Chapter 563 First Draft

THIS WAS REWRITTEN GO HERE FOR ACTUAL CHAPTER

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1UyieKh17QmOmy52CRkRS-3012tKF7nOfklVzjrORdjE/edit?usp=sharing

After four hours of sitting in a closed box on wheels, I can confidently say that anyone who claims to enjoy long carriage rides is either a liar or a masochist.

At first glance, the carriage is a beautiful work of art, thanks not only to Charok’s detailed and life-like carvings, but also Luo-Luo’s aesthetically pleasing design choices. Calling it a box on wheels is being somewhat disingenuous, because it’s anything but. Between the curved undercarriage, rounded turtle roof, and elegant, octagonal window frames, this is the Rolls-Royce of carriages, complete with polished, cast-iron reinforced wheels, shock-absorbing springs, red-paper window covers, luxuriant silken drapes, and colourful tassels lining the entire thing. The fanciful trimmings do nothing to detract from Charok’s handiwork, and somehow even enhance the wood’s natural tones and lustre, a soft, golden-yellow hue which subtly hints ‘Imperial’ without outright screaming it.

Visually, the carriage is stunning and exactly what most would expect from a wealthy, prestigious warrior raised to Imperial Peerage, which means it suits my situation to a tee. Unfortunately, despite all the thought and effort which went into the carriage’s elegant and luxurious exterior, the interior was done in the same vein, which is to say it is lavish, opulent, and entirely uncomfortable.

For starters, there are no arm rests or hand grips to be found anywhere. Seeing as how the sides are cushioned to minimize impact, this was clearly a design choice meant to maximize space and offer the illusion of roominess, but it also means I have nothing to lean against except the walls themselves, which is less than ideal in a bouncing carriage. It’d be even less ideal once said carriage starts moving at full speed, say to escape a hypothetical assassination attempt or break through a blockade. Given the limitations in technology and materials, even the best shocks in the Empire don’t keep the vehicle from jostling about, and that’s while we’re moving at a relatively sedate pace over smooth, military roads. I’d hate to see what it’d be like travelling at full speed over dirt and grass, and it’s all too easy to imagine me biting my tongue off, impaling myself on my sword, or, seeing as how seat-belts aren’t a thing, crashing into the other passengers and breaking all my fragile, non-Martial Warrior bones.

It wouldn’t be so bad if I could crack a window and look outside, but nope. In the interest of security, I’m under strict orders to keep them closed and covered at all times. Besides, even if I wasn’t, the windows are largely ornamental, situated in the middle of the carriage and therefore out of easy reach, meaning I’d have to lean forward to look out instead of resting my head right beside it. There’s also no fold-down table or lantern to light, so even if I could get over the shaky ride, I can’t use the time to read or work, and nowhere to put the stupid sheathed sword which Binesi demanded I carry at all times, so it just digs into my sides and ribs for the entire trip.

What irks me the most is the narrow seats which are barely deep enough to fit my bony ass on. Okay, I’m exaggerating a bit, but I can barely lean back and definitely can’t cross my legs, which makes this more of cushioned bench than comfortable couch. If I slouch even a bit, I risk sliding right off the smooth, satiny cushions which the rabbits love so much and onto the wild-cat covered floor which Jimjam barely tolerates. In short, I hate everything about this carriage’s interior and wish I could be outside riding a quin. Even a rickshaw is preferable, because at least then I get to feel the warm sun on my skin and fill my lungs with brisk, spring air. Technically, it’s not spring yet, but the mild Central winters are comparable to balmy Northern summers back home, and knowing my good health comes with an indefinite time limit, I’d like to make the most of it while I can.

But no. Gotta stay safe. Gotta turtle up in my turtle carriage, which isn’t actually all that sturdy and is more akin to a bumpy, wooden death trap. I’ve bit myself more times than I care to remember, and I can almost feel my teeth cracking from the repeated impacts, but no one else seemed put off by it, so I kept my whining to myself.

Or at least I did, until we came to a stop for lunch and Binesi ordered me to stay inside, even as Mom, Luo-Luo, her handmaidens, and all my floofs make a break for the exit, including sweet Aurie, loyal Mama Bun, and paranoid Pong Pong.

“Why?” Even I can hear the petulance in my tone, but by this point, I’ve moved beyond caring. I wanna stretch my legs, see the sunlight, and roll around in the grass. Maybe not the last one, but I’d like to at least have the option.

“Safety,” Binesi replies, as curt and concise as usual. “You can come out after we stop for the day, set camp, and secure the area. Colonel General’s orders.”

...Great. Just fucking great. Securing an area doesn’t just mean setting sentries and calling it a night. Scouts need to comb through the surroundings and report back on areas of interest, patrols routes will have to be drawn up and scheduled, defences dug in, checkpoints reinforced, passwords and confirmation codes exchanged, and a whole slew of minor details to handle and go over. Granted, most of it is prepared in advanced and it’s just a matter of choosing which particular combination of patrols, passwords, and confirmation codes you want to use, but commanding still sucks donkey dick. I guess I have that to look forward to later tonight, but until then I have no choice but to sit here and obey orders like the good little soldier I am.

Unless...

“I have to shit.”

A response immediately arrives in the form of a chamber pot, delivered through the opened carriage door by an expressionless Death Corps guard standing all-too-conveniently in front of three not so expressionless idiots, namely Fung, BoShui, and Zian. The first two are grinning like maniacs, while Zian offers more of a smirk, but knowing him, he’s about one step short of bursting into laughter I can see why. There’s something uniquely humiliating about handling a chamber pot in front of your friends, and it’s not an experience I’d care to repeat, but thankfully, my blissfully brief moment of embarrassment is cut short as the Death Corps guard slams the carriage door shut, leaving me in relative privacy to void my bowels.

You know, except for the fact that Martial Warriors have incredible hearing and the carved carriage walls are not particularly thick. Or well-ventilated, as I already learned, having spent the better part of the morning suffused in a bouquet of unwashed bunny, aromatic wildcat, and heavily perfumed courtesan.

Although I don’t really need to shit, I know that I’ll regret it if I don’t pee now, so I handle my business and place the chamber pot next to the door, careful to make sure it won’t fall out when opened. “I’m done now. Thanks.”

“Leave it,” Binesi orders, and I almost catch a hint of delight in his cold, monotone voice. “Wait until the food arrives, to minimize exposure.” His demands are reasonable and well-thought out, but I still feel like I’m being unfairly targeted. Fung and BoShui’s muted laughs aren’t help much, and I’m almost tempted to defy my orders and move the curtains aside so I can glare at them through the window.

Almost, but not quite. Nian Zu and Binesi both made it very clear that I am first and foremost a soldier during this trip to the Central Citadel, and the punishment for disobeying a direct order starts with lashes and gets worse from there. Now, I’m pretty certain Nian Zu wouldn’t order me lashed, if only to give Mom and Dad face, but I’m also one-hundred percent sure Binesi is the sort to order the punishment, immediately carry it out himself, and then ask for forgiveness once all is said and done. In fact, I’m also ninety percent sure that’s why Nian Zu gave Binesi this job in the first place, because the dour mountain warrior will do things the Colonel General himself cannot.

Honestly, I hate being a soldier. At least when I was a Khishig or Warrant Officer, I could’ve quit whenever I felt like it, except when Martial Law was declared. Granted, that’s all the time now, since we have this whole war with the Defiled going on, so I’d still be stuck taking orders even if I hadn’t been demoted down to private. Regardless of the circumstances, this sucks and I hate it.

Annoyed by their incessant laughter, I kick the door and snap, “Done laughing yet? None of you ever piss in a chamber pot before?”

“Not from inside a carriage, no,” Fung replies, eliciting a snort of laughter from BoShui, followed by a none-too-subtle shush. Not one to be censored, Fung continues, “Be honest now. Did it all go into the pot? I couldn’t help but notice there wasn’t much light getting through those lovely curtains of yours, and well... let’s just say we’ve all seen you shoot a bow before, so we have legitimate concerns regarding your less-than-stellar aim even in the best conditions.” Dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, he adds, “Should we have towels brought over?”

Too embarrassed to even come up with a rebuttal, I cross my arms and try to will the heat out of my cheeks before my lunch arrives, but it’s all for naught. Not even a minute later, the doors open without warning and the same Death Corps guard removes my slightly heavier chamber pot and withdraws to allow Fung, BoShui, and Zian to clamber on board. Despite their efforts to tidy up, all three are matted in dust and dirt from riding on horseback, and while Zian and BoShui seem accustomed to the rigours of travel, Fung all but throws himself onto the satin seats. “Mother in Heaven,” he groans, somehow sinking into the too narrow bench while BoShui hands me my box-lunch. “Never thought I’d see the day when I, Tong Da Fung. must travel by horseback like some common Junior Officer whilst Falling Rain rides in style and luxury. What has become of this world we live in.”

“Tell you what. We can switch clothes and you can take my place here.” Gesturing at the missing chamber pot, I add, “Then you can experience pissing in a carriage for yourself.”

“So touchy,” Fung replies, waving a hand in dismissal. “And to think, this is the welcome we get after coming all this way over here to see you.”

“Yea about that.” Opening my box-lunch, I take a moment to appreciate how nicely the food is divided into neat little sections, with compartments for fried rice, cold noodles, salted meat, pickled veggies, cold pan-fried dumplings, and a sweet dessert bun. Charok’s handiwork, the box and the food, and the others look on in envy as they wait for their own meals. Guarding my food with my body, I continue, “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the company and all, but err... why are you here?”

“To deliver your meals, apparently,” Fung replies, sitting up and leaning forward to inspect said meal. “Quite the enviable meal at that.”

Though not entirely willing to share since I’m not sure if there will be more cooked meals to come, I suppress a sigh and offer some to my good friends. BoShui declines, though his eyes linger on the sweet bun, while Fung and Zian are none too shy about helping themselves to the salted meat and fried dumplings. The sigh slips out, and I shake the box at BoShui, who succumbs to temptation and plucks the sweet bun out with two meaty fingers. Said bun would fit nicely into the palm of my hand, but it disappears into BoShui’s gargantuan grasp, a bite-sized morsel for a bear-sized man, who takes up the lion’s share of the bench, forcing Fung to sort of cram in beside him. Seriously, the dude is twenty-six and looks like he’s going on forty, yet somehow BoShui is still in the middle of a growth spurt. He’s had to have his armour re-sized three times in the last year, and today he’s wearing a brand new set which looks a little too large for his hulking frame. I suppose he expects to grow into it, but that makes no sense whatsoever, because people are supposed to stop growing by twenty at the latest. Not BoShui though, and apparently not most Martial Warriors either, because no one else finds his transformation strange or even particularly noteworthy at that.

I hope I hit a growth spurt too, or failing this, Mila, Yan, and Lin-Lin don’t have one themselves. Luo-Luo is already too tall for my tastes, and she only stands at a ‘modest’ two metres. I don’t know what I’d do if Mila grew as tall as her mother, or worse, as wide as her father. Oh gawd, that was not a mental image I wanted to see, but now I’ll never be able to unsee it for the rest of my life.

Banishing Mila-Hulk to the dark recesses of the void, I break out my chopsticks before my friends eat my entire lunch and say, “You know what I mean. I didn’t know you’d be coming to the Citadel.”

“You would if you ever thought to ask.” Feigning anger like a spurned maiden, Fung offers a faux-teary gaze and says, “I thought we shared something special, but you don’t write, you don’t visit, you don’t even ask how I’m doing. I show up and you’re all ‘why are you here’ and ‘what are you doing’. Heartless cad.”

Though obviously joking, I can tell he’s actually upset regarding how distant I’ve been in recent months. Part of it is because I was off fighting on the front lines while he amused himself chasing after Seoyoon’s skirts, and another part was because I wanted to keep a buffer between us while dealing with Imperial political shenanigans, but in the end, those excuses ring hollow and we both know it. We’ve drifted apart since coming to Central, and it’s not just because we’ve both been busy. Knowing him, he was probably pushing to join me on the front lines every day since I was deployed, but as the only heir to Shen Huo, he doesn’t have the same freedoms everyone else does. These past few days, I’ve probably gotten a taste of what his entire life has been like, confined to certain areas and under strict supervision at all times.

Worst of all? His retinue was drawn from the depleted Shen Huo city guards, and while they withstood the test of battle, they are nowhere near as strong as the Sentinels, or even the match of most noble guards. It makes sense considering the city guards are not as well paid as private guards or well-trained as army soldiers, so if Fung tries to follow me into battle, then there’s a damned good chance he’ll lose his life and the lives of all his soldiers in the process.

Granted Akanai would most certainly dispatch Sentinels to guard her second Disciple on the battlefield, but she likes her students to learn through their mistakes, which means she would never tell Fung he was protected, and in fact would openly refuse to send any guards at all. I’m pretty sure he never expected this when he signed up to be Akanai’s Disciple, and most likely did it just to get away from the heavy shadows cast by his father’s office. He’s a talented warrior to match any person in this camp, even Nian Zu himself if it came down to it, but Fung’s problem is he lacks drive. Unlike BoShui and Zian, Fung’s not willing to risk his comfy life for honour, glory, or reputation, which makes him the most reasonable person sitting inside the carriage, and possible in the entire camp as well.

Still, he feels left out and is genuinely worried we’re drifting apart, having been replaced by these other, newer friends of mine. Though I sympathize with what he’s feeling, this isn’t enough to stop me from teasing him about it. “I’m sorry sweet pea,” I croon. “Uncle Rainy didn’t mean to neglect you, he’s just been really busy with work these days. Come on now, give your uncle Rainy a big smile, and you can have some candy.”

Batting away my offer of dried berries, he accepts my subsequent silent, but apologetic look of contrition with a magnanimous nod of his head, and just like that, the air has been cleared and our problems are no more. Dude friendships are great. “To answer your earlier question,” Fung says with a wave, gesturing for me to go back to my meal, “Colonel General Nian Zu invited us to join him at the banquet as his guests. Wanted to show off the young heroes of the North and what not, make sure the Empire knows not all of us are as eccentric as Falling Rain.”

“Then why’d he invite you?” Though delivered in a joking manner, I’m genuinely curious. Zian and BoShui make sense, because their uncles are Nian Zu’s left and right hand men, but Fung? I’m not looking down on him, because he might very well be the most talented amongst us, having reached similar heights with proportionately less effort or hardship. The thing is, even though we all know how talented Fung is, the world at large remains wholly ignorant to his skills. In the eyes of the majority, Fung is a good-for-nothing silk-pants whose military record starts and ends with a minor role in the battle of Sanshu, during which he promptly got his ass kicked by Dastan and co. during the opening exchanges and ended up sidelined for the rest of the battle. Then, not only did he spend the entire First Grand Conference flirting with any eligible young woman who crossed his path, he actively avoided sparring with any warriors of note by answering only one challenge per day chosen through random draw.

What I’m getting at is Fung doesn’t exactly have the best reputation...

Ignoring my good-natured ribbing with a roll of his eyes, Fung shakes his head and sighs. “Oh my ignorant Junior nephew,” he says, unable and unwilling to hide his smug superiority. “When will you ever learn? You see before you what it means to be humble and modest, for small dogs bark the loudest, but the silent wolf is most fearsome of all.”

“Small dog to your wolf am I?” Shrugging at the all-too-apt comparison, I smile and add, “I like it. Small dogs need to fight all that much harder for their place in the pecking order.” Eyeing BoShui and Zian, I add, “Even if what you say is true, Fung, I’d wager we’re not much different in the eyes of the bear and dragon here.”

“Bear?” Looking up from licking his fingers clean, BoShui’s grin makes him look his age, his eyes shining with youthful adolescence. “No bears here. Haven’t you heard? I’m the Paper Tiger of the Han Clan.”

“Paper Tiger no longer,” I correct, and I can’t help but glance at Zian, whose shining star has all but sputtered out after Gulong took his place some months ago. The snivelling little shit is all talk and no game, but Zian has been content to step back and let his little cousin usurp his position despite my many veiled and not-so-veiled offers of assistance.

Catching my glance, Zian’s lips quirk into a cold smile which never reaches his eyes. “Thank you, but the title of young patriarch holds no allure to me,” he Sends, shaking his head ever so slightly. “However, when the time comes to redress old grievances, I’ll look to you for your help, my friend.”

Heh. Friend. It’s still weird to hear him admit it.

Nodding in wordless off of support, I go back to trading light barbs with Fung and poking fun at BoShui until it’s almost time to set off again. Instead of Luo-Luo, Alsantset, Charok, and Tate join us in my carriage, which is great because I was getting a little sick of my courtesan’s incessant humming and more than a little unnerved by her unwavering, wide-eyed stare. She’s too... relaxed and defenceless, no longer so concerned with looking prim and proper all the time, and it’s... really ridiculously hot. Dignified and elegant Luo-Luo is so gorgeous it’s intimidating, but slightly dishevelled and carefree Luo-Luo is more my speed.

Thankfully, Mom’s presence at my side kept me from doing anything stupid, and we even discovered that Pong Pong can sense Scrying, which explains all the times he glares off at nothing. It also explains why he stops once I investigate, because according to Mom, Scrying like shaving off a slice of your Domain, attaching it to your eye with Chi, and looking through it. While the mechanics didn’t really make much sense, I know that any external Chi construct will rapidly fall apart if it comes in contact with a human body, which means I was probably walking straight through their Scrying windows while heading over to see what Pong Pong was staring at, and thereby ruining their little peep show.

Even going by the few times I can confidently say someone was Scrying, I feel like way too many people have seen me walk around naked...

A few seconds after setting out, I figure out why Luo-Luo switched places with Alsantset as Tali sets to tuning her instrument. I can tell it’s Tali, because she has a tin-ear and couldn’t carry a tune if her life depended on it, but so long as someone tunes the instrument for her, she makes for a passable musician. The sweet girl loves learning to play, and while my ears might not thank me for it, I love to see her smile, except at the moment, I can’t see her smile, which means I’ve played myself for a fool.

Soon enough, Luo-Luo mercifully takes up her instrument and strums out a merry tune, and the animals in my carriage collectively perk up only seconds before adding their voices to the mix. Amazed by their reaction, I sit and stare at the mewling kittens while wondering just how far Luo-Luo’s musical Chi Talents have grown in only a few short days. All of the ladies returned in a sort of fugue state, conscious and responsive, but not entirely there. Du Min Gyu said it was because a part of their minds was still ruminating on the mysteries of Insight, and then he gave me a look like he expected me to jump for joy and praise the Mother Above or something. I mean, yea cool, they’re receiving an upload from the universe, but that’s not proof of anything. It only proves there’s something strange but beneficial afoot, which I already knew because Chi.

Seriously though, c’mon Mother in Heaven. Is this really how it’s gonna be? I’m crippled here, and gonna taunt me by giving my family and loved ones casual power-ups? Totally not cool. Napping with turtles and playing in their Natal Palaces is nice and all, but I'd like something more tangible please.

Studying Alsantset to see if she’s snapped out of her daze, I immediately regret my decision as her predatory stare locks in on my eyes. “Little Rain,” she says, in a tone that is neither soft nor gentle, and I notice her gaze isn’t entirely focused, but her demeanour is all too frightening. “What plans have you made going forward from here?”

“...Honestly, not many.” The admission makes internal denial no longer possible, and the weight of my impending trials fall heavily upon my shoulders. “Mostly, I intend to keep my head down, my mouth shut, and just smile and nod along with whatever the Legate says, while praying nothing goes too terribly wrong.”

“This is not the People’s way,” Alsantset states, and the accusation hits harder than expected. “Nor is it your way, little brother, so why have you decided upon this course of action?”

Shrugging, I ask, “What more can I do? I’m just a piece on the board, whether I like it or not. Colonel General Nian Zu said I need to -”

“He is a good man.” Interrupting my explanation, Alsantset smiles and smooths my hair, almost on instinct it seems. “However, his priorities lay in defending the Empire, whilst mine are directed towards keeping my family safe.” The unspoken criticism is clear as day, and I pray Kuang Biao thought to put up a Sound Barrier around us, because while most people might feel the same way, they’re smart enough not to say it out loud.

The Empire stands above any one life, or at least that’s what we, the sacrifices, are supposed to believe.

Mussing my hair so she can smooth it again, Alsantset’s gaze softens as she smiles warmly, though I’m not entirely sure she sees me sitting in front of her, or something else entirely. “Worry not and do as you see fit, little brother.” Patting my cheek, she leans back and snuggles into Charok’s shoulder, who smiles reassuringly. “It has worked for you thus far,” Alsantset mumbles, already half asleep, “And should you misstep and find the weight of the world falling upon your shoulders, then know that there are taller shoulders to bear it.”

“But remember to give face whenever prudent,” Charok Sends, the voice of reason as per usual. “No sense in making enemies without good reason, for we have enough as it stands.”

Great advice, but I still don’t entirely understand the whole concept of face, which is scary because even though everyone knows I don’t understand, no one can really offer a proper explanation. As far as I can tell, face is linked to dignity and prestige, but is a separate concept from both. Dad tried explaining it once and said, “Face can be given, fought for, or lost, but it cannot be taken, and to demand face is to surrender all face you possess.”

Which is like... what does any of that even mean?

The way I see it, face is about ego. People strut around with their giant heads, and lose their temper when they’re inevitably taken down a notch. Except it’s not inevitable, because everyone else tiptoes around their ego and say they’re ‘giving face’, which is stupid because why should I be responsible for coddling someone else’s sense of self-worth? If you don’t want to feel stupid, then don’t do stupid things, which is a perfectly logical way to go through life, except everyone I’ve ever brought this up with has been horrified by my take on face.

“It’s not about the individual,” they all say, “Nor is it merely personal pride. It is more than that. It is respect earned by generations before, the dignity afforded to noble heroes of times gone by, or prestige earned by the community as a whole. Face is given to an individual, but it is shared as a whole.”

Which still doesn’t really explain the concept, because there isn’t a proper explanation for face. It’s just this intangible currency we’re all supposed to take pride in accruing and feel ashamed if ever lost, but no one can tell how much face they have or really compare it with anyone else, so it becomes this endless contest of oneupsmanship where people compete with their exploits, wallets, heirs, and whatever else might come to mind.

In other words, it’s all complete bullshit.

No, thinking like this is why I keep getting into trouble all the time. Like Nian Zu said, I need to learn from my mistakes. I just... gotta give face, and need to save face, because people will try to make me lose face. Can’t act without face, because that would be shameless, but I also can’t appear to want face too much, because that would also be shameless. If I’m too thick-skinned, I’ll appear rude and unsociable, but being too thinned-skin will turn me into a laughing stock, because I’ll seem desperate for face. There are no hard rules when it comes to face, which is disastrous because that means I only have my own judgment to rely on, which history has proven is complete and utter shit.

So I guess I’m doomed. Or not. Who knows. Not me. Definitely not me.