Chương 28: A Splash of Color

The weak flames from the decorative braziers did nothing to warm the cold, windowless corridors of the Obsidian Palace. But as Mu-cheon stormed through the halls, his blood was running hot enough that he didn't notice the chill. The young man's footsteps rang out from the tiled floor with unnecessary amounts of force. His right hand was clenched into a tight fist. Under no circumstances was he going to allow his father to take out his anger on Chae-ha. If it came down to it, Mu-cheon would take the lashes himself.

The Young Master knew exactly how terrifying his father could be. He had spent his entire life watching the Sect Leader dismantle arrogant elders and crush rival factions mercilessly. His little sister had just walked completely unarmed into a dragon's den. Rounding the final corner, he saw the unadorned double-doors leading to the Sect Leader's private study. Mu-cheon marched straight towards them, his nostrils flaring.

He was ready to shove the thick ironwood doors open and interrupt whatever brutal interrogation was taking place inside. But moments before he arrived, the doors swung gently outwards, seemingly of their own accord. Mu-cheon abruptly dug his heels in, trying to halt his momentum and avoid trampling the person stepping out of the study. He flailed his arms for balance, his huge body tipping precariously forwards before he finally managed to catch himself.

He eventually came to a stop a finger's width away from the top of Chae-ha's head. The young girl paused, blinking up at the towering, red-faced Young Master looming over her.

"Senior brother?" Chae-ha asked, her voice echoing calmly in the quiet corridor.

"Why are you panting? And why are you clenching your fists like you're about to lay siege to some encampment?" Mu-cheon froze. All the righteous, protective fury that had been boiling in his chest vanished, replaced by intense confusion. He quickly opened his hands and took several steps back, his cheeks burning red.

"I…what? No! I wasn't..." he stammered, awkwardly dusting off his robes in an attempt to look casual.

"I was just... on patrol! Yes. Performing a standard, uh... security sweep." Chae-ha's eyes slowly drifted down to his boots, then back up to his flushed face.

"A security sweep. Within the Obsidian Palace. Directly outside your father's private study."

"Exactly," Mu-cheon nodded firmly. He cleared his throat and leaned in, whispering urgently.

"Never mind that. Are you alright? Whatever the punishment is, I'm going to go in there right now and tell him that I was the one –""Punishment?" Chae-ha interrupted him, tilting her head in genuine amusement as she began walking further down the hall.

"Senior brother, I wasn't punished."

"You weren't? But he kicked me out of the room. He looked furious!"

"He may have been irritated by the sheer volume of paperwork," Chae-ha replied, adjusting the sleeves of her robes.

"But the Sect Leader is, above all else, a pragmatist. He seemed happy with the results."

"So, he just…let you go? Without even a reprimand?"

"Well…he did officially reassign me." Mu-cheon's stomach dropped.

"He reassigned you? To where?"

"To you." The giant warrior simply stared at her, his mouth hanging slightly open.

"What?"

"I am no longer a junior Inspector working for the Archives," Chae-ha explained.

"The Sect Leader has permanently assigned me to your personal retinue. I am officially a Field Inspector now, senior brother. And unofficially…your strategist." Mu-cheon shook his head in disbelief.

"Seriously?" After a few moments, he broke out into a broad, beaming grin.

"That's incredible! I was worried he was going to throw you into the dungeons. He actually promoted you?"

"Yes. Is it really that hard to believe?" Mu-cheon let out a relieved laugh, the sound chasing the shadows out of the cold hallway.

"No! I mean, yes! I just..." The young man's smile faded as he pursed his lips in thought.

"Wait a moment.

'Field Inspector?' You mean you'll be auditing supply lines and troop rations and whatnot? That seems hard to do from the sect…"

"Exactly. He wants me to join you out in the field. And right now, the most active battlefront is in the Laiwu valley, against the Meng-shan. I suspect you'll be getting deployed there soon." The young girl stepped past him, a bounce in her step as she began to make her way down the corridor.

"Come on, senior brother. Let's go spar! If we're going to war, we've got a lot of preparations to make." A few hours later, Sect Leader Kang Hyeon-je found himself beneath the Archives. His earlier business concluded, it was now time to make his way to the Black Vault. The air grew noticeably colder with every step he took down the spiraling, lightless staircase. As he descended, the air grew progressively more stale, resting uneasily in his lungs.

Access to the room he was approaching was restricted by ancient sect law. Only the Sect Leader and those he specifically authorized were permitted entrance. All the sect's greatest treasures – and darkest secrets – were preserved inside. If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it. When he reached the forbidding, Thousand-Year Dark Iron door, Hyeon-je set down his lantern and took out his personal seal.

The carved block of jade carried with it the authority of his station, and it was the key to opening this particular door. He inserted it into a small hole, and a complex mechanism of gears and tumblers began moving. As they did, the door swung open in a series of slow, short steps, creaking loudly each time it moved. When it finally came to a rest, Hyeon-je put the seal away and retrieved his lantern. Then he stepped over the threshold and into the freezing dark, raising his light with one hand.

It illuminated what he was carrying in the other: a freshly stamped Service Writ, the cinnabar ink now fully dried. The Sect Leader walked past shelves containing the most carefully guarded secrets of the Tai-shan: true personal histories of their founding elders, casualty reports of past wars, and the records of blood money paid to hide what his ancestors had deemed necessary sins. He approached a shelf lined with large iron lockboxes.

Hyeon-je selected one, unlocked it with an oversized brass key, and slid the contract inside to join the other secrets kept there. He snapped the lid shut with a resounding click. This contract needed to be down here. It had to be buried in the deepest, most unreachable part of the mountain. If Mu-cheon ever found out that Chae-ha had traded her life and freedom to secure her father a stele, the boy's noble, hot-headed nature would take over.

He would tear the contract to shreds and declare her a free woman, completely unraveling the arrangement the Sect Leader had just so carefully secured. His son was a sword of pure, unblemished steel, hardened but not yet tempered in the fires of the martial world. An unfinished blade was brittle; it would shatter if it was forced to strike against the ugly, transactional truths that governed the sect. So for now, those truths needed to remain hidden down here.

As Hyeon-je turned to leave, the light from his lantern washed over the center of the vault, illuminating a raised stone pedestal resting beneath a dome of thick glass. He paused, his eyes momentarily drawn to the sight of the sect's greatest treasure. Most would have expected a legendary sword, or a manual containing a divinely revealed martial art. But this was a simple scroll of ancient, yellowed silk. It was the founding Imperial Mandate, brushed by the hand of Emperor Tang Taizong himself.

Despite being kept in conditions meant specifically to preserve it, the colors of the proclamation had long since lost their vibrant edge. Even so, the document still caused his heart to stop every time he looked at it. Nearly four hundred years ago, the legendary Emperor had tasked Hyeon-je's ancestors with protecting the sacred path to the Jade Emperor Peak. To provide them with the authority to do so, he had granted the Tai-shan sect sovereignty over the mountain and its surrounding lands.

The proclamation stated it would last until Tang Taizong returned to perform the Feng-shan sacrifices, securing for himself the Mandate of Heaven. Hyeon-je sighed. Despite conquering the entire Middle Kingdom, the Emperor had died before ever fulfilling his dream. But his legacy lived on. Since Tang Taizong had never returned, the proclamation was still legally in force… and for four centuries, that single piece of silk had served as the entire justification for the Tai-shan sect's regional power.

It was an invincible bureaucratic shield – a divine loophole that forced even the current Imperial Court to treat the sect with wary respect. The Sect Leader stared at the document for a long moment, feeling the crushing weight of the responsibilities it conferred. Then, he turned his back on it, walked out of the vault, and sealed the black iron doors behind him. He still had one more place to visit today. Slowly but deliberately, Hyeon-je made his way to the Obsidian Palace's private rookery.

He had secured his tactician; now, he needed to pay the price she had demanded. Restoring the Han family's honor was mostly a matter of internal paperwork, but the eulogy she had requested was a different matter. The young girl had demanded the best, and Hyeon-je had promised it to her in ink. Written, signed, and sealed in a contract that now sat amongst the sect's most closely guarded treasures.

The Sect Leader stepped up to a small writing desk, unfurled a tiny, feather-light slip of silk, and picked up a fine-tipped brush. With careful strokes, he wrote his message. Send us your finest poet. His sleeves will be heavy upon his return. – Kang Hyeon-je A small, nostalgic smile grew on the Sect Leader's lips as he thought of his old friend who would soon be receiving this message.

The man, who still owed him a substantial favor, was now the Head Librarian of the Imperial Archives, and a top-level official in the capital of Bianjing. Hyeon-je handed the message to an attendant. The man rolled the silk tightly, slotted it into a tube attached to the leg of his fastest courier falcon, and headed to an open window. Dramatically, he tossed the bird into the evening sky. The Sect Leader nodded approvingly.

It was going to be an expensive poem, but it seemed like a fair price for what he was purchasing. That night, Mu-cheon carried a small, surprisingly weighty pouch in one hand as he walked towards his destination. With his free hand, he absently rubbed his opposite arm, his fingers brushing against the spot Chae-ha had struck him during their spar. It was the only time she had hit him today, but there had also been several close calls. Sparring with Chae-ha had felt different recently.

There was a hint of lively energy about her, as if one of the weights she had been carrying had finally been cast aside. The young girl was somehow bolder, freer, and livelier. More human? Mu-cheon shook his head; there was a better comparison. Until now, looking at Chae-ha had been like looking at a person's outline, sketched out years ago by some forgotten painter and then left unfinished.

But for some reason, it looked like the artist had now decided to return to his work – and was beginning to ink in the first few blushes of color. Seeing her like that had helped him decide what to do. Especially if they were going to war. The sect's main armory sat nestled in the eastern shadow of the Treasury, a sprawling courtyard choked with black smoke and the deafening roar of industry. Even from the perimeter, the air tasted of sulfur and sweat.

Dozens of men, bare to the waist and slick with grime, swung heavy iron hammers at glowing steel. When Mu-cheon stepped onto the grounds, he suddenly felt very out of place. He wore the clean, expensive, oxblood silks of an Inner Disciple; but more importantly, his hair was still tied in the simple, unbound style of an uncapped youth. He was a boy amongst men. The rhythm of the forge began to falter.

One by one, the ringing of the anvils died down as the laborers and apprentices noticed him standing there in the sweltering heat. The Master Smith, a man whose forearms were thicker than Chae-ha's thighs, set down his oversized iron tongs. He wiped a streak of soot from his forehead with the back of a leather glove and approached the archway. His expression was a careful mixture of obligatory deference and deep, genuine confusion.

"Young Master? How can we be of service?" Mu-cheon stepped fully into the orange glare of the furnace. The firelight reflected in his eyes as if off of chips of obsidian. With one hand, he reached out and handed the pouch he was carrying to the Master Smith.

"I need you to forge me something."