NOVEL FROG Chapter 26 Gai Jin
The attack rode through the air like a blossoming wave through water and was met with a burst of sound qi. Droplets of water scattered as the two attacks met. Cai’s attack was slow and stupid, almost pathetic by most standards. But it was made of water, and water diffused sound. Lo Fao’s attacks diminished along with Cai’s own attacks.
There was anticipation throughout the courtyard. Gasps of astonishment, anger, and curiosity filled the place. It was something straight out of a novel with people whispering about the attack, some dismissing it as a lesser bastardization of the two styles while others pondered its abilities.
The Flowering Sword Sect, for its part, was furious.
“Atrocious,” one of the younger Flower Sword scions said.
“An abomination,” an elder commented.
Almost every member of that sect looked appalled. You’d think Cai had disgraced them with the looks they were giving him, but this development was actually good for him. But I suppose to them, the greatest style was that of the Flowering Sword. Winning by any other means would bring shame, much less using another sect’s bloodline technique and integrating it with your own to create something different.
The blades clashed once more and sparks flew off the collisions. Cai’s opponent started to push forward. The pace picked up as the two swords bounced off of each other repeatedly.
“That Hollowed Echo kid is getting defensive,” I noted.
There were murmurs at the comment, some of the elders nodding at what I said while the younger members squinted in confusion.
“If I may ask, Honored Master, Lo Fao seems to be the one attacking aggressively. How is he the one defending?”
“Distance was important for Cai to truly utilize his Flowering Sword Style, and up until now, Lo Fao was willing to give him that distance because he believed that he could take advantage of it. He was hoping for Cai to either mistime his attacks or exhaust his qi reserves, leaving him open for a direct attack either way. But now things have changed. If Cai can keep using that water technique, Lo Fao’s advantage becomes a disadvantage. Water diffuses sound, and sound is Lo Fao’s main advantage.”
There was a moment as some of the slower elders processed that.
“Sound qi is not all he can rely on for this-”
“Yes, it is,” I cut in. “There are three basic aspects of combat. Quantity of qi, quality of qi, and techniques. Lo Fao wins in quantity and their techniques are about equally matched. But Cai trumps him in quality. Sound qi works by being a focused burst of vibrations traveling through the air and into the target’s body, at best incapacitating them and at worst rupturing their inner organs. But if you put a wave of water in front of that attack, then the energy transfers to the water and is dispersed into a mist, making the attack useless."
Cai and Lo fought, each slicing at one another with hatred and precision. It was now a battle of longevity. Lo Fao wouldn’t let him use any of his major arts and Cai was not able to create the distance he would need to do so. Lo was hoping to tire him out and force him into an exhausted defeat.
And Cai fell for it, for several moments. Until finally, like a lighthouse being turned on during the evening fog, he understood. Distance was important to the Flowering Sword Sect, not to the Raging River.
A cascade of water collapsed upon Lo Fao, pushing the man back several yards, and then Cai attacked. It wasn’t the Flowering Sword Style this time, but rather a pure water-based technique. Liquid flowed from Cai’s sword and slashed at the man over and over again. Cai’s attacks, even now, were still pathetic. They were nothing more than waves of water splashing upon his enemy, but in this case, that was enough. His opponent was blind and had to hear to see. Water hitting his face made a lot of noise and when some of it worked its way into Lo Fao’s hearing organs; well that was when Cai guaranteed his victory
And the rest of the tournament went by without much of anything noticeable happening whatsoever. The winner was one of the Raging River’s kids, which seemed to surprise nobody. Though the Raging River did make sure to flaunt their victory in everyone else’s faces.
After that, I practically threw everyone out of the desert. We crossed all the way to the entrance of the Great Desert Strip before I tossed them out.
Then, I collapsed. Cultivators. Cultivators were irritating. I rubbed my aching head. I shouldn’t get headaches. I don’t get headaches, but I did. It was new, a byproduct of my newly acquired Dao.
I closed my eyes and looked inward. The arrays were stretching thin, pushing against my newly growing soul. Shit. They would start unraveling soon, they would have to.
Dane had messed up when he made an array in his soul, but he was an expert at making them around his soul.
Daos were important. Without Daos the human soul could not survive the struggle of eternity. People need an anchor, something to tie themselves to while time ticks on forever, otherwise, madness would set in.
The oldest known Daoless immortal had made it to the sixteenth rank, and he had caused a war so great that it could never end. But that was an old story. Ever since then, the Daoless had never been truly trusted, and reasonably so.
Dane had done his best to remain Daoless. He had wrapped up his soul in time-restricting arrays and had taken a litany of alchemical compounds to destroy the emotional aspects of his soul. The man had done his best to become a flesh-like computer. He had dulled himself. No emotion went in, only memories, meaning no emotions were felt, only facts.
It was self-mutilation of the highest degree, but it worked. But Dane’s soul had changed. I had changed, and that was the current dilemma.
I needed to thaw my soul.
********
The Bloody Fist Sect sat upon the summit of a distant mountain top. The mountain itself was over fifty miles tall. Its hidden rocky peak pushing up past the clouds and into the sky itself.
At the top was the temple. Tens of thousands of monks practiced in unison, each stomping through their martial arts forms and collectively shifting through their positions. It was organized, almost choreographed. Each monk shifted from one movement into another with robotic-like accuracy.
To some, it would look impressive, even beautiful. But to the monks, it was barely passable. A few senior monks sat by and watched over the horde of practitioners with a discerning eye, their hands scribbling over a scroll at a fast pace.
These were the masters. Each of them was at least of the fourth rank, their brain being able to process thousands of individuals at once. The morning practice only covered the basics, some movement techniques, a few punching techniques, and even a few grappling techniques. It was more ceremonial than functional, but in some ways that made it more important.
The masters furiously scribbled the flaws they noticed in each disciple
Beneath that picture-perfect summit, however, was a different thing. Down at the base of the mountain was a tunnel, and deeper into that tunnel was a pit. Here were another group of fourth ranks, each standing guard over the pit.
“Do you really think he’s still down there?” One of them asked.
“He might be,” one of the stiffer-looking guards answered.
The five cultivators stared down into the hole. It was deep, far deeper than any of them knew. Sometimes, an occasional faded scream would work its way to the surface, and they would listen, thinking, hoping, that it was human.
“He’s probably dead by now,” one of them mumbled.
“He couldn’t have kept himself alive for so long.”
“Have you heard his scream?” A new voice asked.
“No, we have not, and we have been listening for the past six mon-”
They all leaped, turning to see a smiling man standing behind them. He had long hair, one that draped all the way past his shoulders, but it was filthy. Everything about him was filthy. His clothes were stiff and crusty, and his nails looked like they had been painted black. The bandages he wore around his hands were brown and stained with blood. An old monk’s robe was on him, though it was torn and ripped, only being held together by a small stringy piece of cloth.
“Gai- Gai Jin?!?” One of them screamed.
“Where is he?” Gai Jin asked.
“How did you survive?”
“Where is he?” Gai Jin asked again, that patient smile still plastered onto his face.
“Listen you villain! By the Sect Leader’s will-”
One of the other monks pulled back his indignant friend and inspected Gai Jin with a wary eye.
“Where is the old man?” Gai Jin repeated.
“He’s not here. He went out to the Great Desert Strip for some secret mission.”
“Song Li you cannot-”
“Shut up,” Song Li spoke, interrupting his compatriot. “Shut up or we’re all going to die.”
Gai Jin looked at him, inspecting his face as if he could see the falsehoods within them. Song Li quivered in fear as those beast-like eyes looked him up and down. And then, Gai Jin nodded and leapt into the air.