Shattered Lands: Book 8 of Painting the Mists

by Laplante, Patrick

  “Sorry,” Cha Ming said, aiming to defuse the situation. “I misspoke. I meant that I would pay out your contract early, as I’ll be leaving this city. I’ve stayed here for too long. It’s time for me to go and seek other opportunities.”

  With Sun Wukong’s magic, the entire city now remembered him having lived there for seventy years. Most mortals that had been around back then were long gone.

  Guo Xiang was relieved when Cha Ming placed a small pile of mid-grade spirit stones on the table beside her. She swept them up and bowed in thanks. Such a small amount might be meaningless to him, but it was a fortune to a late-stage qi-condensation cultivator like her. Just enough of a fortune to be helpful but not enough for people to try stealing it.

  He thought for a moment, then rummaged through the Clear Sky World. He retrieved a short sword and added it to the pile. “A bonus, for your excellent service. Such opportunities are hard to come by, so you should cultivate and break through. No one can take what you don’t have. As for the sword, you’ll need to protect it yourself.”

  “Thank you,” Guo Xiang said with a bow. Then, with tears in her eyes, she ran out the door. The memories Sun Wukong had given him were happy ones, and soon all she would remember was a distant memory of a generous employer five years ago.

  “I really hate inserting myself into people’s lives,” Cha Ming said softly. “Even if it’s the least violent way to do something.” The tampering affected their past and undid many of their previous choices. Choice was something very dear to him.

  “If you want, we can go about it using Wang Jun’s plan,” Sun Wukong offered.

  “No,” Cha Ming said. “The quicker we go about this, the more likely we are to spoil Zhou Li’s plans and take them by surprise. We’ll get in and out of their lives as quickly as possible.”

  Cha Ming looked around the forge and retrieved the valuable metals, his anvil, and some molds. He considered storing the larger items like his furnace but decided against it as this might expose him. Then, he traveled to a small shop in an inconspicuous back alley. He dropped an envelope and spirit stones in front of a man, who nodded before putting away his request. This wasn’t a pawn shop like most people assumed, but an outpost of the Greenwind Pavilion. They would sell the location to a promising blacksmith using a contract backdated to five years ago. The trail he’d left wasn’t perfect, but it would survive a cursory examination.

  His property settled, it was time to go see the city lord. Cha Ming, or Pai Xiao, rather, walked back to the main road and continued walking until he arrived at a mansion just north of the central square. The city lord’s mansion was well-maintained but not opulent. The guards, accustomed to him both through planted memories and actual visits, immediately allowed him inside. A servant ran ahead of him to alert the city lord, just in case the powerful cultivator hadn’t noticed his presence.

  “Uncle Pai Xiao,” a voice said from beside him. It was the city lord’s youngest daughter, Mo Ling. Unlike most people on the continent, her hair was brown instead of black. The young woman’s light-brown eyes glimmered with excitement and curiosity.

  “How goes your schooling, little one?” Cha Ming asked. He took a seat in the guest room as the city lord prepared himself upstairs.

  “I’m hardly little,” Mo Ling said, wrinkling her nose. “And school is boring. I understand cultivation, and I’m already a foundation-establishment expert at the young age of twenty-one. But do I really need to learn accounting, of all things? And management?”

  “They’re both important skills,” Cha Ming said. “Whether for your own estate or for your future husband’s. I, for one, find myself needing to hire people to do such things. Otherwise my smithy might become insolvent without me realizing.”

  She looked at him with suspicion. “I just don’t want to be contained,” she said. “I want to roam the kingdom and be an adventurer. I want to battle fierce demons and clear out bandits like they do in the stories.”

  “It’s not all fun and games,” Cha Ming said, leaning back on the sofa and closing his eyes.

  “Oh? You’ve done all these things?” Mo Ling asked, her eyes brightening.

  “In my youth,” Cha Ming admitted. “But my injuries accumulated. One day, while adventuring, I discovered a basic smithing inheritance. It felt like destiny. So, I sold my sword and dedicated myself to smithing. The rest is history.”

  Mo Ling nodded and fetched hot water and tea leaves. She poured them tea as they waited for her father, who soon walked into the living room looking flustered. He looked pale and tired, which was odd given his identity as a peak-foundation-establishment cultivator.

  “What brings you in today?” the city lord asked, fatigue practically dripping from his words. He took a cup of tea from Mo Ling with trembling hands. The trembling stopped as he took a sip of the soothing hot liquid. A hint of color also returned to his face.

  “Is something the matter?” Cha Ming asked, noting his unusual mood. “I can come back at a better time.”

  “No, that’s quite all right,” the city lord said. “I have about a quarter hour to spare.”

  “Then I’ll be quick,” Cha Ming said. A black longsword appeared in his right hand, golden hilt facing the city lord, Mo Zhen. “This is for you. A gift for all your years of good service during my stay in this city.”

  The city lord shook his head and pushed Cha Ming’s hands away. “This is too great a gift, Master Pai Xiao. And what is this you’re saying about a stay in this city? Are you leaving us at last?”

  Cha Ming smiled wistfully. “I’ve reached the peak of what I can achieve in a small city. I can only go so far without gathering more knowledge.”

  The city lord nodded. Everyone had been discussing the eventual occurrence for quite some time. He hesitated but still firmly pushed the sword back.

  “This is too expensive,” Mo Zhen said. “Although it’s not a core treasure, I can tell it’s not a magic treasure either.”

  “It’s a half-step-core treasure,” Cha Ming said. “My best work yet. It far exceeds the ten blades I crafted for the city’s protectors.” He’d crafted those blades as a focus for the web of memories Sun Wukong had created.

  “It’s too great a gift,” Mo Zhen protested again.

  “It’s what you deserve,” Cha Ming said, forcing it back.

  Then, seeing that the city lord wouldn’t take it, he plunged it into the stone floor. Several servants, who had been listening in on the conversation, gasped in shock. “If you don’t like it, I’ll leave it here. Perhaps one of your children will claim it, assuming they don’t cut themselves on it.”

  Mo Zhen grinned. “Very well. Perhaps it will come in handy.” He grasped it by the hilt, then put it away in his storage ring. Then he leaned forward and whispered a few words. “You should be careful. The reapers are coming.”

  The term was unfamiliar to Cha Ming, but for some reason, it sent chills down his spine.

  “The reapers?” Cha Ming said, wracking his brains for memories or hints of them. He found none.

  “It’s been a few decades since they’ve come, but I’m sure you remember the last time,” Mo Zhen said.

  “Yes,” Cha Ming lied. “It was a horrible time.” He used his transcendent soul to skim the man’s memories, but he only discovered scattered fragments. The man was too strong, and unless Cha Ming was willing to damage Mo Zhen’s mind, that was all he would get. Cha Ming closed his eyes and observed the fragments. He saw fear, wailing husbands and wives, and crying parents. Mo Zhen’s sister had been taken. The fate Mo Zhen had imagined for her was so terrible he’d surrounded it in a protective cocoon of willful ignorance.

  “They can’t be avoided, so you should hide instead,” Mo Zhen continued. “Run away from this town. Though I doubt they’d pick a fight with you—you have no sponsor. These are uncertain times, so no one can say what will happen.”

  Cha Ming shook his head. “I’ll accompany you. Perhaps with a show of strength, the reapers won’t
take much.”

  “If only it were so simple,” Mo Zhen said. He was about to continue explaining, but at that moment, horns blazed at the city gates. Mo Zhen’s face paled at the sound. “They’re here,” he whispered. “Spirits above, they’re here.” He raised his voice and shouted out a command. “Everyone, gather up. Assemble lines. Guard Captain?”

  “Sir!” a man said, walking into the living room.

  “Have the guards gather all the cultivators in the city within five—no, three minutes,” Mo Zhen said. “No exceptions. If anyone tries to hide, even I won’t be able to stop the reapers from executing their entire family.”

  The captain saluted and flew out, shouting orders to the guards. The city buzzed with activity. While mortals hid, cultivators were rustled up from their houses. Even those in closed-door seclusion were interrupted. The city lord’s own family was no exception; his wife and four of his children were gathered in the foyer. Seeing that everyone was accounted for, the city lord walked out of the front doors and into Central Square, where all the cultivators in the city had been gathered. Even those with serf brands, who weren’t normally allowed into the city, had formed their own group.

  The city lord, his family and personal guards in tow, passed the cultivators and serfs and stood before them. He waited patiently as a dozen men in red robes, along with one in a black robe, casually walked down the street toward them. Three of them were peak-bone-forging cultivators, while the rest were late-bone-forging cultivators. Their leader was, impressively, a marrow-refining cultivator. Mortals trembled in fear as they passed merchant stalls, occasionally taking something that interested them. Fortunately, most men knew better than to fight back. They simply cowered behind their stalls, letting the men do as they pleased.

  Remind me, please, Cha Ming sent. What happens now? My memories are a little hazy.

  How lucky for you that they are, Mo Zhen sent back. The reapers don’t come often, but when they do, they usually reap one percent of our cultivators. They take them back to their monastery, where they are never seen again. No one knows what happens to them, but some say they are used to rear terrible blood monsters. Others say blood masters devour men, and the only reason anyone remains in the South is that they only need to eat every year or so.

  Cha Ming’s eyes narrowed. One percent? Out of the ten thousand cultivators here, they’ll take and kill one hundred?

  The slave-like employment contracts were one thing, but this? It was effectively institutionalized murder.

  Not right away, Mo Zhen said. I don’t know the exact details, but they take them back to the monastery first.

  Why don’t we just fight them? Cha Ming asked. I’m sure that with you and I, we could kill them.

  And what will we do when the monastery sends a punishment squad? Mo Zhen asked gloomily. We could easily kill them, but the price for our insubordination would be the lives of every man, woman, and child in this city. I’ve heard tales of those who’ve crossed them. None have survived.

  Then who tells the stories? Cha Ming said. Would the king of Ji do nothing if they tried to slaughter us?

  The king is the one who grants them the writ that allows them to cull lives! Mo Zhen said hopelessly. Anyone who defies the writ has committed treason. Why would he interfere in deserved punishment? He shook his head. No, we must endure the loss of the few for the sake of the many. It’s just the way things are. All we can do is hope they don’t take those we love and console those who remain.

  The red-robed men, who’d taken their time strolling into the city, arrived before the city lord. Ten men, the protectors of the city who’d originally stood with the other cultivators, stepped up beside the city lord in a token show of strength. The lead reaper chuckled as he pulled back his hood, revealing a bald head covered in red tattoos. The others beside him did the same. While most were dark haired and dark eyed, some of their irises were faintly red colored. Two of them had filed teeth. Only one man kept his hood up: the black-robed man from the Spirit Temple who accompanied them.

  “I’m glad to see no one sought to escape this time,” their leader said. “Though it’s exciting to chase down stragglers, we don’t have much time today. I take it you recognize this king’s writ?” He threw a paper to the city lord, who breathed in sharply when he saw what was written.

  “Ten percent?” the city lord said hoarsely. “Are you mad?”

  “I hope,” the man cut in, “that you’re not implying that the king is mad?” He stepped toward the city lord, only stopping once he was a foot away. “The kingdom is preparing for war, my dear city lord. War is expensive, both in money and lives. We cull to strengthen ourselves, to strengthen our kingdom. Everyone must contribute.”

  The city lord gulped. His sword arm bulged, and his hand clenched and relaxed repeatedly before he finally calmed himself. He closed his eyes. “Just choose and be gone.”

  “Splendid,” the man said. He looked over the cultivators, carefully inspecting them. His eyes lingered on Cha Ming and the many protectors, but ultimately the man looked away. Cha Ming suspected it wasn’t worth his effort to pick on the strong.

  “For the sake of fairness, we will be picking randomly,” the lead blood master said, his voice reaching the entire crowd. “If any of you try to resist, we will find and execute all your relatives, your friends, and anyone who lives within a city block of you. If a hundred resist, we will cull the entire city.” He lifted a finger, and a thousand crimson lights appeared. They shuffled around and shot out to those assembled. True to his word, they all struck random targets.

  “Everyone hit by a light, step out,” the lead blood master said. A quarter of the men and women who had been selected did so, pale and frightened, but many lingered.

  “I said STEP OUT!”

  Most of the others walked out reluctantly. Those who didn’t were glared at by their neighbors until they eventually accepted their fate and moved, if only for the sake of those they knew and loved.

  If you’re willing to fight with me, Cha Ming sent to the city lord, we can kill every last one of them. No one will ever never know what happened to them. The thousand men and women who had stepped out were led into a circle by the blood masters. He recognized a few of the cultivators, but fortunately, none of them were his close acquaintances. Still, that didn’t make it an easy pill to swallow. He’d tampered with their memories, after all. He owed them.

  You mustn’t, the city lord said. They have ways of knowing. The Spirit Temple will investigate us, and the entire city will suffer. Though his words urged restraint, his body thought otherwise. His hand clutched his sword, ready to draw it and behead someone at the drop of a pin. Being the city lord in such a situation had to be a difficult burden for anyone to bear.

  “That concludes our selection,” the blood master said.

  The crowd sighed in relief. As he turned toward the group of blood masters, however, a voice cut in. It was the man from the Spirit Temple.

  “Wait,” the man said. He lifted a bony white finger and pointed toward Cha Ming. As Cha Ming put up a hand to his chest in surprise, the man waved him away impatiently. “Not you, her.”

  Cha Ming looked back and realized he was pointing at Mo Ling, the city lord’s daughter. “She is proper stock for the Spirit Temple. We will take her as well.”

  Cha Ming’s muscles tensed. Potential plans buzzed through his mind, but they were interrupted by the humming and burning of a black sword, a sword he’d just forged.

  “You will not take my daughter,” the city lord said, his voice filled with rage. The air around the man burned brightly as he pushed out toward the man from the Spirit Temple, who simply smirked from beneath his deep hood.

  Suddenly, there was a blur of red. The lead blood master, who had only been a few feet away, slashed out with a blade of blood so quickly that Cha Ming couldn’t even react. As a marrow-refining cultivator, the man’s physical speed was far faster than what even core-formation cultivators were capable of. The city
lord’s arm dropped to the ground.

  The blood master, ignoring the city lord’s whimpers, bent down to pick up the black-and-red blade. “Good sword,” he said, placing it into his storage ring. He pushed past Cha Ming and grabbed Mo Ling by the shoulder and dragged her toward the crowd in the distance.

  You need to relax, Cha Ming told himself. His body was tense, and he wanted nothing more than to bash their skulls in. If you do something now, the whole city might be destroyed. But if you wait until they leave the city, there could be many reasons for their disappearance.

  Or perhaps he could drag them back to their so-called “monastery.” There, he’d kill them all and rescue the captives. As he pondered this, however, his hairs raised on end. He sensed movement from the blood masters. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the blade of blood rise. Then, faster than he could react, it slashed across the entire crowd, spilling blood onto the stones. Their blood formed a whirlpool that flowed into a bloodred stone the lead blood master held. Out of all those taken, only Mo Ling, who’d been set off to the side, still lived.”

  “What have you done,” Mo Zhen growled. He was kneeling, still holding the bloody stump where his arm used to be.

  “There were too many of them to cull at the monastery,” the chief blood master said nonchalantly. “Now be a good city lord and raise many more strong cultivators. If the harvest isn’t good next time, you and your entire city will be culled.”

  “You monster,” Mo Zhen spat.

  “Yes,” the chief blood master said. “I suppose I am.” He floated up in the air, holding the struggling Mo Ling in his arms. The others all hopped on flying swords and flew out of the city after him.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” Mo Zhen said, his tears splattering against the stones of Central Square. He ignored the stump of an arm that lay off to his side as he beat the ground repeatedly with his remaining fist. His wife moved in with a piece of torn robe to staunch the bleeding, but he pushed her back. “Pai Xiao, promise me that you won’t…” his voice trailed off.