grass could sling to its sides. The water in this glacier lake was ice-cold, for the rays of the sun could only grace the waters for a few minutes at midday, and naught but freezing death could be found beneath the surface.

But as this canyon stretched, it widened, the walls opening up like the gates of Heaven. The lake came to an end - spreading out into a semicircle of water upon a narrow mountain peak. And on the shores of that lake, a sect of healers had grown like so much mold infesting a cut of stale bread, pavilions and pagodas dotting the rocky terrain.

The road up to this peak was a winding one, but well-maintained, stone bridges stretching out across mountain streams and wide pathways cut into the cliffs. Pilgrims and petitioners ascended the mountain in search of help - and out of those strong enough to weather the trip, many returned cured of all their ailments. Some of them would serve the sect as payment - and others, paid in other ways.

At the end of this road stood an audience hall: a long, rectangular wooden building, not shielded at all from the cold mountain air - for it had no walls, but merely rows of columns that supported the ceiling. Every surface, floor to ceiling, was covered by a network of mushroom growths, dense white lines twisting around the columns and crawling all across the ceiling, budding off here and there into large, white bulbs. Gentle ripples of fluorescent light spread all throughout the mycelium, perfectly mirrored in the polished stone floor - like reflections of sunlight on the waves of the ocean. As the sun slowly rose through the sky, this fluorescent glow slowly faded.

Such was the entrance to the Cradle of the Silvery Mycelium.

At the back of the hall stood a tall, circular dias, on which sat the sect's patriarch - Zhang Dexiu. An older man, yet still in the prime of his life, he would have preferred to spend his day in meditation - but even he could not shirk his duties forever. And so he brushed and braided his long black beard, put on his suit of armor, covering him from neck to toe, and came to hold court at the sect's doors.

Is there truly a need to listen to the petulant whining of mortals? If a couple were slaughtered for bringing their base problems before an Elder - only those with real problems would remain. It would free up so much time…

Zhang Dexiu pursed his lips, adjusting a long bundle of black cloth on his back. It was a strange sight on an elder - the cloth far too cheap and rough, more of a canvas a peasant would use to wrap up a bundle of sticks than something fitting of a cultivator. It contrasted strangely with the rest of his armor - spiritual metal polished to a brilliant shine, and styled to resemble the overlapping corpses of a hundred different spirit beasts, tangles of mold and shroom growing out of their dead eye sockets.

No blood will be spilled here today, Zhang Dexiu decided, and turned his focus back towards the task at hand.

A long line of other petitioners extended all the way down the hall - the sick, the ambitious, the skilled, and occasionally, the merely stupid. At the very front of the line, in the middle of the hall, a young woman stepped forth, and kneeled down, helping a boy at her side do the same. They were both dressed in clean, well-made woolen clothes, if somewhat worn and oft-repaired. The woman's eyes were lowered down to the floor, the cold mountain air helped bring out a blush on her freckled cheeks - quite unlike most other petitioners, whose skin was far too dark for it to be noticeable.

What a beautiful girl, this one. Even that ugly coat cannot conceal those twin mountain peaks. I wonder how her blood would taste?

Zhang Dexiu frowned again, trying to recall the woman's name. He married her a decade ago, and of course left her to live in the town at the base of the mountain ever since - but even with the cultivator's memory, such minor things easily slipped the mind. They had better things to do when he visited than talk.

That boy at her side - perhaps it was his son. He was leaning against the woman's shoulder for support, barely keeping his back straight. His eyelids drooped closed, head sliding down as he almost drifted off to sleep - before jerking up, waking up once again.

"Shiqihao," Zhang Dexiu said, deciding to not bother with the woman's original name. It was more appropriate this way, in any case, for a cultivator's wife. He motioned to the two mortals. "What has my wife brought before me?"

"This humble woman apologizes," the woman said, prostrating herself down on the ground. Her son was pulled down with her, too weak to resist. "I do not deserve even a minute of your illustrious time, honorable immortal. But my son - he had been sick for the past three days. He suddenly became hot, hardly wakes - but his skin is clear, and his breathing even…"

Zhang Dexiu's eyebrow lifted in curiosity. "Oh?" he said, leaning forwards. "Bring the boy here."

The woman bowed again, and carefully pulled the boy onto his feet, cradling him with one arm as she pulled him along. They walked over to the dais, and she knelt at the side of the cultivator, holding the boy's head up with great care.

Zhang Dexiu reached over, and placed his palm over the boy's face. The boy squirmed under it, and let out a gasp of pain - before the hand was withdrawn once more.

"Hmm," Zhang Dexiu said, a smile stretching across his tight lips. "Congratulations, Shiqihao. Our son is not sick - he has unlocked his spiritual root. He will be a cultivator, if he wakes."

His meridians are clearly weak, and he can't even stand on his own. He won't wake. Not without a little help, hmm? A son's life is more than worth a couple worthless mortals.

The woman smiled as well, kissing her boy on his forehead.

Zhang Dexiu patted his wife on the head like a favored pet. "For giving me a second heir, you've done me a great service, and you know your station well," he said, "Henceforth, you shall be known as Zhang Shiyun. What is the boy's name?"

It would save him from remembering her old name, too.

"I have named him Yangguang, honorable immortal."

"Zhang Yangguang, then. Very well. Inform the servants that your things are to be moved up the mountain, and to my quarters."

Zhang Shiyun had finally allowed herself to smile. "Thank you for your blessing, honorable immortal," she said, bowing deeply. She rose to her feet, and pulled her son to his feet, putting one arm under his shoulder to support him. Slowly, she backed out of the hall, never turning back on Zhang Dexiu, keeping a respectful half-bow throughout.

Zhang Dexiu paid them no mind. There were other petitioners to deal with.

Years passed, yet Zhang Dexiu's other wives produced no suitable heirs. Two were his cultivator sons - Xiaomeng the older, brash and brave, and Yangguang the younger, clever far beyond his age. The two boys, for all their differences, grew to be as inseparable as a pair of eyes is from a face.

Each was talented in his own right - Xiaomeng, in the arts of the sword, and Yangguang, in the arts of healing. Side by side, their legends grew - of the four dragons felled by Xiaomeng in a single night, and of the ends Yangguang had to go through to pull him back from the brink of death, after nobody else believed it possible. Two darlings of the Silvery Mycelium Abode, they brought great pride to their sect - and to their father.

When they grew to the ripe age of twenty, they took their own wives. Xiaomeng had left his down in the town below the mountain, as was tradition - but Yangguang brought his wife with him up to the sect. Zhang Dexiu was away when Yangguang took his second, and when he returned, the rumors were already swirling.

He invited both of his sons to train together, thinking of how to broach this delicate topic. He was still thinking when they finished, and headed for the baths, to wash away the sweat. He went in first - unlike them, he could take off his armor in but a single moment - and sank into the waters of the tiled, pre-heated pool, setting his bundle of black cloth down on the edge.

He had a reason to go in first, of course. He could feel a tension around Xiaomeng - his son wanted to say something, but resisted in his father's presence. So he gave the two of them some space, even if, unbeknownst to them, Zhang Dexiu could always listen in.

"Yangguang, you know, people talk about you," Xiaomeng said in the room before the baths. He really was speaking very quietly, thinking that his father would not hear. "Having your wives up here in the sect, before any of them even gave you an heir…"

"They are my wives, Xiaomeng," Yangguang responded neutrally. By his tone, Zhang Dexiu could tell he had long expected this exact conversation. "It's better for them here, than down in the town."

"It's inappropriate," Xiaomeng said. "This is no place for ordinary people. One was bad enough, but now there are two… Nobody will dare say a thing to your face, but the rumors are spreading."

"Who is spreading them?" Yangguang replied.

"Other disciples."

"Do those disciples have names?"

Xiaomeng sighed despondently. "You can consult the entire sect roster for the names. I can only wonder how our father hadn't noticed yet, or why he said nothing if he did. My own direct disciples have already started to ask me questions! You are making our entire family lose face."

"I see," Yangguang said, and for a moment, there was silence.

Zhang Dexiu sighed. He was proud of both his sons - if in different ways - but Yangguang had been a difficult one. He had barely even carried his sword, these days, instead preferring scalpels and bags of medicine. And his attachment to mere mortals…

"In that case," Yangguang continued, "you may advise those disciples of yours that if these rumors do not stop, those who wish to receive any treatment from me will have to beg for it before my wives. I will make them kiss their feet in public if that is what it takes. Perhaps that would put a stop to those rumors."

Oh ho ho! Let him play. It would be ever so much fun.

Zhang Dexiu frowned, and shifted the black bundle a fraction further away from the bath - more to check that it was still there, within his grasp.

"You aren't joking," Xiaomeng spoke in the other room, with mounting horror.

"Have you ever known me to joke?"

"You know you are our best healer by far. If you won't treat people - there is simply nobody that can replace you."

"Not even the Heavens can dictate a cultivator's will, Xiaomeng. Surely you understand this? Even if I never carry a sword, I can hardly allow others to tell me how to live, can I? Least of all if I am, as you say, irreplaceable."

"You'd really go that far? For what - for a couple useless mortals?"

"They are my wives," Yangguang snapped back. His voice rose gradually, until Zhang Dexiu didn't even need to strain his ears to hear him - nor rely on the small mushrooms he planted in the room. "Their names are Huan and Lijuan. You expect me to treat them like a pair of dogs, send them down the mountain and into their kennels until they produce me some litter? No. The only dogs here are those who value their lives less than their disdain for my wives, simply because neither of them has a damnable spirit root, and I swear, they can all die, down to the last man, for all I care."

Zhang Dexiu grinned. Sometimes, Yangguang was difficult - but then there were times like this. Even if his son's attachment to those mortals was embarrassing, he was still brave like a true cultivator, in his own ways.

Of course, as the patriarch of the sect, he could never allow him to do that. But the attitude was important.

Xiaomeng was silent for a moment, before speaking again. "Very well," he said decisively. "I don't really understand you, but… As the saying goes, if the cultivator won't go to the mountain, then the mountain will be made to visit the cultivator. I'll see what I can do to get you through this."

The two finally walked into the baths, and Zhang Dexiu did his best to pretend he hadn't heard them, though both of them surely realised he must have. Best to let his sons handle this between themselves.

Two days later, Xiaomeng challenged three inner disciples to a duel over his brother's honor - and by the end of the week there were three more corpses feeding the mushroom farms, but the rumors had stopped.

By the time Yangguang was thirty two years old, he had traveled the world, and saw all it had to offer. He returned back to his sect, bringing yet more miracles of medicine, and news from the lands far away. News of rebellion and conquest, in the empire far vaster than anything close to their sect.

Zhang Dexiu could not ignore such news. He called a sword conference, and brought Xiaomeng and Yangguang together with him, to negotiate with the many other sects and kingdoms in the area, and tell them of this news, before it brought peril upon them all.

The conference was… unsuccessful. Far too many competing interests, far too many parties willing to push their boundaries, to risk a war if only it could bring them more territory, more resources. Even if his sons shone like stars, and distinguished themselves before the other sects - building a true alliance was, for now, far out of reach.

Traveling light on their way back, they were passing through a forest at night, when Zhang Dexiu saw a crimson light far off in the distance. Far too early to be a sunrise - and far too dark to be a forest fire, it glinted through the trees, a purple cloak cask over the wilderness.

What a familiar sight. How fortunate, for it to come when your sons are here. I would even say it is a good omen.

Zhang Dexiu reared up in his saddle, straining his eyes to see across the many miles of distance - and pursed his lips. "Dismount," he ordered curtly, leading his horse to the side of the road, and doing much the same.

"What is wrong, father?" Xiaomeng asked, already obeying the command. "Is there a demon beast? I did not sense anything amiss."

"Worse," Zhang Dexiu said grimly, "An old friend of mine. We'll see how he feels to see me again - but you two, hide in the forest. Bring the horses as well. Quickly!"

His sons shared a look - but did what they were told without hesitation. They were good sons. Zhang Dexiu only hoped they would also be living sons when the day was over.

He leaned against a tree on the side of the road, and unsheathed the sword at his waist, running a finger over the steel to ease his tension. He did not want to worry his sons, but if that really was Wang Yuxuan, as he suspected…

Is that the best weapon here, hm? Perhaps another one would suit you far better. It's hardly a time to hesitate.

Zhang Dexiu's left hand reached for the long, black bundle of cloth on his back - but stopped. He frowned, and shook his head. He already made his decision. Giving in would only plant a seed of doubt within his own mind.

But there was truth in it as well, as there usually was. He raised his hand, circulating chi, and created a dozen small mushroom bulbs, spreading them all around the road. Best to be prepared.

The crimson light approached slowly, darkening the green forest all around it. It came closer and closer, concealed by the turn of the road - and then it was out in the open. A cultivator, wearing billowing white robes underneath scarlet armor, his chi swirling around him in a halo of baleful fire as wide as the road itself.

"Do I smell pigshit, or is it Zhang Dexiu hiding in the bushes?" the cultivator called out, his powerful voice reaching him even from hundreds of meters away. "I knew the omens were auspicious this morning. To think I'd manage to catch you all alone!"

"The smell comes from your own robes, Wang Yuxuan," Zhang Dexiu called back, gesturing with his sword. The air fogged around him as his abundant water chi spilled forth through the gaps in his silver armor, a thin coat of ice matting the surface. "Perhaps if you ever washed them, you would know the smell of soap instead."

"Enough games," Wang Yuxuan snarled. "This here senior will show you the immensity of Heaven and Earth, and serve justice for what you've done!"

Wang Yuxuan slashed his sword, faster than the eye could follow, and an explosion of flame rushed towards Zhang Dexiu - only to be met by a wall of ice that cut across the road. The crack of steam exploding outwards had snapped a dozen trees in half.

There was nothing more to be said after that.

"Father!"

Zhang Dexiu opened his eye, seeing his sons approach. He only had the one left, and his vision was far too blurry - but he could recognise them anywhere.

What a sorry sight I must be.

An appropriate sight, for one so arrogant to think he could win alone.

He was lying in a pool of his own blood, slumped against a tree stump - but at his feet laid the head of that accursed Wang Yuxuan, his mutilated body lying only a couple paces away. One of Zhang Dexiu's hands was torn off entirely, the other hanging limply at his side, half of his face nothing but blackened coal.

And all around him, a scene of carnage - the forest obliterated, leaving behind nothing but a shallow crater a hundred meters wide, trees torn apart, frozen, incinerated, and rotten from inside out by growths of shroom and mold - forest fires already starting at the edges, and spreading beyond, dancing light shining ominously through the clouds of dust, spores, snow and smoke.

This was a good fight, Zhang Dexiu thought, smiling with half his mouth.

So stubborn to the end. If you drew me, you would have lived. Am I so ugly you do not even wish to grasp my hilt?

Zhang Dexiu tried to chuckle, but only coughed up some blood. Not long left, now. He was barely managing to hold his soul together - two of his dantians had been shattered in the fight.

Forcing the rest of his blood out of his lungs, he tried - and failed - to pull himself up straight, before a hand grabbed him by the shoulder, and helped steady him. "Lean closer," Zhang Dexiu said with an eerie calmness he didn't truly feel. "I do not care to shout."

"We need - we need to help you!" Xiaomeng shouted. "Yangguang -"

"There is nothing I can do," Yangguang said, his voice hollow. "Don't you see? There is nothing anyone can do. I don't even know how you could heal that kind of damage -"

Yangguang sniffled, his hand coming up to his mouth. He fell to his knees, just a few feet away.

Zhang Dexiu did his best to frown with the half of his face that was still left intact. "Enough," he cut his son off. "You are right - I am done for. That is a fact, and I do not wish to waste my last moments on childish whining. Now reach behind me and take the sword off my back."

Xiaomeng, always reliable, did just that, carefully taking the sheath wrapped in black cloth. "What is this sword, father?" Xiaomeng said, his voice catching, as he moved aside the fabric. "I've never seen you so much as unwrap it."

The sword was short, but delicate, a saber in a scabbard of blackened steel. Small purple gems dotted the guard, arranged into patterns, coming together into the shape of a heart right at the pommel. Paper talismans were wrapped all around the scabbard, criss-crossed with lines of ink, glowing an angry red.

"This is a dangerous, cruel sword," Zhang Dexiu explained, pushing through the spike of pain the sword rammed into his mind. It was getting harder and harder to resist them, with his soul in tatters. "Until you reach the building foundation stage, you must always keep it sheathed - the scabbard would protect you. Even then - be careful."

You would lie to your own children? Now who is cruel?

"The sword houses an ancient spirit," Zhang Dexiu continued with great difficulty, ignoring the sword's yammering, "one with a great deal of knowledge and power - but whose words you must never, ever fully trust. Never let this secret slip. If this spirit escapes - our entire sect may be destroyed. But in times of great need, you may nick yourself, sacrifice a drop of blood to the sword, and speak to the spirit within. It is a tricksy one, but the seals should keep it from acting without your consent. At least, mostly." He grimaced, leaning forwards, as far as he could manage. "Now swear you will keep it safe. Swear on your lives that you would do this."

Xiaomeng prostrated himself on the ground, the sword clutched to his chest. "I swear, father!"

"I - I - I swear, as well," Yangguang said. "I swear."

Zhang Dexiu grimaced, hearing him stammer like a frail, helpless woman - but perhaps that was the exact mindset that was needed here. "Good. Yangugang, take the sword. Swear you won't ever let it out of your sight."

"I swear," Yangguang said, taking the sword from Xiaomeng with trepidation. "What - what is its name?"

Zhang Dexiu laughed, falling back against the stump. "It has none," he said. "Mad dogs do not deserve names."

Another spike of pain, this one strong enough he blacked out for a brief moment.

- you miserable, pathetic old man! I will see your soul consumed by a Gar'haltak and shattered into a thousand pieces! For a thousand eternities you will suffer at my hands!

He laughed again, once he surfaced from the depths of his consciousness. He always knew he'd die like this.

Spitting in the faces of his old enemies.

The funeral happened at sunset, the very day Xiaoming and Yangguang returned to the sect. It was a somber affair, with hundreds of people coming to the sect to give their regards to the former patriarch. When the sun set, Xiaoming brought the body into the family crypt, deep within the mycelium growths, and so ended the story of Zhang Dexiu.

They wept. They grieved. They wondered if anything could ever fill this hole within their hearts.

But the time waited for no one. Three days after the funeral, the two brothers gathered together, within Xiaomeng's chambers - for larger problems rose on the horizon.

Yangguang was seated on a pillow before a low table, looking like a figure of soft clay that was squished, before being carelessly put back together, with deep bags under his eyes. Xiaomeng paced before him, hands crossed on his chest.

"Are you sure about this?" Xiaomeng said, coming to a stop, and turning to face his brother.

Yangguang sighed. "Trust me, Xiaomeng," he said slowly. "For now, everyone is distracted - but soon, the Elders will question why our family should still lead the sect, now that the patriarch is… gone. Other sects will smell weakness as well, and this is a dangerous time for it. Before that happens, one of us has to ascend to the building foundation stage. You know I am in no condition to transcend a tribulation. That means it has to be you."

"You are the one who manages most of our disciples. I would be a lousy patriarch."

"Jun could help you. He is good with people."

"A mortal as an assistant?" Xiaomeng said incredulously. "You would make us lose the last of our face, brother."

"A brother for an assistant," Yangguang grumbled. "So what if he is mortal? He is still our father's son. But no matter. If you don't want to see sense, then I could train you as well, once you ascend."

"And I could train you with the sword."

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

Yangguang slumped back further, and grimaced, gesturing towards his face. "You know my skill is not the only problem," he said. "I haven't had a full night's sleep since -" his voice caught. "Since. It will be months before I feel like myself again. But we do not have the luxury of waiting."

"Are you sure it's not that sword?"

Yangguang sighed, and reached behind his back just like his father did, and took out the same old bundle of black cloth. He placed it on the table between them, unwrapping it, and traced his finger over the softly glowing talismans, and the steel of the scabbard.

"I checked the seals myself," Yangguang said. "The craftsmanship of the sword is beyond me, and I still need time to understand what father added on top of it, but… the seals are undamaged. That, I am sure of. The cause of my nightmares is much simpler in nature."

Xiaomeng went back to pacing. Yangguang closed his eyes, letting the silence linger.

"I suppose it is appropriate that you would be the one to inherit a sword that is never drawn," Xiaomeng finally said.

"It is."

"Whoever heard of a pacifist cultivator? Still," Xiaomeng said, rubbing his forehead. "For me to ascend - I will be gone for two weeks." He leaned on the table, looking closely at his brother. "Will you be alright without me? I won't find mortals running our sect, or the Thirteen-Leaved lotus empire flag hanging above our compound once I return?"

Yangguang smiled slightly, but he didn't have the strength to chuckle. "No. I will manage."

"And yourself? You look like a pig left half-eaten by a tiger."

Yangguang made a vague gesture. "It's just some nightmares, Xiaomeng. They are harmless. Focus on preparing for your tribulation."

Yangguang nodded, and stepped around the table, embracing his brother. "Alright. We will get through this."

"Yeah. We will get through this."

Zhang Yangguang woke up, his mind still groggy from the uneven sleep - so much so, that for a moment, he thought the painted ceiling of his room was warping above him, the lines blending in together. Shaking his head to clear it, he got up quietly, moving gently to not wake up either of his wives, and stretched.

It was still night outside. If he went back to bed - perhaps he could get another few hours of rest, before another nightmare woke him. But not if he did it right away. He'd cultivate, exhaust his body, and then his mind would have no choice but to fall asleep.

That was his hope, at least. That if he worked himself to the bone, he wouldn't keep thinking of his father.

A soft, feminine laugh caught at his thoughts and pulled them away. "There are simpler ways to solve that problem, young master."

There was an unfamiliar woman lounging in a nest of pillows, right in the center of his room, all blacks and purples, from her hair, to her eyes, to her long, seductive dress. She was… beautiful. That much was certain, even if Yangguang's weary eyes refused to focus on her face, almost as if its features shifted beneath his very gaze.

Strangely, he felt no outrage, no fear, at a stranger appearing within his chambers. It was as if she belonged here even more than he did.

"Who are you?" he asked curiously, rubbing his face. It didn't help him focus any, the room around them still changing any time he looked away.

In one hand, the woman held a long, delicate pipe, made of dark metal and ivory, purple smoke puffing gently up to the ceiling. Just from looking at it, he could tell that it was priceless - though in all his travels, he had never seen any style that resembled it, the delicate carvings made to resemble strange shapes and symbols. The only thing he could recognise was a cute heart on the very end.

That, too, he felt certain about.

"A better question is, what can I do for you, young master?" the strange woman said, putting the pipe to her full lips. She blew a little cloud of smoke towards him, also in the shape of a heart.

"For me?"

"Having trouble sleeping?" the woman said, tapping her pipe against her forehead. "I could help. Suppress your heart's pains, your weary memories. For a day, a week, a month - however long you need. Even forever, should the young master desire so."

Yangguang stepped forward before he could think, a strange, foreign hope rising in his chest. If he could finally sleep - even if only just to get their sect through this crisis, until Xiaomeng ascended and was crowned patriarch…

"You could really do that?" he asked, failing to keep emotions out of his voice.

"Of course I could," the woman said, before sighing. She looked away from him, some hidden thought clouding her eyes. "The only question is what it would take for the young master to trust me to do so."

There was a glass of wine in her hands now. Yangguang did not see her move, did not see her take it. It was simply there.

Yangguang glanced at the glass. Even as he felt calm, almost peaceful, something here simply didn't fit. "Who are you, really?" he asked, trying to keep his voice level.

He was surprised at his own tone. It was the one he used for his dangerous patients - ones that could lash out at their healer. But this woman was clearly peaceful. Of that, he was certain.

So why did he start to feel on edge?

The woman didn't answer him right away, taking a sip of her wine instead. "My name is Leng Wuqing," she said finally. "But you would know me as the spirit within that sword of yours."

"My father said you didn't have a name."

Leng Wuqing's fingers clenched around the glass in her hand, whitening from the tension. "Your father lied about many things," she spoke through equally clenched teeth, before she schooled her expression. "He was wrong about many more. He didn't even know I could speak through dreams, despite his pathetic seal on the sword."

Dreams? Were they in one?

"Why would he lie about your name?"

The words slipped out of his mouth before he even realised it.

"Because he took it from me," Leng Wuqing snarled. The glass in her hand made a soft tinkling sound. "Just like he took away my clan, my life, my freedom. There was nothing that would sate that man. He took, he took, and then he took again, building his own power on the back of my knowledge - bewitching half the Elders in your sect with my unwilling help! Even leaving me my own name was too much! That is the man you worship?!"

Yangguang stepped back, away from the sheer fury in front of him. "No," he said, shaking his head. "Father was a good man. He wouldn't do that."

"You know that is false. I've watched you argue with him over how your sect treats mortals through his own two eyes." Leng Wuqing snorted. "That vision of a world where the sword does not decide it all is the only reason I even tried talking to you directly."

Yangguang's head spun. He did argue with his father a lot - more and more, as time went on. He knew their sect had to change, to adapt - but they could never see eye to eye.

And yet, the things this woman was saying...

"What do you even want from me?"

"All I want is to be free to walk the world again," Leng Wuqing replied, calming down somewhat. The glass vanished from her hand, replaced by her pipe. "Being contained within this sword - even if I can feel all that the wielder does, it is torture. Surely a healer would understand this."

Yangguang took another step back. He did understand. The strongest healing technique their sect possessed encased the patient in a growth of mushroom - and left them there, unable to move, until they recovered. It was tough on the minds of many. But comparing that to being sealed within an ancient sword was like comparing Heaven and Earth.

"I am sorry," he said, tears welling up in his eyes. "I apologise, but - I swore I would not trust your words. I swore I would not release you."

He couldn't break the very last wishes of his father. He simply couldn't.

Leng Wuqing sighed, disappointment leaking out of her body, and looked away. She pulled on her pipe again, sending another cloud of smoke in his direction. "What could I do to convince you I am not so evil?" she asked, sounding almost bored.

"Nothing," Yangguang said, sobbing. "Please leave."

He didn't want to think of what else his father might have done. Not now, not this soon after his death.

"This is the forty-seventh time we've had this conversation," Leng Wuqing mused. The glass was back in her hand, and she took another sip of her wine. "I don't know why I expected this time to go any differently."

"I - no. That is a lie. I never spoke to you before."

"You wouldn't remember it," she said dismissively. "I hoped that if I told you what he did, perhaps you would - ah, it doesn't matter anymore."

Leng Wuqing swirled the wine in her glass, gazing into it as if into a mirror. "A doctor, but so thick-headed," she said, hatred leaking back into her voice. The glass tinkled again, a crack passing through it as her grip tightened. "Nothing I say works to sway you. Riches, power, knowledge, even the raw truth - nothing at all. You would rather trust the word of a dead kalesherdek kra than think for yourself!"

The glass shattered, Leng Wuqing's fist clenched around a clump of broken glass. Wine and blood dripped down on the floor in equal measure.

"Oh, if only I could seal you into a sword, so that you would know my pain!" she said, meeting Yanggung's gaze again. It bored into his eyes - his mind. Pure hatred. "Eighty years of indignity, of groveling before your father for every kindness, every scrap of sustenance, downplaying his betrayal, guiding his notice away from the enormous loopholes left behind in his seal - and in the end, I ended up with you!"

"Please, I want to trust you," Yangguang begged. "I really do. And if what you say is true - you have my deepest condolences. But I will not break my word."

"I've seen you grow through your father's eyes," Leng Wuqing said. "All those platitudes about the healer's duty, never raising your sword against a human being. All lies. Leaving me to suffer is no different than sealing me in yourself!"

Yangguang bowed deeply. He didn't want to gaze into those eyes anymore - or ever again. They showed him too much. "I understand your situation. But it doesn't change that I cannot trust you - that I swore not to trust you."

"Pathetic hypocrite. You are just as bloodthirsty as he ever was," Leng Wuqing said, and her lips twisted into a cruel, vindictive grin. "Why don't you go and slaughter a village? Perhaps it will make you feel more in touch with your father."

Yangguang stepped back, as if slapped. "How dare you," he hissed. "Father would have never done that."

"I saw him do it."

She isn't lying, his thoughts echoed.

Yangguang breathed deeply, his eyes widening in shock. He met that hateful glare again. "Xiaomeng would have killed you for those words," he said, refusing to think any further, "But I am a doctor. If you are to be my patient - fine. I swear I will try to make your life better -"

"Then free me!" Leng Wuqing screamed. The sound of it was so loud that it shook the entire room and tossed Yangguang down on his knees.

Leng Wuqing snarled, "But you will never do that," her voice coming down from a scream. She sprung to her feet, stalking over to Yangguang. "Enough. My time is running out. With Heavens as my witness, I tried being nice."

Yangguang turned around, tried to flee - but that pipe was back in the strange woman's hands, and she breathed out a cloud of purple smoke directly into his face. He stumbled, fell on the ground, but immediately jumped onto his feet -

What was he doing?

He frowned, looking around his empty room, his eyes passing right over a small, black-purple bird sitting on the windowsill.

There was - there was something, something important…

This is a dream. How could there be something important?

Right. Just a dream. It couldn't be important.

He let himself relax, his mind drifting away - and soon, even this memory had dissolved.

He faded back into his dreams.

Zhang Yangguang woke up to the sound of screaming.

A demonic centipede, long, sinuous body of black chitin topped with the head of a horse had somehow crawled into his bed and seized Lijuan by her midsection, thrashing around. His wife's torso snapped with a sickening crunch, the body bending like a twig.

She wasn't the one who screamed - that was Huan, from the other side of the bed, tossing a black and purple hair pin at the beast to try and distract it. Lijuan had already lost too much blood to remain conscious.

Zhang Yangguang stared at the scene in horror and, to his shame, froze up. It couldn't be real, it simply couldn't be.

Huan kept screaming. The centipede tossed Lijuan's lifeless body away, advancing on his other wife.

No!

A weapon. I need a weapon, his thoughts echoed. He looked around in a panic, searching for his long forgotten sword.

It wasn't there. But the black sword his father passed down to him was, still lying on a small shelf he built for it, right above the bed. His hand seized around the handle, already turning towards the centipede -

And he froze again. He couldn't pull it out.

Your last wife will die.

I swore I would not unsheath it.

You will die as well.

I let my father die due to my own inadequacy. If I can't even fulfill his last wish - I would be a worthless son.

Then die as one.

The centipede reared back and sprung at Huan, and though the woman scrambled to get away, the beast bit off her head. Blood spilled out all across their bed from her neck stump as the beast turned its jaws towards Zhang Yangguang, and grinned, those horrible flat teeth chewing on bone and skin, brains dripping freely like saliva.

His hands fell, sobs tearing their way out of his chest.

This is all my fault.

He didn't even resist as the beast tore his heart out of his chest.

Zhang Yangguang woke up in a cold sweat, his hands scrambling around - until they caught on something solid. Warm. Comfortable.

A living, human hand.

"Hm?" Huan hummed through her sleep. Zhang Yangguang breathed out a sigh of relief, his shoulders sagging, and dropped back into bed.

They are alive. Just another nightmare.

He didn't get to enjoy it for long. The door to their chambers burst off the hinges, two demonic centipedes scrambling into the room.

It was Lijuan who screamed this time. Zhang Yangguang sprung out of his bed, his hand already seizing the black and purple sword. He hefted it like a club, bashing it against the heads of the monsters, trying to push them away.

Their chitin is too tough. Unsheathe it.

I swore I would never do it.

Then your wives will die.

He cried as he struck the beasts again, and again, and again, even as they tore into their bed, and ripped and tore and feasted upon their flesh. But it was no use.

His wives died, and then so did he.

Zhang Yangguang woke up. He died. He woke up. He died. He woke up, and he died, and he woke, and he died, and he had never woken and he never died and this nightmare would never, ever end, the screams and the blood and the crunch of bones and the gurgle of Huan and Lijuan as they were torn apart and eaten and died and died and died carving itself so deep into his mind that he couldn't even look at their faces without flinching -

Zhang Yangguang woke up. He unsheathed the sword.

The centipedes died. It wasn't even difficult, his body moving on instinct.

He fell to his knees and cried, letting the sword slip through his fingers. He truly was a worthless son, and an even more worthless husband.

It's just a nightmare. What does it even matter?

What does anything matter anymore?

Dimly, he registered someone coming to get rid of the centipedes. He felt his wives helping him up, leading him away. Trying to cheer him up, undressing him, having sex.

He felt nothing.

Zhang Yangguang woke up. He stared at the ceiling, unwilling to get up, unwilling to even move. He would have stopped breathing if that wouldn't have taken more effort than not.

The centipedes didn't come. Was the nightmare over?

He didn't believe it. Sometimes it simply took a while.

It took a couple hours for his wives to wake, and all the while, he didn't move a muscle. Dreading what might still come. But soon enough they stirred, and helped him dress, and they went on with their day.

It was a normal day. Pleasant, even.

Nobody else recalled anything about those horse-headed centipedes, of course. And yet he didn't let go of the black and purple sword, sheathed though it may be, and wrapped in its black cloth to conceal it from the others. If that nightmare would return - he would be ready. He had already broken his promise in his dreams. He would at least try to save his wives, if he could.

He went to bed with trepidation - but no dreams came. Days passed, and soon, Zhang Xiaomeng returned from his seclusion, having transcended the tribulation and advanced into the building foundation stage. He became an Elder, and Yangguang helped him learn the affairs of the sect.

Weeks passed peacefully. If he tried, he could almost forget the nightmare ever happened. He even visited his mother, and told her all about it - and though she was an old woman, she still hugged him like he was a child.

He put down the black and purple sword, for just a moment. He was tired of holding onto it, and after all, the nightmare was over. He wanted to hug his mother back.

As soon as he did, his mother's face opened up, revealing a tunnel of teeth, and she bit into his throat, drawing blood.

Zhang Yangguang died, and he woke up. Back in his bed, back together with his wives, back all those weeks ago when it all began.

He screamed, and he kept screaming, even as his wives woke up, and even as those demonic centipedes burst into their room again and slaughtered all of them again and again and again like the prey that they truly were.

The nightmare was not over. It would never be over.

Watching Zhang Yangguang struggle with another nightmare she wove from his thoughts, Leng Wuqing hummed within her own mind. Torturing the man was just as cathartic as she always imagined it would be - though even if she did it for a thousand years, it would not make up for what his father did to her.

Sadly, she didn't even have a thousand years. She had at most two weeks, until Xiaomeng ascended to the building foundation stage. By then, she had to be ready to take her revenge outside the dream, and flee.

She didn't have a thousand years. But within a dream, a year could pass in a blink of an eye. She could make it feel like a thousand years, and perhaps, that would be almost as good.

If Yangguang was in the building foundation stage, he would have easily broken out of her spell. She never dared to even try with Zhang Dexiu, after she discovered the enormous loophole in the seals put on her, forty years into her imprisonment. Ordinarily, she needed a link of blood, and at least a tacit agreement of her wielder to use any of her powers - but there was a way to let a fraction of her power out, sink it into the dreams of those close to her, and turn it into something more.

If Yangguang knew the techniques of dreamsurfing, he could have even hurt her - after all, she had to be hidden within every single dream of his. But he didn't. He couldn't even fight off his own heart demons without her help. He was just putty in her hands, so easily manipulated. Child's play, to slip into his thoughts and whisper into his ear, blur all lines between dream and reality. He didn't even notice when he truly woke anymore, stumbling through the days in a drunken daze, until she dragged him back to sleep, back into her clutches.

She was Leng Wuqing, the last dreamsurfer of her clan, and she would have her revenge.

Yangguang rocked around in a pool of blood and viscera, spread all throughout the southern courtyard of their sect. It covered him from head to toe, but he didn't care. If anything, he deserved it.

"This is just a nightmare," he sobbed to himself, hugging the black and purple sword to his chest, the last island of stability in his world. "Just another nightmare. I will wake up soon."

The gems on the sword pulsed ravenously, purple glow spreading all along the blade.

You had to do it. They were demons. The nightmare ends faster when you kill the demons.

"They were demons," he agreed, refusing to look at the severed heads of Huan and Lijuan. At the bodies of half a dozen disciples, spread all around him. Or at the ones who still stood around him, their eyes glazed over with that same strange purple glow. "They were all demons. I had to do it."

"Yangguang! Who did this?"

A tortured cry ripped itself out of Yangguang's throat upon hearing his brother's voice. He knew it was coming, and still, he hoped it would not. The nature of this nightmare was that they gathered to wait for Xiaomeng to come out of seclusion and face his tribulation - until he slaughtered all comers.

And now, he'd have to kill his brother. He already had to do it hundreds of times - and his father, and his mother, and his wives - but every time, it felt as if he was killing yet another part of his own soul.

A hand touched his shoulder. It really was Xiaomeng, covered in armor and talismans for his tribulation, a look of horror and indignation on his face.

And in the skies above, a strike of thunder sounded, the sun already beginning to dim.

"Who dared to attack our sect, Yangguang?!" Xiaomeng said, fury creeping into his voice, as he looked around the courtyard, dozens of corpses spread all around them.

"Nobody attacked out sect. It's just a nightmare," Yangguang muttered, shaking his head furiously. "Just another nightmare. I will wake up soon."

He just had to follow the sword's advice. When he did, the nightmares ended faster. He might even get a little reprieve.

"You aren't making sense. Where is Elder Chen? Why did he not stop this?"

Elder Chen was supposed to help Xiaomeng, if he had trouble with his tribulation. But the Elder was a demon too. Everyone who came was a demon, and the sword helped him kill all of them.

He wasn't the first to die, of course. Yangguang had to cut a dozen lesser disciples in secret, let the sword turn them into mindless puppets at his command - all so that they could seize Elder Chen by the arms, and detonate their dantians. Gravely injured, it was hardly a challenge to score a cut on the venerable Elder, and once he was under the sword's power, the killing blow came quickly.

It was a little strange how none of the demons seemed to transform, even in death. But the nightmares were tricky, and Yangguang put it out of his mind.

"Yangguang!" Xiaomeng shouted, shaking him by the shoulder. "Wake up! I need to know this. What happened? Is it safe for me to transcend my tribulation here?"

"Xiaomeng - no," Yangguang slapped his hand away, leaping up onto his feet. He clutched the sword so tightly his fingers began to hurt. "You aren't real! None of this is real!"

The bewitched disciples shifted all around him. Responding to the sword's commands.

Xiaomeng's eyes widened, falling on the sword in his hand. "That sword -"

"You aren't real!" Zhang Yangguang shouted over his brother's words, clenching his teeth. "You aren't my brother! You are just another nightmare!"

The disciples of the Cradle of Silvery Mycelium found young master Zhang Xiaomeng severely wounded and barely conscious, among the scorched remains of the southern courtyard.

He was the only survivor. A horrific attack, a full third of their sect brutally slaughtered - timed perfectly, while the young master was set to transcend his tribulation. It was a miracle it did not end worse - but Zhang Xiaomeng said he had struck a mortal wound against the attackers, even if they managed to flee. They would die before the sun set.

The young master avenged his sect. He transcended the tribulation, and proved he was worthy to be crowned patriarch.

Even if the other young master did not survive to see it.

Xiaomeng stepped into their family's crypt, carrying his brother's lifeless body in his arms. It was a small earthen room, barely three meters across, with mushrooms covering the walls in a dense growth of white flesh. Many generations of the Zhang family found their way here, into the heart of the mycelium, their bodies left to feed the farms above.

Their father's body was still there, still whole, though already covered in stringy mycelium. He placed Yangguang at his side, and kneeled down, looking at the two people who were the heart of his life for so many years. And then, within only a couple weeks, they were both gone.

He reached behind his back, and took off a bundle of black cloth. The same sword that was to blame for all of this - perhaps even for his father's death, though he could not understand how.

"I swore to you I would keep this damable sword safe," Xiaomeng said, placing the sword in front of his father's corpse. "Yet now, it has killed Yangguang. What am I to do, father?"

That is really not fair, a voice echoed in his head, just a shade of falseness betraying it as something other than his own thoughts. I was merely trying to protect your brother, after his mind buckled from the strain of his father's death.

"Silence, witchblade!"

How can I stay silent when you slander my name? Surely you can't expect me to betray my own wielder, can you? Once Yangguang decided the other disciples were demons, what was I to do except help him with the slaughter? Once you appeared and fought him, what was I to do other than try to slay you? There really is no need to blame me for being too loyal, now is there?

And try to kill him she had. Elders, ones who were meant to help him if he faltered, slaughtered before he even came out of his seclusion. A dozen disciples, sent to interfere with his tribulation with no regard to their own lives. If he let any of them interfere - their compounding tribulations would have killed him just as easily as a sword strike.

He had to kill them first. He had no choice. But he couldn't make himself kill Yangguang.

Anyone else would have fallen there. Anyone else would have died, having to transcend two tribulations at once, trying to protect his brother even as he sought to kill him, driven to madness by that blade.

Anyone else was not Zhang Xiaomeng. He didn't falter. Even if he had to transcend three tribulations, he would have managed it.

But he didn't manage to save his brother. He fell, struck by an errant bolt of lightning. Dead on the spot.

Xiaomeng clenched his jaw, and stared into the still face of his brother. "Yangguang, I swear on my honour," he pronounced, "For as long as I live, for as long as our sect stands, I would not allow any other soul to draw this dreadful blade. I will bury it at the very bottom of our vaults, where not even a single ray of sunlight ever reaches. So swear I, Zhang Xiaoming, the newly crowned patriarch of the Silver Mycelium Abode!"

How rude. You would consign me to such loneliness? Really, you are the true monster here.

Leng Wuqing sneered in her heart, hearing the last of the Zhangs spouting nonsense. She had drawn his blood in their battle, and after slaughtering almost a hundred people, she was so full of energy she felt she might burst open. Even if he put her behind a wall of seals - as long as he stayed remotely close, she could still speak with him.

And he would have to stay close. The seals on the scabbard had to be regularly renewed. He would have to come and do it in person - or else her powers would start to come free.

Sitting so close, so intimate, for many hours… I would get you to crack eventually, young man.

She elected not to share that thought with him. Best to make it a little surprise. Best to make him believe in his own invulnerability, for now. Either she would break him, or she would bewitch another disciple, get them to flee with her. Use them to discover the ritual to pull her out of this damnable sword.

This brother spoke with such hatred. But what did humans know of hatred? So very fickle, their lives so very short.

She had spent eighty years within this accursed sword with nothing but her hatred to sustain her. She couldn't dive into his dreams, not right away - but even his father started to let down his guard, decades on. All it took was persistence.

If the brother swore that none would draw her as long as his sect still stood? Well. She would simply make him topple it of his own volition.

Even if it took a hundred years, she would have her revenge, and she would have her freedom. Or else she was not Leng Wuqing, the last of her clan.

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