by eden Hudson
Jinsei swirled into Clem’s core like a whirlpool of power. It flowed through her body’s channels and into her aura in a turbulent rush, and the air around her churned into frothy white and blue strokes of power.
She exhaled, and droplets of corrupted jinsei dripped from the tips of her fingers and formed shadowy puddles around her feet. Clem’s aura obscured her face and twisted around her body like a waterspout, a powerful and deceptive shield that I was certain could transform into a deadly weapon in the blink of an eye.
I struggled to recall the name of this sacred art. My mother had explained most of the clans’ styles to me, and I’d seen more than a few of them on TV or at the local arenas. But this was something different, a mysterious force I couldn’t decipher.
“No guesses?” Clem banished her aura and wisps of jinsei drifted off her skin like steam.
I took another drink of my water to buy myself a few more seconds to think and saw the Jade Flame elder swirling the water in his goblet while very pointedly not looking in my direction. He casually pulled the glass toward his body and tapped its round base against his chest.
“Come now,” Clem said. “You can’t be that thirsty.”
“We never get water this clean in the undercity.” My words struck home, and the three Empyreals glanced at one another uneasily. It was one thing to know that a hidden lower class of virtual slaves worked in labor camps so your family could live in relative opulence. It was another thing entirely to be faced with that reality.
That bought me another few moments to gather my thoughts and consider what the elder had showed me. It obviously had something to do with water, and the way he swirled the contents of his goblet reminded me of the rotation of Clem’s aura. We had tornadoes in St. Louis, but they were called hurricanes when they spun up at sea. And he’d touched his chest, but Hurricane Chest didn’t seem like a very poetic name for a style.
No, not his chest.
His heart.
But if the other half of the style’s name was hurricane, then heart didn’t make much sense. Eye would’ve been more accurate in this case, because Clem stood at the calm center of her aura. It had to be something else. I remembered an old show I’d seen about a storm off the coast of Japan, and the name sprang into my mind like a flash of lightning.
“Heart of the Typhoon style.”
The three Empyreals were obviously surprised, and even the elder seemed a bit shocked that I’d put his clues together.
“Impressive.” Clem recovered quickly, but there was a glint in her emerald eyes that told me she wouldn’t underestimate me again. “You’ve seen mine, now show me yours.”
The look on Clem’s face told me I was in too deep to back out now. She wanted this challenge, and if I backed out after correctly guessing her style she had every right to take offense and demand a duel, right then and there.
I was confident I could defeat one Empyreal with the tricks I’d brought with me that day, but I’d never get past two. And if Clem and I fought, her status was so far above mine no one would blink if she tore my arms and legs off and beat me with them in front of the whole arena.
I looked to the elder for assurances that I wasn’t about to step into a trap, but he was suddenly very interested in the contents of his goblet. He wouldn’t meet my eyes, and if I kept staring at him the other challengers would notice.
“Okay,” I said. There was no point in stalling any further. Either this was going to work, or I’d failed.
My only hope was that my breathing technique was so unusual that Clem had never even heard of it, much less seen it in action. My mother had adapted it from a very old, seldom-taught style that channeled jinsei through the practitioner’s core without storing it for later use. It was a complicated and difficult style that allowed me to cleanse my aura of impurities and corruption, but it was useless for cultivating my core’s strength.
I filled my lungs with a deep breath that harvested the jinsei from the air that surrounded us. Bits of Clem’s watery style collided with energetic sparks from Eric’s fire style, and it all tumbled into my core in a chaotic mess. Before I’d even begun to exhale, though, the elemental aspects that the other challengers had infected the jinsei with were stripped away and drained out of my pores like beads of sweat.
The clarified jinsei in my core picked up crystallized clots of corruption from my aura and leaked out of my mouth in a slow and steady stream. My breath became a circular stream, flowing into my lungs and back out again in an endless loop. It had taken me years to perfect the technique, and now when I fell into the cycle, it was impossible to tell whether I was inhaling or exhaling at any given moment.
I stopped after a few seconds and tried to hide the smile that crept across my lips when I saw the confused look on Clem’s face. My technique wasn’t as powerful as the Empyreals’, but it was obscure and unusual enough that they had no idea what I’d actually done. I felt a spark of hope flare in my chest as I realized that the champion wouldn’t have any more idea what to expect from me than my fellow challengers had.
And, it looked like I’d just won two hundred oboli.
“It’s time.” The elder rose from his seat in the corner and stalked across the room to the refreshments table. “Jason Warin, your lot has been pulled.”
“But I—”
Before Clem could pay up on her lost bet, the elder seized my shoulder and steered me away from the other challengers.
“She lost, she owes me two hundred oboli,” I protested.
“I’ll pay you at the school!” Clem called after me, and her confidence that I would pass the challenge lifted my spirits. If an Empyreal thought I had a chance, then maybe I did.
“Perhaps,” the elder of the Jade Flame whispered into my ear as we passed through a veil of darkness at the end of an archway. “Or perhaps not.”
Continue reading Hollow Core: School of Swords and Serpents Book 1
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Acknowledgements
THANK YOU FOR TAKING this journey through the Land of Mortals and Immortals with Raijin, Koida, and the gang. Whether you’re rooting for immortal love to conquer all or you’re kind of curious what will happen if Yoichi or Misuru wins, I’m so thankful that you used some of your valuable time to read Demon Beast. I get to think crazy stories like this up for a living, and that is largely because of readers like you. Without you, I’m just another crazy person with a keyboard typing away about martial arts and magic.
However, as many of you hardcore binge-readers probably already know, the books of writers’ hearts don’t become readable just because they’re passionate and they have readers. The book-making and distribution processes have been simplified a lot since the time of illuminated manuscripts, but there’s so much more that goes into what you see here than one nutcase with a keyboard. This one book alone took the hard work, tireless input, and support of several nutcases, a few sane people, a couple mad geniuses, and a deity. Anything wrong with this book is my fault, but everything good about it came from them. I don’t have the words or technology fancy enough to thank them in the gorgeous illustrated verse they deserve, so I’m just going to acknowledge their greatness in old-fashioned black-and-white prose:
God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit—It’s a Wonderful Life, and I owe every bit of it to Them.
The Op boys and girl, Will, Ronny, and Kensey—What’s the deal with the Stonehenge?
Master Mark, Master Natalie, and everybody at the dojang for the wise and occasionally painful reminders that sometimes ruthlessness is the right tool for the job.
The long-suffering book-making monks at Shadow Alley, who let me turn in book after book of my weirdo heart without asking me to please stop. I don’t care what anybody says about your hair, guys, I think shaving that bald spot on top of your head was a cool idea.
Poor, wonderful, amazing Tamara, for editing what’s got to by now be approaching millions of my words.
Zack, Adam, Jake, Jess, Silvia, Mike, Joseph, Lana, Chris, Danny, Lissette, my Cool Auntie J, Rebekah, Sara, and the rest of my favorite readers and cheerleaders for making this book-writing gig the most fun.
Tim McBain and LT Vargus for always having something awesome I can read to refill my word tank when it runs dry.
And my Joshua, my hero. He knows what he did.
Copyright
Demon Beast is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by eden Hudson and Shadow Alley Press, Inc.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email the publisher, subject line “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.
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About the Author
I am invincible. I am a mutant. I have 3 hearts and was born with no eyes. I had eyes implanted later. I didn't have hands, either, just stumps. When my eyes were implanted they asked if I would like hands as well and I said, "Yes, I'll take those," and pointed with my stump. But sometimes I'm a hellbender peeking out from under a rock. When it rains, I live in a music box. But I'm also a tattoo addict, coffee junkie, drummer, and aspiring skateboarder. Jesus actually is my homeboy.
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