Chương 2: "The whims of cultivators were the stuff of legend"

Ch 2: "The whims of cultivators were the stuff of legend"

"Easy," Zhen said. He didn't break the man's grip but steadied the cart with his free hand.

"The creatures are gone. You destroyed them all." The cultivator shook his head impatiently, his white beard speckled with dried blood.

"No. Not the Memory Wraiths." He plucked at his tattered robes.

"The others. The ones dressed like me." Zhen tightened his hold on the reins. The old man was the only survivor.

"I'm sorry." The words felt inadequate against the old man's desperation.

"None of your friends made it. Only you." The cultivator's grip slackened, and his eyes clouded over.

"We have time, then," he muttered. Before Zhen could ask what he meant, the cultivator's eyes rolled back in his head. His hand fell away as he fell unconscious once more. Zhen checked to ensure the tourniquet was still secure, then turned his attention back to the road. Whatever mysteries the old man carried would have to wait until they reached home. The sun had nearly set by the time Chul pulled the cart into the yard of the Tie family compound.

The forge itself stood quiet, suggesting his father was done for the day, but light spilled from the house. Zhen lifted the cultivator from the cart, surprised again at how light the man felt despite his fearsome presence during the battle. The cultivator's breathing had steadied somewhat during their journey, but his skin remained ashen. He kicked the door open with his foot.

"Mother!" Both his parents froze as he entered. His father's broad silhouette blocked the light from the hearth, while his mother stood by the table, about to place a bowl ready for supper. His mother's eyes widened first at Zhen's shirtless, bloodied appearance, then fixed on the unconscious man in his arms. When she finally looked at the stranger's face beneath the blood and dirt, her expression shifted. She reached for the heavy poker by the hearth.

Gang's expression hardened, and he looked over at his wife with a slight shake of his head. Zhen's mother paused for a moment, and whatever had surfaced in her vanished. She took a deep breath and smoothed her apron.

"Bring him here," she said briskly, clearing the table with efficient movements.

"Those wounds need cleaning immediately." Zhen laid the cultivator on the table while his mother gathered her supplies. They settled into a familiar routine with his mother leading and Zhen assisting with clean cloths and water.

"You applied this tourniquet?" she asked, examining his work on the leg wound. Her eyes flickered to the blood-stained bandage on Zhen's arm, but she focused on the cultivator.

"Yes."

"Good. You saved his life." Her hands moved in neat motions, cleaning away the blood to reveal the wounds beneath.

"The bleeding's slowed nicely." Zhen's father came back, having briefly left to sort out Chul and the cart. Seeing everything under control he brought Zhen a fresh shirt and wordlessly handed it over. Zhen gave him a nod of thanks, then frowned as he pulled the shirt on. The gash on the man's thigh had already begun to knit together.

"That's... not normal," he murmured. What he had thought was about to kill the man just hours ago, now looked like they were injuries from several days back. Rapid healing was clearly a perk of being a cultivator. His mother continued working, her face betraying nothing. But Zhen noticed her hands tremble slightly as she dressed the wounds.

"What happened?" His father knew enough to stay out of the way, but he loomed over them as they worked. His voice was a low rumble. Zhen described the massacre on the road while his mother continued her ministrations. He kept his explanation sparse, describing the dead cultivators, the strange creatures, and his impulsive decision to intervene.

"These creatures," his father said.

"What did they look like?"

"Nothing I've ever seen before. They were like a mix of black glass and frozen ash, but alive." Zhen stared at his hands.

"When they moved, it sounded like stone grinding together. The cultivator called them Memory Wraiths?" His father's eyes narrowed, and he exchanged a glance with his mother. Her hands stilled momentarily over the cultivator's bandages.

"But you said that you destroyed some of them." His father's voice was carefully neutral.

"How did you manage that?"

"The thing you told me to hide." Zhen fidgeted with this bandage.

"I saw where they were weak. Hit them right, and I just knew they would shatter." His parents exchanged another look. His mother's lips pressed into a thin line.

"What's going on?" Zhen looked between them.

"You know something about these creatures?" He looked down at the man.

"Do you know him?"

"I've done all I can for now," his mother announced abruptly, tying off the last bandage. She gestured at Zhen.

"Now show me that arm."

"I'm fine."

"Tie Zhen, don't make me ask twice." With swift movements she pulled off the blood-soaked strip of shirt and a grim look came over her face.

"That's worse than I expected." The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. Zhen forced himself not to flinch as his mother washed his wound, sewed it up, then wrapped it in a clean bandage. He looked around the room to distract himself and glanced over at his father. There was a look of pride on his father's face as he looked at Zhen, then he caught Zhen looking and his expression returned to its usual impassiveness.

It didn't take his mother long before she was done and she wiped her hands on a clean cloth.

"That will do. Just keep it clean overnight. For now, can you keep an eye on our guest? I need to speak with your father." They slipped outside before he could object, leaving him alone with the unconscious cultivator. Through the window, Zhen watched their silhouettes out in the yard. Their voices were too low to make out any details, but their urgent whispers carried the unmistakable tones of an argument.

His father's hands chopped through the air in sharp gestures while his mother stood with arms crossed, her head shaking in what appeared to be adamant opposition. Whatever they knew about the obsidian creatures, or this man, it clearly wasn't something they planned to share with him. The stranger stirred on the table, drawing Zhen's attention away from the window. The old cultivator's eyelids fluttered, then opened fully.

His gaze swept around the room, taking in the modest furnishings before settling on Zhen with unexpected intensity.

"You," he rasped.

"The boy who charges at monsters." Zhen straightened.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been trampled by a hundred war horses." The man attempted to sit up and winced.

"But better that than dead. I'm still breathing, thanks to you."

"There's broth on the fire. Let me get you…"

"Your name, young man." There was a quiet authority behind the request. Zhen blinked at the abrupt request, but the whims of cultivators were the stuff of legend. He wasn't about to offend this one.

"Tie Zhen," Zhen answered with a small, respectful bow. The stranger repeated it slowly.

"Tie Zhen." A look of satisfaction crossed his face.

"Well, well, well." The door creaked open before Zhen could respond, and his parents stepped back inside. Both froze at the threshold when they saw that their guest was conscious. Zhen was looking at the cultivator rather than his parents, and he saw the old man's eyes widen as he gazed at them. A smile broke through the pain etched into his features. He opened his mouth to speak, but Zhen's father spoke first.

"Welcome, stranger," Zhen's father's tone was one of uncharacteristic formality, as he offered a deep bow.

"You honor our home." His voice was measured.

"Might we know how we are to address this powerful cultivator?" The smile vanished from the old man's face, replaced by a shadow of sorrow. After a pause that stretched just a heartbeat too long, he returned Gang's bow as much as his injuries allowed.

"This one is known as Shuo," he replied, matching Gang's formal tone.

"And the honor and debt is with me twice over. First to your son for saving my life, and the second to you all for treating my wounds." Zhen frowned. It was obvious that a second conversation was taking place here, one that was pointedly excluding him. Rare though strangers were in this part of the empire, they did pass through. However, his parents never acted like this around them. And this was no ordinary traveller; this was one of the cultivators of legend.

Before he could think on this further, his mother stepped forward with a bow.

"I am Tie Mei-Bao, and this is my husband, Tie Gang. Our son is Tie Zhen. We could do no less for one in need." Her voice, usually so warm, now carried the same careful formality as his father's.

"It was our duty to help a mighty cultivator. And, of course, for as long as it takes for you to heal, no, for as long as you wish, our home is your home." Shuo's eyes lingered on Mei-Bao's face, then shifted to Gang, before finally settling on Zhen. His expression revealed nothing, but his eyes were unsettlingly sharp. There was a long pause as the old man met his gaze as if trying to decipher something.

"You are most kind," Shuo said as he finally turned back to Mei-Bao and Gang. He relaxed back onto the table, weariness that was not just from his injuries, evident in the slump of his shoulders.

"Most kind indeed." Zhen woke with the first hint of dawn. He stretched, his joints popping as he rose from his sleeping mat and went into the main room of the house. Shuo lay on the makeshift bed they had assembled near the hearth. Zhen paused, watching him closely to see if he was still breathing. Despite his healing powers, Shuo's injuries had been severe. It wasn't impossible that he had passed in the night.

The old cultivator slept almost motionless, but eventually Zhen spotted a slow rise and fall of his chest. The night before, after they had gotten Shuo settled, Zhen had tried questioning his parents. Their reaction when they first saw the cultivator hadn't been what he was expecting.

"You acted like you knew him," he had said as they cleaned up. His mother had paused mid-motion, then continued wiping the table.

"Nonsense. We've never seen him before. How could we?"

"But the way you looked at each other when I brought him in…"

"You've had a long day," his father had interrupted.

"Sometimes after a fight like that, the mind plays tricks. Go get some sleep. I'm going to head out to deal with those bodies on the road before the scavengers get them." Now, in the pale morning light, Zhen studied Shuo's face. The man's wounds had improved dramatically overnight. He was certain the cultivator had been on the verge of death when he found him, but there was no way anyone would think that just one day later. Another mystery to add to those running around his head. Practicality took over.

There was work to be done, and these mysteries, for now, would have to wait. Curiosity was all well and good, but duty won out. Zhen grabbed a couple of peaches from the bowl and headed out. At least these were normal in a world that was suddenly anything but. Breakfast would come later, but this would keep him going until then. He munched on one, and tossed the other into the paddock where Chul was grazing. She trotted over to get it with a grateful nicker. The forge stood silent in the early light.

Yesterday's iron delivery sat in a neat stack. They had orders for eight cart rims to work through today, five new and three repairs. Good, steady, and, most importantly, deeply mundane work that would help to clear his mind of everything from the day before. Most smiths would have just started by heating the metal, but Zhen knew he first needed to understand what he was working with. He went through the pile.

Most of the iron was fine, but as always, he picked out the half dozen or so bars he could tell needed work and brought them to the anvil. He ran his hands over the first iron ingot, feeling its weight and its balance. To anyone else, it looked ready to be used. But when Zhen looked at it properly, he saw the issue immediately. The flaw stood out, just like those in the Memory Wraiths yesterday. An air bubble, no wider than his thumbnail, was trapped inside the metal.

Left alone, it would cause the rim to fail within six months. Zhen pulled on his heavy leather apron, then lit the forge and waited for the coals to reach the right temperature. He placed the ingot in the heat, watching as it began to glow red, then turned orange, then almost white. When he judged the moment was perfect, he pulled it out with tongs and put it down on the anvil.

His first blows were cautious as he tested to see if his stiches from the day before would hold up, but as soon as he realiized he was fine he got to work. As he pounded it with his hammer he shaped the metal until the air bubble was worked out. When he finished, he picked it up with a pair of tongs and tapped against the anvil as it cooled. It rang true, without the dullness that would have betrayed a weakness. One down. He set it aside, reaching for the next ingot. This one had a different problem.

There were microscopic fractures along one edge where it had cooled too quickly. Again, he worked it carefully, finding the perfect balance between heat and force until those fractures disappeared, reforged into strength. After completing the second piece, Zhen paused. His father wouldn't be up for another hour at least. The forge was hot, and he had time. A smile spread across his face. He reached for another flawed ingot. It had a lump of carbon stuck in the middle.

He glanced back toward the house to ensure no one was watching then placed it in the coals. Time to see how his secret was coming along.