Chương 55: Lìchūn: Novice 8

By the time Liu Yinhua reaches the eastern training terrace the next morning, mist still clings to the stone. The field is already half full. Disciples stand in loose clusters across the packed earth, some speaking in low voices, others stretching with the easy familiarity of those who have trained before arriving. A row of wooden posts stands along the northern wall, each one darkened by old impact marks.

Beyond them are racks of practice weapons, stone weights, sand pits, and a long running path cut around the outer edge of the terrace. At the centre of the field stands Elder Huan. He is broad through the shoulder, thick through the wrist, and weathered by sun and wind until his skin looks almost bronze. His hair is black shot through with iron, bound at the nape rather than dressed with ornament.

He wears the same formal outer robe as the other instructors, but his sleeves are tied back, exposing forearms corded with muscle and crossed by pale scars. When the bell finishes ringing, he opens his eyes. The field goes quiet.

"Physical cultivation," Elder Huan says, "is the part of the path most young disciples misunderstand." His voice carries cleanly across the terrace.

"Those from old families arrive having been told their bodies are vessels for spirit. Those from lesser backgrounds arrive thinking strength means harder fists, thicker skin, faster legs. Both are half correct, which makes both dangerous." Liu Yinhua stands near the back, hands tucked into her sleeves, and tries not to shift her weight. The climb has already warmed her beneath the collar, but the cold wind slides down from the higher peaks and finds every gap in her robe. Elder Huan's gaze passes over them.

"Spiritual cultivation gathers qi. Physical cultivation teaches the flesh to endure it. A dantian may swell with power, but if the meridians are crude and the body weak, every technique becomes a strain. Every breakthrough becomes a wound. I have seen disciples with fine talent cripple themselves because they mistook speed for foundation." Elder Huan lifts one hand.

"The first physical realm is Wood. At this stage, you are not becoming invulnerable. You are becoming workable." He turns and merely taps one of the wooden posts with the heel of his palm. The sound cracks across the terrace. The post shudders from base to tip, though his arm barely seems to move.

"Muscle, tendon, bone, skin, blood, organ. All must be taught to receive qi. If you strengthen the arm and neglect the spine, the force of your own strike will tear you apart. If you harden the skin and neglect the organs, one internal blow will kill you. If you train only speed, you will run beautifully until your knees fail." A few disciples stiffen. Liu Yinhua thinks of the long path up the mountain and quietly hates the implication.

"You will begin with running," Elder Huan says. Liu Yinhua despises being right. A boy near the front blinks.

"Elder, should we not first be taught the circulation method?" Elder Huan looks at him, and the boy goes pale.

"You are being taught," Elder Huan says.

"Run." They run. At first, Liu Yinhua thinks she understands exhaustion. She has danced until her feet bled beneath silk slippers, held postures until her thighs trembled, played through music lessons with her wrists aching and her smile still fixed in place. The Moon-Viewing Tower taught the body to obey past comfort and taught the face never to confess the cost. Running is different. The terrace path climbs.

It circles the training field, rises along a narrow shelf of stone, dips beside a line of wind-bent pines, then returns past Elder Huan's watching figure. The first lap leaves her breathless. The second makes her calves burn. By the third, sweat gathers beneath her robe and her carefully pinned hair begins to loosen at the nape of her neck. Elder Huan walks beside the path while they run, speaking as calmly as if they are seated in a lecture hall.

"Breath first. Qi follows breath before it follows intent. Those of you already awakened will feel your dantian stir when your lungs begin to labour. Do not seize that qi. Do not force it into your legs. Let it move outward with the rhythm of your body." Liu Yinhua tries. For a few steps, she feels nothing but the scrape of air in her lungs and the sharp ache beneath her ribs. Then, beneath the exhaustion, the faint warmth below her navel pulses in time with her breath.

It vanishes when her foot strikes a loose stone, and she nearly stumbles.

"Again," Elder Huan says, though he is nowhere near her.

"Unawakened disciples," he continues, "will feel only pain today. That is not wasted effort. Pain teaches the borders of the body." By the fifth lap, Liu Yinhua no longer cares who sees her struggle. Her sleeves are shoved up to her elbows. Her breath comes harshly. A girl ahead of her slows, staggers, and bends double near the wall.

"Off the path," Elder Huan says. The girl drags herself aside. Liu Yinhua's legs tremble. Her throat tastes of metal. Pride keeps her upright when sense suggests she step aside as well. She has endured worse than pain in the legs and air scraping raw through her throat. She has endured hours of practice beneath Madame Xue's eye, has learned to keep her hands graceful when her wrists shake, has learned to smile while every part of her wants to stop. She will not be defeated by a path.

When Elder Huan finally calls a halt, Liu Yinhua stops too quickly and almost folds over. She catches herself with one hand braced against her thigh. Around her, other disciples gasp, sweat, and swallow groans. A few look merely flushed, which makes her hate them with distant sincerity.

"Stand," Elder Huan says. Liu Yinhua forces herself upright, unable to hold back a groan.

"This is the first lesson. Your will is not separate from your body. A weak body makes a coward of the mind. A scattered mind makes waste of a strong body. Physical cultivation binds the two until neither can betray the other easily." He looks across the group.

"Stances." A faint despair moves through the disciples. This time, Liu Yinhua understands it. What follows is one of the worst hours of Liu Yinhua's life, and that is truly saying something. Running at least allows the body to believe there is somewhere to go. The stances offer no such mercy. She lowers herself until her thighs tremble, holds her arms extended until her shoulders burn, and keeps her spine straight while sweat slides cold down her back beneath the robe.

Elder Huan walks among them with his hands folded behind him, correcting knees, hips, shoulders, wrists, and breath with the same even displeasure for every error. When they are allowed to move again, it is only to strike. Punches first. Slow, then faster. Then slower again, which somehow makes it worse. Elder Huan does not permit flailing, does not permit haste, and does not permit the loose, pretty motion Liu Yinhua's body keeps trying to offer in place of power. A fist is not a sleeve. A strike is not a dance.

Each movement has to begin in the feet, travel through the hips, cross the back, and leave through the arm without scattering itself into useless elegance.

"Again," Elder Huan says. So they do it again. By the end, Liu Yinhua's face is flushed, her hair has half fallen from its pins, and the fine line of her collar sits crooked from where she has shoved at it with clumsy fingers between drills. Her lungs hurt. Her legs hurt. Her shoulders hurt in a way that makes lifting her arms feel personally insulting. Around her, the other new disciples look little better. Some bend over with their hands on their knees.

One boy sits down too quickly and has to be ordered back to his feet. A girl near the wall has gone an alarming shade of grey. Even some she suspect truly must be nobles or clan children are still struggling. Elder Huan surveys them without pity.

"This is the beginning of physical cultivation," he says.

"Go eat, wash, and stretch before sleep unless you wish to discover how much worse tomorrow can feel." Liu Yinhua believes him. When Elder Huan dismisses them, Liu Yinhua makes it three steps before her left leg threatens to stop belonging to her. She does not stumble. She has too much dignity left for that, though perhaps not much else.

Her robe clings damply at the back of her neck and beneath her arms, her hair has slipped from its pins in a dark, untidy fall, and every part of her body seems to have developed its own private grievance. Around her, other disciples file away in various states of ruin. A boy near the wall walks with the stiff horror of someone who has discovered new parts of his own legs. The girl who went grey during the final stances looks a little better now, mostly because she no longer looks actively near death.

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. Liu Yinhua wants water. She wants food. She wants to wash until her skin no longer feels salted with sweat and mountain dust. She is also fairly sure she smells very bad, which is a deeply unpleasant thing to know while surrounded by strangers.

"Liu Yinhua." She closes her eyes for one brief, private moment. Then she turns. Chi Yanluo comes down from the edge of the training field with his hands tucked loosely behind his back, looking only a little flushed from the morning's work. His golden hair is tied high today with a dark red cord, and while there is dust along the hem of his robe, he otherwise looks unfairly intact.

The small bird spirit perched on his shoulder looks even more pleased with itself, sharp amber eyes fixed on her with the grave judgement of a creature that has not been made to hold a horse stance until its thighs shake. Liu Yinhua bows, though perhaps a fraction less deeply than she would have managed yesterday, and her legs scream at her.

"Chi Yanluo." His gaze flicks over her face, then away with enough care that she knows he has noticed the state of her and chosen not to dwell on it.

"Elder Huan is thorough," he says.

"He is cruel." Chi Yanluo's mouth curves.

"Also true." The bird on his shoulder clicks its beak.

"Hush," he tells it mildly, then looks back to her.

"I said yesterday I could give you a few pointers, if you still want them." Liu Yinhua's fingers tighten inside her sleeves. The first answer that comes to her is refusal. It rises out of habit more than sense, polished and ready, something about gratitude, exhaustion, propriety, inconvenience. A young man offering help can mean kindness. It can mean interest. It can mean a hundred other things, and Liu Yinhua has been taught to hear the ideas of future claims in even the softest generosity.

The courtyard where they stand is public. Disciples cross the path in small groups, too tired to linger but present enough to matter. Elder Huan remains at the far end of the field, speaking to two older disciples. Still, agreeing now means agreeing again later.

"I am not certain I would be useful company today," she says.

"You are not meant to be useful," Chi Yanluo says.

"You are meant to learn. There is a difference, though several elders here enjoy pretending otherwise." That earns him a sharper look than she means to give. His expression stays easy, but not careless.

"There is a small space by the intersection between the male and female residences. Meet me there at the afternoon bell, if you want. If you do not come, I will assume you chose rest instead and think nothing of it." Liu Yinhua looks past him towards the downward path. The training field shimmers faintly in the noon light, and her body feels hollowed out by hunger. The thought of doing more footwork makes something inside her recoil. The thought of returning tomorrow just as ignorant is worse. She needs help.

She knows it with the same weary clarity with which she knows she needs food, water, sleep, and a wash before anyone with a functioning nose comes too close. Especially a pretty boy like Chi Yanluo. She has her pride, after all. After a moment, she inclines her head.

"The afternoon bell, then." Chi Yanluo smiles, quick and warm.

"Good, eat first."

"I intended to."

"Eat more than you think you need." The bird spirit leans forward on his shoulder, staring at Liu Yinhua's loosened hair, then gives a small, derisive chirp. Liu Yinhua looks at it.

"And does your companion have advice as well?" Chi Yanluo glances at the bird with some frustration.

"A'Ying thinks your stance work was tragic."

"Please thank A'Ying for his restraint." Chi Yanluo laughs, quiet enough not to draw Elder Huan's eye.

"I will see you at the afternoon bell, Liu Yinhua." She returns the courtesy of the bow he offers, and turns towards the residences before her legs can betray her in front of him. Each step down the path sends a dull complaint through her thighs. Her stomach clenches hard enough to hurt. Gods, she is hungry. And filthy. And, unfortunately, going to train again.

By the time the afternoon bell sounds, Liu Yinhua has eaten enough rice to make her stomach stop gnawing at itself, washed in water cold enough to make her hands ache, and pinned her hair again with the stubborn care of someone trying to convince the world that nothing is wrong. It does not convince her body.

Her thighs object to the walk down the residence path, her shoulders complain each time her sleeves shift, and the low, newly familiar warmth beneath her navel feels very small beneath the larger reality of bruised flesh. The intersection between the male and female residences is busier than she expected.

Disciples pass in pairs and small groups, some headed towards their own courtyards, others returning from lessons or errands with the dazed look of those who have discovered the sect intends to work them harder than advertised. A small practice courtyard sits just off the crossing, open on three sides and paved with pale stone. There are no walls high enough to hide behind, no inner rooms, no place for a conversation to become anything else without witnesses. Liu Yinhua approves of it despite herself.

It is strange how quickly the impossible begins to arrange itself into the shape of habit. Two days ago, the Vermilion Glass Sect had been a name spoken by strangers over the wreckage of her life. Now she knows which path leads to the lower instruction halls, which water jar in her house has the cleanest taste, where the morning mist gathers thickest on the stone, and which bell means a girl should already be moving unless she wants to arrive late and be noticed.

She does not trust any of it, but her feet are already learning the turns. Chi Yanluo is waiting near the courtyard gate. He is speaking to another boy when she approaches, golden hair tied back with the same dark red cord, his robe sitting properly despite the day's work. A'Ying perches on the gatepost beside him, looking larger in spirit than body, his small talons pricking at the wood and his amber eyes bright with offence at the world.

The other boy is taller than Chi Yanluo and built more heavily, broad through the shoulder with the easy strength of someone who has never been praised for delicacy. His dark hair is tied high and carelessly, several strands already loose around a face that would be handsome if he did not seem determined to ruin the effect by grinning at the wrong time.

His robes are good quality, though worn harder than Chi Yanluo's, the cuffs scuffed and the sash knotted in a way that suggests no servant has touched it in some time. He sees Liu Yinhua first. His grin falters. Then his face goes red so quickly that Liu Yinhua nearly feels sorry for him. Chi Yanluo notices, of course. His eyes flick towards his companion, then back to Liu Yinhua, and he chooses, with admirable wisdom, to say nothing about it.

"Liu Yinhua," he says instead, inclining his head.

"You came."

"I did say I would."

"People say many things after Elder Huan is finished with them."

"That is fair," she says, stepping into the courtyard.

"For a while, I did consider pretending to have died." The taller boy laughs at that, too loudly and half a breath too late. Then he seems to realise he has laughed at a joke made by a very beautiful girl who is looking directly at him, and the colour in his face deepens. Chi Yanluo's mouth twitches.

"This is Shen. Shen Yuanzhao, of Red Knife Garrison." Shen Yuanzhao straightens at once, then bows with enough force that it nearly becomes a military salute.

"Liu Yinhua."

"Shen Yuanzhao," Liu Yinhua replies, returning the bow.

"It is an honour."

"It is mine," he says quickly.

"I mean, the honour is mine. Not that yours is not. Obviously. I only mean that Chi said you were joining us, and I was curious, since he does not usually collect strays this early wherever we go." There is a pause in which Chi Yanluo just looks at him. Shen Yuanzhao looks briefly pained.

"That came out worse than intended."

"It did," Chi Yanluo says. Liu Yinhua lowers her eyes for the sake of courtesy and to hide the small movement at the corner of her mouth.

"I have been called worse than a stray."

"That does not improve it," Chi Yanluo says mildly.

"No," Shen Yuanzhao says, looking more red than before.

"It does not. My apologies, Miss Liu." His discomfort is open enough that it almost disarms her. Most boys of good family learn to cover interest with polish, entitlement, or disdain. Shen Yuanzhao looks at her the way a man might look at a lantern lit too suddenly in a dark room: startled, pleased, and not quite clever enough to pretend otherwise. Liu Yinhua inclines her head.

"Accepted." A'Ying chirps from the gatepost, sharp and derisive. Shen Yuanzhao points at the bird.

"He is worse. Why does no one correct him?"

"Because he bites," Chi Yanluo says.

"You bite."

"Only when necessary." Liu Yinhua watches the exchange with more interest than she means to show. There is familiarity there, and not the soft kind built from convenience. Shen Yuanzhao stands half a pace to Chi Yanluo's side, relaxed enough to mock him, aware enough that his body still turns slightly outward when other disciples pass. Guarding without seeming to guard. Following without appearing servile.

"You are both from the Crimson Wastes?" she asks. Shen Yuanzhao's expression sharpens, though not with offence. Chi Yanluo's gaze settles on her a little more fully.

"I am," Chi Yanluo says.

"Shen Yuanzhao's family held one of the border garrisons before the western campaign went badly."

"Went badly," Shen Yuanzhao repeats, and gives a short laugh.

"That is one way to say three forts burned, two commanders were executed for incompetence, and my grandfather lost enough face that even his enemies started pretending to pity us."

"Your grandfather also survived," Chi Yanluo says.

"He did," Shen Yuanzhao agrees, something sour in his face.

"He survived. He is very proud of it." The words are light, but Liu Yinhua hears the bitterness in it, and carefully files that away.

"I have heard little of the Crimson Wastes," Liu Yinhua says.

"Only that it is far."

"Far enough that people here enjoy making it sound a lot worse," Shen Yuanzhao says.

"They like to imagine we all drink blood and sleep under horse carcasses." Chi Yanluo sighs.

"No one thinks that."

"Three people have asked me if I have killed a man."

"Have you?"

"That is beside the point." Liu Yinhua looks between them. Shen Yuanzhao catches her expression and grins, the earlier embarrassment easing now that the conversation has moved onto ground he knows how to stand on.

"The Wastes are not as dramatic as everyone here hopes. Red earth, dry wind, hard winters in the north, worse summers in the south. Old forts. Herd towns. Too many border shrines. Everyone argues, everyone remembers battles their great-grandfathers lost, and every clan claims its own ancestor was the only sensible one in the civil war."

"The civil war ended more than a century ago," Chi Yanluo says.

"And yet," Shen Yuanzhao says, spreading his hands. Chi Yanluo glances at Liu Yinhua.

"The reputation lingers. It is useful to some people that it lingers." That, she understands.

"A reputation can be a leash," she says. Both boys look at her then. Shen Yuanzhao with surprise. Chi Yanluo with something quieter. After a moment, Chi Yanluo nods.

"Yes." The simple agreement rests between them for a breath, heavier than it should be. Liu Yinhua lets her gaze shift towards the path before it can become too visible.

"You mentioned training grounds," she says. Chi Yanluo accepts the change without comment.

"This way. It is only a little down the mountain. The courtyard here is good for meeting, but the paving is poor for footwork if you are already sore."

"If?" Shen Yuanzhao laughs again, and this time it comes more naturally.

"He is being polite."

"I am always polite," Chi Yanluo says.

"You are polite when it will annoy people more than rudeness." A'Ying clicks his beak in what sounds suspiciously like agreement. They start down the path together, Chi Yanluo on Liu Yinhua's right and Shen Yuanzhao a little ahead, walking backwards for several steps until Chi Yanluo tells him to turn around before he embarrasses his ancestors by falling over a stone. The path slopes gently through a stand of young pines, red glass lanterns hanging unlit from the posts between them.

Other disciples pass at intervals. A few glance at Chi Yanluo and look away. A few look at Liu Yinhua for longer than politeness allows. She keeps her hands folded in her sleeves and walks as if every muscle below her waist is not considering rebellion. Shen Yuanzhao looks back at her once, notices, and opens his mouth. Chi Yanluo says, "Do not."

"I was not going to."

"You were."

"I was going to ask whether she wanted us to slow down."

"That is worse." Liu Yinhua exhales through her nose, nearly amused despite the ache in her legs.

"I can hear both of you." Shen Yuanzhao turns red again. Chi Yanluo, traitorously, looks pleased.

"Then I will say plainly that we can slow down."

"You may," Liu Yinhua says.

"Slightly." Shen Yuanzhao slows at once, then attempts to pretend he has only adjusted his stride by chance. Liu Yinhua decides, for now, not to punish him for it, if only because she is too sore.