Limitless Cultivation System: From Trash to Immortal

The first cross between Lin Xuan and Madam Mei had ended with her tsk. The second cross opened with her blade already moving.

Mei was Qi Refining stage middle and had been for twenty years. Her body was conditioned, her wrist was supple, her grip on the silvered blade carried the small particular looseness of a swordswoman who had been pretending not to be one for her entire adult life. She had not advanced because she had not been required to. She had not been required to because the office of First Wife of Skyedge had paid better than another decade of cultivation would have.

The cultivation she did have was precision-tuned.

Lin Xuan opened with Piercing Dragon.

His body had drilled the form in private since the third day of the journey. The first time it left the practice yard of his memory and entered the wet stone of the pass, it left as a perfectly straight line — all his Qi gathered at the point of Plain Steel, his weight running with the blade, the stroke carrying eighteen percent of his reserve in a single concentrated arrow of intent.

Mei did not block it.

She redirected it.

Her silver caught Plain Steel’s point at a six-degree angle along the upper edge of the stroke, and the Piercing Dragon’s energy slid off into the rain rather than into her shoulder. The two blades parted by a hand’s width. Mei stepped inside the line of his attack and slashed at his ribs.

Lin Xuan rolled away with Cloud Step. One pace that became air. He arrived two paces to her left, Plain Steel up again, body already balanced.

She turned with him. Smooth. The corner of her mouth almost amused.

"You learned that one quickly, Lin Xuan."

"I had a good teacher."

"Did Master Fu show you the wrist on the redirection. Or did you work it out by yourself."

He did not answer.

He passed into Coiling Dragon instead.

Mei’s attention narrowed by an increment. She had recognised the form. She had been a senior wife of Skyedge for two decades. She had watched the form taught in the practice yard a hundred mornings, watched her own husband perform it badly when he was twenty-two and she was nineteen and they had not yet decided to lie to each other for a living.

She did not enter the spiral.

She circled instead. Patient. Waiting for the rhythm of the form to drop a beat she could push into.

Lin Xuan did not give her the dropped beat.

He passed from Coiling Dragon into Twin Dragon Strike in the time of one breath.

The first horizontal cut came across at neck height — Mei parried high. The second cut, born from the recoil of the first, came back across at waist height before Mei’s silver could descend. Her silver did not descend in time. The second cut bit through the side of her robe and opened a six-inch furrow along the meat of her left flank.

Not deep enough yet to disable. But it bled.

Mei made the tsk sound a second time.

Irritation, still — but irritation with something beginning behind it that she had not yet been required to name.

—————————————————————

Sect guard Captain Tao Yi died fifty seconds into the engagement.

He had been holding the lead carriage’s left wheel. A pair of Blood Fang in dark plum-violet had closed on him in a coordinated wedge — one high cut to bind the halberd, one low thrust to find the gap the bind opened. Tao Yi caught the high cut. He did not catch the low one. The Blood Fang blade went into him under the third rib and came out the back.

He fell across the wheel.

Lian heard the body land for the second time in fifteen minutes.

This time she pulled the carriage curtain back by two fingers and watched the second Blood Fang’s attention find hers.

She closed the curtain.

The kitchen knife came fully into her palm.

"Wei."

"Lian."

"They have started looking inside."

Wei adjusted the grip on his sword without turning his head. He kept his attention pinned to the door. The young master’s instruction had been the door. The young master’s instruction was going to be the door for as long as the apprentice was alive to honour it.

Outside, the wedge that had killed another disciple began to reach for the door handle.

—————————————————————

In the centre of the road, on his knees in the mud, Lin Kai had not moved.

His mother’s blood was now visible in two places on the silver robe — the leg, from the Twin Dragon Strike, and a shallow mark along the left flank he had not seen the source of. The polite first-wife mask had been gone for several minutes. What had replaced it was the working face of a woman who had been a duellist behind closed doors all her adult life.

He had not known.

He had not known that the woman who had brushed his hair at six, who had folded his sashes at twelve, who had counselled him through every council session of his political life, had been standing in a private chamber three times a week for two decades performing forms that no maid was supposed to know.

His knees were in the mud.

His feet were nowhere.

And his mother, bleeding from two cuts now, turned her face toward him for the first time during the combat. Her voice cut across the rain at the volume only a mother’s voice ever reached.

"Lin Kai."

He did not move.

"Lin Kai. Your mother is bleeding."

The heirloom blade lay in the mud beside him, hilt pointing at no one.

Lin Kai’s left hand twitched once — the small involuntary twitch of a hand that had not yet decided whether to pick up an object on the ground.

Inside the lead carriage, Lian’s hand closed around the kitchen knife.

In the rear angle of the rim, Wu’s Open Palm rose toward Elder Ren’s back for the second time.

On the wet rock above the road, Cao Yan cut a second sigil into his own forearm.

Four blades in the rain. Four men bleeding. One son on his knees. And the rain went on.