10-12

Chapter 10: Sawbones

At the ring of the bell, Booker cracked a lazy eye open. Sunlight was washing through the wooden shutters of his window. In the corner, his amphibian patient had recovered and was perching silently. Laid down in front of him were a dozen dead insects, from a scrawny little spider to a massive beetle.

"Huh. Guess you really like protecting your master's stuff…" Booker said, his voice tightened to a croak by morning stiffness.

Damn. I was too drunk to practice last night, so I didn't make any progress on my quest.

Sighing, he rolled out of bed and stretched his arms behind his head, his neck and shoulders snapping and crackling. The powerful muscles of Rain's body responded easily. Booker was in the best shape he'd ever been in, besides the lingering sweatiness and discomfort from his withdrawal.

Really, I'm lucky. It's easy for me to withstand the withdrawals because, unlike Rain, I never learned to reach for drugs when I feel bad. There's no ingrained instinct. Just the physical pains.

He moved to the basin and washed water across his face, shaving. To his displeasure the scrape of the razor was dull. After a moment he put aside the sharpened seashell that Rain had used to shave, and drew out his alchemist's knife. In a few clean strokes the flat blade had scraped away even the barest hints of stubble.

This is a really good knife. He thought, smiling with appreciation. Turning it over to rest the blade gently in his palm, he examined the hilt, which was carved with tiny vines and flowers, the red wood turning yellow where the varnished layer had been cut through to make the etchings.

The craftsmen of this Sect are really something else. The next time I get one of the Master's Pages I should go see them.

Turning it around again, he delicately carved a grid onto his walls, six by five for thirty spaces with lines as straight as he could make them.

Fifteen of those, he filled with scratches.

The auction house always holds its big event on the first of the month. He recalled from Rain's memories. So I have fifteen days to make myself a fortune. And the Sparrow's Examination is on the last of the month. That's going to be a hell of a double-feature.

Fifteen days…

It doesn't feel like enough, not to the old me. But I have magic now…

I can make miracles happen in fifteen days.

Stepping out into the halls, he joined the breakfast rush and watched as a purple-winged blur descended from the ceiling, landing on his shoulder. Snips proudly wiggled its claws towards the very unharmed congregation of cripples.

"Quiet night, huh?"

That's just as well. Hopefully mister silkpants stays far away from us, and we enjoy the peace a little while longer…

Raindrops were drumming into the open spaces of the courtyards. They splattered against the window of the dining hall, each drop gray-bodied and fat, a coldness seeping through the walls and chilling the air. Mist wafted across the dark blue-green of the mountain forest.

"Brother Rain." Mei said very seriously as they sat down. "If you had to lose one, arm or leg?"

"Arm for sure." Booker answered. "If you lose your leg, your other leg struggles. An arm is just fine on its own. It has five fingers to rely on."

"What a thoughtful answer. But, what if you had to be a one-winged bird, or a monkey with no arms?"

"Was I born this way?" Booker asked, drawn into this regardless.

"No, if you were a bird you'd always remember what flight was like. But if you were a monkey, you'd have to relearn everything."

"Bird with one wing." Booker said.

But for the most part he was silent as he ate his congee, feeding specks to Snips on his shoulder. As they parted ways with Mei and he headed towards the alchemy lab, he lifted Snips off his shoulder and said, "Watch them a little while longer. We have to be sure."

Obediently, the mantis buzzed away.

Ha. My master should throw me out and get a spirit beast like Snips. Much more obedient.

— — —

Today was Allocation Day, and there was no work. Every member of the Sect was given a day free of obligation to spend as they pleased. And every member of the Sect lined up, obediently, to receive their bi-monthly stipend. For disciples, fifteen liang and a single Sunflower-Saffron Cultivation Pill. For novices and cripples, seven liang.

As he received his stipend, Booker smiled and dropped the coins into an already-full purse.

Say what you like about how stingy the Sect is…

They gave me a whole day to my own devices. Let's see what I can do with the time.

— — —

Booker arrived at the little hospital where he'd received treatment after the bath house incident with his sleeves rolled up. He'd promised to pay back his debt with work, and he intended to give them the full value.

It was a pretty puny building for a hospital – two stories tall, it was more of a refurbished middle class house. As Booker stepped inside, he was greeted by a small waiting room where many people sat hunched over in their chairs. Some were nursing obvious wounds, others looked deathly sick, sick enough that nobody sat in the seats next to them.

This place is really overworked.

He knocked on the door to the surgery, and an awkward squawk of a voice answered, "Can't you wait!?"

Booker answered. "I'm the disciple from the Sect you treated – I'm here to help!"

"Ah? Come in!"

Booker stepped inside and was treated to the sight of blood splattering across a white bedspread. The doctor was nervously stitching away, trying to seal up a massive knee wound that exposed the white of bone among the pink-red of open gore.

He winced slightly, looking away.

"What do you know of surgery?" The doctor asked in a hurried tone.

"Not much." Booker admitted. "But I know my medicine."

"Make a little painkiller from the greenbeard powder and the muddy liver root." The doctor instructed, gesturing to a shelf of meager alchemical ingredients.

Booker took a jar of the shelf. It had barely a few splinter-thin roots inside. The greenbeard powder was similarly depleted, with barely enough to cover the bottom of the jar inside.

"Don't use too much of either. Bind the mixture with bone meal."

For best efficiency, you would combine these into a pill instead of making a loose paste. Booker frowned as he saw just how dire this was. The hospital had almost no medicine, and had no time to properly prepare what little it did have.

Still… I can't just show off my powers here…

Dropping a single root into a mortar bowl, Booker quickly ground it down to a paste, dashing in a sparing bit of greenbeard powder and a heavy hand with the bone meal, the only ingredient that was in abundant supply.

The whole process was so quick and easy for him that, when he crossed the room to offer the paste to the doctor, the man looked up in surprise, "Damn, but your hands must move quickly."

"Some have said I have talent." Booker agreed, watching with grotesque fascination as the man dipped a blood-tipped shaving brush into the mixture and began to paint the slurry on to the edges of the wound. I guess it's good I can handle the sight of blood.

"Is there anything else I can do?" Booker asked.

"Ah, one thing. My hands are covered in blood. Could you adjust my spectacles? They're just sliding towards the tip of my nose every time I look down."

"Of course." Brushing the man's messy hair aside, Booker pulled his half-moon spectacles back onto his ears.

"Thank you. Ah, I should be done in a few minutes…" His voice trailed off, his concentration consumed by the surgery. The whole time, the doctor's hands had never stopped moving, placing stitch after bloody stitch with a mix of urgency and precision that bordered on uncanny. It reminded Booker of his own movements when he was following the book's instructions. To reach that level of skill with only mortal practice – it was impressive, to say the least.

"Since I'm only good with medicine, I'll go out and treat the sick, leaving the injured to you." Booker proposed to the clearly-distracted doctor.

"Good, good…" He muttered back. "Take the other room across the hall."

Booker strode out the door and addressed the crowd gathered in the waiting room, bowing his head to them. "Everyone, I'll be tending to those of you with illnesses today. Please come to me if you have a sickness or feel ill. I'll see whoever has been waiting longest first."

A man stood up, clutching a cloth the left side of his face. He stumbled inside the room Booker had provided, which had obviously once been a small kitchen, the basins and counters still intact. As he took the cloth away from his face, Booker winced.

Vicious yellow pustules covered the right half of his face. Several had already burst, leaving magnificently ugly craters of swollen pink flesh. "I uh, I think it's a curse."

"Unlikely." Booker said. "It's probably more of a rash. Have you been placing anything on your face?"

"N-no… Just some facepaint, that's all. I took a job entertaining a noble's kids. Juggling, you know." The man reluctantly admitted. "Just for some extra coin."

Booker turned away so the man wouldn't see his smile. So he's a party clown. Amazing… "You're probably allergic to something in the facepaint."

"Allergic?" The man asked, clearly unfamiliar with the word.

"It's a poison to you, in short. Some people are allergic to certain substances, and some to others." Of course, they wouldn't know what that means. I wonder what other medical science is unknown to them…

"Poison…"

"Don't put more of that facepaint on. If you have to, make paints out of something else." Booker continued to explain. Ducking into the surgery room, he grabbed a handful of useful jars and carried them back to his own room. "Hold on one second…"

"Er, what's a second?" The man was truly confused now.

"Think of the time it takes a spark to fly off a piece of flint." Booker suggested. Setting down the medicines, he began to quickly grind and combine bits of herb in the mortar's bowl, before scraping them onto a piece of bandage.

Carefully winding it around the man's face, he smiled. "There, that ought to do."

The man was wincing, squirming and setting his teeth on edge as the abrasive medicines made contact with his wounds. "Ahh, it really stings…"

"Don't worry, it will fade. I get the impression you've put yourself through a lot lately… I suggest you rest a little bit." Booker said as the man limped out of his makeshift office. I wish I had enough painkillers to justify giving him some…

This hospital is barely alive. They can barely treat patients with trivial needs.

The next to enter the room was a stick-thin old woman wrapped in many layers of cloth, with badly shaking hands. Booker could tell the problem was arthritis at a glance. In fact, he was more interested in the brand on her face. While age had dissolved the tattoo's clarity into a rough blur of blue ink, he could still read it – 'Outsider' it read.

So she's from one of the tribes the Sect has enmity with, but still lives inside the city. Rain's memory wasn't very reliable on the topic of the forbidden tribes, only that they'd contested the Mantis Sect's rise long ago.

"My hands are a little stiff…" She said, which was clearly an understatement.

Let's see. The book has plenty of herbs that could fix that and…

We don't… His hand hovered over the collection of dried roots and herbs.

Have any of them. He grit his teeth.

"Wait one second." Booker said as he stepped out the door. "I'll be right back." He reassured everyone as he quickly left the hospital entirely, striding out into the street and taking a hard right, towards the herb market.

It took barely twenty liang to more than replenish the hospital's stock. Twenty silver to buy painkillers, plague-cures, salves for rashes, and a half-dozen other useful medicines. His ability to judge the quality of herbs let him easily pick the best specimens; the shopkeepers were quick to praise his discerning eye as he sorted through their stock with a sort of distracted expertise. But that didn't improve his mood at all.

This is ridiculous. The city is prospering – why is the hospital running off scraps.

By the time he made it back, the doctor had finished the surgery and was cleaning his hands in the small basin. The patient was utterly unconscious, drifting off sometime during the sea of pain.

"Sorry for the wait." Booker said, lifting the heavy wooden casket in his hands. "I have a gift from the Sect."

The doctor raised an eyebrow, but said, "Most appreciated."

Setting it down, Booker unpacked the ingredients and began to chop, peel, and process them with his blade. He hummed to himself, dropping the results into the mortar bowl and grinding up a quick paste with minor healing and numbing properties. The whole thing took only a few seconds.

"My, those are fast hands." The doctor complimented.

"Thank you." Booker tapped his knife on the crate of medicinal herbs. "How long should these last you? Assuming you cut down on the bone meal."

"Er, only a half-month, I think. Even then I'd have to be pretty generous with the bone meal." The doctor said with a tone of apology. "Did you buy that with your own money?"

"It's a gift–" Booker began, but a glance told him the doctor wasn't buying it. "From me." He admitted.

"Child, I don't know why those three were afraid to bring you to the Sect for healing, but that's where most people in the city go. This hospital, er… It serves…"

"People who won't or can't go to the Sect." Booker completed. That's why it's so poorly funded. The Sect doesn't want this place to exist at all – so they've let it starve.

"Exactly. Your generosity is appreciated, but, er, in your position…" Again the doctor trailed off.

"I'll be careful." Booker agreed. "But I owe you a debt today, and I intend to pay it."

"Ah…" The doctor fully seemed not to know what to say, so Booker left him there, carrying his alchemical salve over to the next room where the old lady was waiting.

She had slumped in her chair, and was clearly napping until she heard the creek of the door, at which point she made a clumsy attempt to straighten up.

"Sorry, we had to go out for more medicine." Booker explained as he brushed the salve onto a set of bandages. Kneeling down, he began to wrap her hands, leaving the fingers bare so she'd still be able to use them.

"My, such a diligent and polite lad." The old grandmother croaked, looking straight at his brand. Booker had grown to hate it when it people did that. "Such a shame they did that to your handsome face."

"I try not to think about it." Booker replied professionally.

"If only it was so easy…" She sighed. "I think about it all the time…"

Of course, I didn't have to live through the process. Being held down and inked. I remember it – but only barely, Rain was so out of things at the time.

"If you don't mind me asking, what does yours mean?"

"Hah. What a question. Once upon a time in this city, young man, everyone knew what this mark meant. They even feared we'd have our revenge someday." She said with a mixture of faded pride and resentment. "It means I'm one of the Lao-Hain."

Lao-Hain…

It was a name caught up in ancient politics Rain had never bothered to fully understand. The Lao-Hain had once ruled an incredible amount of the Mountain-Gate World, but after a long struggle they had slowly lost territory after territory. They were, to Rain's mind, 'witchy' and strange, with suspiciously foreign customs.

"I don't know much about the Lao-Hain." He admitted.

"Who does? Even when I was a young girl, their memory was fading. If it wasn't for this brand, even I might have forgotten I was Lao-Hain by now." The old woman chuckled. "But afterwards, I made it my business to learn everything I could. But you, you're from that Sect. Aren't you afraid listening to me will fill your mind with heretical notions?" She smiled viciously.

"I'm not afraid of learning. It's never done anything but help me yet." Booker replied honestly. He had finished bandaging, and he straightened up, going to wash his hands.

"Then I'll tell you truthfully. The Lao-Hain conquered this land ages ago, but they weren't evil or wrongheaded, not any more so than when your Mantis Sect took this land from the natives. They intermarried and allowed the old customs, and they sought to rule their new citizens as equal to their old blood. The one thing they couldn't abide was your cultivator-gods."

"What did the Lao-Hain worship, then?" Booker asked. Their business was done but he found he was getting a lot of information just by keeping her talking.

"The totem, child." She exclaimed, as if it was obvious. "The spirits of the land and sky."

Totem worship…

I barely know a damn thing about totem spirits, just that they were something Rain's family feared when they were living in the wilderness.

"The totem spirits are always here, unseen. They grow within the mantle over our houses, in the wells in which we draw water, the deep of the forest where only wolves walk. But when they show themselves, they make themselves vulnerable to us. If a cultivator catches a totem in its revealed form, they will surely use their magics to devour it whole, consuming its energies to strengthen themselves."

To Booker's surprise, the book manifested within his mind. Its pages flipped open, revealing a picture of a ghostly woman slumbering among the thread-thin roots of an underground vegetable.

Totem-Marked Herbs

Medicine that has grown uninterrupted for a long period of time will sometimes acquire a totem spirit sleeping within, particularly if allowed to grow in a sacred or qi-rich location. The spiritual nature of the medicine will manifest as a single golden rune somewhere on the herb's body. This mark is invaluable; it will add precious properties to any pill made from the medicine. Even eaten raw, totem-marked herbs are intensely valuable.

Huh, she wasn't kidding. The book doesn't even mention these spirits… except to say you can eat them.

"So the Lao-Hain didn't practice cultivation?" That was what interested him most. If the Lao-Hain had powers other than cultivation – maybe they were powers a cripple could access.

"Ha. Child, I can see what you're thinking." Her eyes sparkled with delight. She had a crow-like nose and yellow teeth missing the bottom-front two, and was in every way derelict and unimpressive, except that Booker felt suddenly pierced through by her gaze.

Martial intent, maybe? Is this what it feels like?

"But what you're asking for is forbidden knowledge. I never learned, and if I had, I'd take those secrets to the grave. They belong to the Lao-Hain and the Lao-Hain are dead now." A chuckle. "Perhaps their secrets should die too."

Heh. What a fierce old lady. She played me good, with all that talk of secret knowledge.

I wonder what she actually knows? Probably not much, but more than nothing I'd bet.

"Your hands should feel a lot better by tomorrow, but you have to rest them if you want the results to last." Booker explained, opening the door.

"You're a kind young man, and I don't get the impression that will serve you well. Not with the Sect. I'll pray for you tonight." She said as she shuffled out the door.

But he didn't feel the least bit apprehensive as she left.

What a fun place…

Everyone here has a reason for the Sect to shun them, and not all of them are keeping it secret. I wonder what else I'll hear.

I might get in trouble for working here…

But as long as I only do it once, I can claim innocence.

"Next," he said.

The next up was a balding man with a very furrowed-up and serious browline, almost cromagnon-like, but an immediately goofy and endearing smile. "Sorry to bother you with something like this at all, sir…" He said as he sat down, and Booker immediately clocked a deep limp. There was sweat coating the man's face, and it was pale.

He pushed the door closed. "What brings you in today?" I like that. Sounds professional. I never thought about it, but being a doctor for a day is pretty fun – especially when you get to skip all that dull time spent studying medicine.

"W-welll…"

The man pulled up the hem of his robes to expose the most horridly infected leg Booker had ever seen. The sight almost made him heave. There was a row of puncture marks in the center, an imprint from the teeth of a predator, and then everything around it had been swollen by infection.

"My daughter's dog is a half-beast breed. He's– a-a little spoiled and maybe not the best trained a-and–"

"Oh damn." Booker turned away, grimacing. "You didn't want the Sect to execute the beast responsible for this attack."

The man nodded with a miserable expression.

"But why didn't you come in sooner?" So much of the damage was preventable…

"My w-wife bought some medicinal m-mud at the market. We really thought it would s-solve the issue…" The man was huffing and puffing with pain, and judging by the sheet-white color his face was turning, was on the verge of passing out. He'd probably been half-unconscious in his chair when Booker called.

"You've been packing your wounds with dirt." Booker noted grimly. "Hold on." He turned to begin mixing medicine. There was a need for nearly everything. Antibiotics, painkillers, something to lower his fever, something to clean out his veins…

By the time he turned around with the finished salve the man was unconscious, looking worse than death.

With a sigh, Booker scooped the salve out of the bowl into his hand. This will be more effective as a pill. He made sure the man was truly unconscious, before turning around to block his line of sight anyway, and thinking, Furnace.

Fire flared between his fingers and the pill was complete.

I'll dust on a little paste of bone meal and rubbing alcohol to disinfect, and so nobody realized I really fed him a pill…

Whisking up the required mixture, Booker quickly slathered it on and fed the man the pill, forcing him back to half-consciousness for long enough to swallow.

Then he went and got the doctor.

"Er, this is extremely bad." Was the doctor's immediate prognosis. "He might lose the limb. Worse, he doesn't look like he's sturdy enough to survive losing it."

"I'm confident in the medicine I made. But if he doesn't wake up in the next hour, then we have to admit it's failed and do whatever comes next." Booker agreed. According to the book's specifications, that kind of pill would never take more than an hour to show effects. If there was no recovery by then, there would be no recovery after…

"These situations are always very ugly. Uh, the fact is, mm, there's a lot of limb to get through, yes, and none of its pretty." The tools he was bringing out to clean and sharpen were extremely frightening.

At least, Booker noted, he's washing them.

So they understand diseases can transmit by contact.

At that moment, there was a commotion as the door to the street crashed open. Through the door, Booker heard someone saying, "I need help immediately. I- I am bleeding and poisoned. I will not be conscious much longer…"

"How about… I'll handle the poison and call you when it's time for the stitching?" Booker suggested. "That way we can take shifts watching this one while fixing up the other."

The doctor, flustered, just nodded.

Booker stepped out into the waiting room to see a young man with shockingly white hair tied back in an untidy bun. Everything he was wearing was covered by a sheet he wore wrapped around him like a cloak. He was leaning hard against the doorframe, one blood-soaked hand clutching his lower side, near the kidney, with blood splattering up and dripping down from there across nearly his entire body.

"How are you still alive?" Booker asked, helping the man by slipping his arm around his shoulders and lifting from below.

Together they limped into the operating room. There was no space on the bed – it was still occupied by the man with the injured knee. Instead Booker found himself laying the patient out on the table, sweepings things aside to make space.

"I'm a cultivator." The young man said. "I was killing a snake-headed beast when one of its young bit me. The wound isn't that bad, but I was out of medicine… And I had to walk a long way here…"

Booker peeled the blood-soaked sheet back from the wound, and winced. For a wound of this size to lose so much blood – he must have kept it open by moving for hours. It was indeed a relatively small wound, but it was so deep it couldn't heal properly, having pierced into the guts. Without treatment, deadly infection was just a matter of time.

Whatever hell it must have been dragging himself here, it was worth it…

It saved his life.

But as Booker was examining the wound, he couldn't help but notice what the young man was trying to hide. He was well-dressed, in good silk robes, but with tribal jewelry dangling from his sleeves and tied around his belt. Rows of carved beads and tooth necklaces and glass pendants hung around his neck.

Most tellingly, he had an amulet of gold stamped with the characters Mountain Shrine Clan hanging from his belt.

Rain knew a little about the mountain clans, and these kinds of seals were given to highborne sons of the chieftain. They marked him as a precious commodity; an heir who could cultivate and bore noble blood from the neighboring kingdoms.

Basically it's a dog tag, and it marks him out so people will ransom him back instead of killing him.

Turning around, Booker began to mix a medicinal paste for the wound. Something with antivenom properties, to expunge the infant snake's poison.

As he did the young man choked out, "No word of this can reach my father."

"Is that why you're here? So your father doesn't hear from the Sect you were hurt?" Booker frowned. "You're stretching the resources of this hospital pretty thin for such a petty reason."

"It's more than petty. My brothers would take advantage of this, and they are– jackals. They cannot be allowed to rule the tribe." The youth declared, although the latter half of his words were tinged with pain as he tried to move too much and encountered the reality of his wounds.

"This is an awful lot of information." Booker said, finishing the antivenom paste. "Are you sure you should be telling me this?"

The young man's fixed him with a steady blue gaze. "I'm trying to convince you to help me."

"And I'm saying you don't have to." Booker replied matter-of-factly. "I'm just a helper at the hospital and the doctor is hardly here to extort people. Your secret is safe; actually, it's safe because it doesn't matter."

"Oh." The young man sounded a little sour about that.

"The snake killing was very impressive though!" Booker said, trying not to sound too much like he was humoring the young man. Which he definitely was. "This is going to hurt." He noted, as he began to slather on the paste. The man tensed, fingers slowly curling into fists.

"And it's done." Booker said.

The young man nodded weakly.

"I'll go get the surgeon." Stepping out through the entrance hall, he entered the far room.

There, Booker was pleasantly surprised to see the man with the dog-bitten leg had recovered enough to open his eyes. "I've dealt with the poison." He said to the exhausted looking doctor.

"Thank you, I don't know how I would have managed without." The man admitted.

"I was actually going to ask– how do you manage? This place seems too worn-down to last a week."

"Once in a while we get a large donation and things get better. And even when we're thin, well, most days aren't like today…" The doctor shook his head. "But when they are… we start sending patients to the Sect. And sometimes the Sect takes pity and treats them, despite their disputes."

And sometimes it doesn't. Booker noted grimly. Not that I can hold it against the Sect. Extending mercy to your enemies is a big ask, even if they only do it 'sometimes'.

"I can help you until the evening bell." He offered.

"We'd be, um, grateful." The doctor agreed.

It's funny, he keeps talking about this hospital as 'we' – but there's nobody else here.

— — —

When he left it was well after the evening bell, and his stomach was rumbling. As he made his way to the teahouse, he enjoyed the sight of streets lit by hanging lanterns, casting wax-colored lights across a city that he found increasingly beautiful.

When he arrived, he saw three familiar faces waiting for him.

The three scam artists who had summoned a very real spirit into the Thorn Street Bathhouse. Their faces brightened as they saw him, as if they weren't sure he was going to show up.

"Ah, I hope you brought your fourth?" He asked.

A chill shiver of mist ran through the air, and Brother Han briefly appeared behind them before fading away again.

"Good, we'll need all five of us." Booker said.

"Er, for what?" The bald-headed and fat one asked.

"Well, I have met the most magnificent friend. Yesterday he gave me five hundred liang, and today, he might give me a thousand." Booker held up a finger. "The one thing is, he can't know it's me he's given it to."

They paused for a moment, and then one by one the lights came on behind their eyes. "Oh! You've met a real sucker and want us to help rob him blind? We're the very men for the job!"

"That's what I was hoping to hear."

Chapter 11: Feeding the Swan Poison

By evening the rain had stopped, leaving behind a thick mist that rolled through the streets. Paper lanterns gleamed above and cicadas chirped. It was like the world had conspired with Booker to give him the perfect atmosphere for the scam he was planning.

Finding the identity of the blue-robed cultivator had turned out easy. He was Young Master Wild Swan and everyone in the markets knew his name. Wild Swan was rich, with sophisticated tastes and an eye for ancient treasures.

As he walked along the darkening street in a corner of the bazaar known for selling curios, merchants quickly adjusted their displays, pushing forward prime artifacts and magical treasures and sweeping back the usual tat they sold to gullible idiots. Hawkers called his name, inviting him into their stalls for a cup of wine or to see the new treasures they'd just brought in from distant lands.

From a dark corner, Booker watched. He had concealed his face with a mask, discarded his novice robes for common rags, and even gone to the alchemy markets for an herb that would change his voice.

They really treat him like a king. He thought, watching Wild Swan casually wave off the hawkers and give the merchant stalls nothing more than a glance, his eyes skimming over the curiosities without interest. Well, let's sell him some poison.

As he stepped past the dark space where Booker was hidden, Booker rang a bell. His eyes snapped instantly to the sound – and to the hideous mask Booker was wearing.

"Young master…" Booker's voice was a too-deep croak full of rust and age. "Three signs you'll witness in the markets today, or my fortune-telling has failed me."

"I didn't ask." Wild Swan snorted disdainfully at the sight of the raggedy old fortune-teller he thought he was looking at. He turned away, but Booker called out.

"You will see a man whose wife is so unfaithful his hair has turned green!"

"You will see a cat chase a ghost away from a teahouse!"

"You will see a man die by the deadliest of poisons known to man!"

With each proclamation, Booker rang the bell. For a moment Wild Swan turned back, glancing at the fortune teller again with something like discomfort. Then he turned and continued on, waving to the whores who piled out onto a teahouse balcony to flirt with him.

When he looked back a second time, the fortune-teller was gone.

Booker grinned as he slid into a back alley behind the markets, pulling off his mask, straightening his walk, and beginning to strip off the smelly rags they'd traded for with a vagrant. That part of his costume was maybe too accurate. The three brothers were waiting for him.

They were:

Lu Wei, the fat brother, with a round head like an egg.

Jie Quing, the skinny beanpole brother, who was constantly nervous.

And Chang Bao, the middle brother, whose hair was currently dyed a tremendously bright green. With alchemy, it hadn't been hard to get the shade right–

But convincing him to go through with it had been another matter.

"Are were sure this will come out again?" He fretted, tugging at his serpent-colored locks.

"Entirely. It was just a simple dye." Booker replied, patting him on the shoulder. "We can wash it out tomorrow."

"Great." He mumbled sourly. "Then all that's left is to wash out my pride."

"Cheer up. Tomorrow, you'll be rich enough that green hair might become the fashion." Booker joked. "When you're rich, it's just that easy."

This first sign is the easy one. Anyone could pull off making a man's hair green, but it starts the process. Soon he'll be seeing miracles everywhere he looks.

The throng of vendors crying out for Wild Swan's attention made it easy to tell when he was approaching. The market street was curved like a 'u' and the alley they'd slipped through led out onto the other side.

With a firm hand on his back, the rest of them shoved Chang Bao out into the street. He froze for a moment, petrified, and then began to walk forward, rubbing his hands nervously.

It only took a moment for the firelight of the lanterns to illuminate his bright green hair. People stared at first, confused by what they were even seeing, and then someone began to laugh. The commotion around him was quickly growing as more people caught sight of the fool with the green hair, and when Wild Swan arrived at the edge of the crowd, nobody was even paying attention to him. He had to force his way forward until he reached the front and caught sight of Chang Bao.

Instantly his demeanor shifted. Stepping forward, he caught Chang Bao by the scruff of his robes and pulled him down onto his knees. "You idiot! Why are you walking about like this? Are you some kind of clown?"

Booker winced. This was a more direct approach than he'd hoped Wild Swan would take. It wasn't outside the plan but…

If Chang Bao panics, everything is lost.

Chang Bao gasped and his face went very pale at the feeling of Wild Swan's iron strength, but he squawked out, "It all happened– yes, it all happened when I walked in on my wife and another man! Ever since then, my hair's been turning green! Nothing I can do washes it out!"

"Moron!" Wild Swan continued to berate him, but Booker could hear the unsettled tone in his voice. "There's no such thing as green hair!"

Dragging Chang Bao forward, he slammed the poor man's head into a barrel of water collecting under a rooftop gutter. Again and again, he dunked Chang Bao under the water. But Booker had used an extremely strong dye. Forget washing it out with water – Booker would struggle to remove that color from Chang Bao's hair.

After splashing Chang Bao down five or ten times, Wild Swan threw him to the ground. "Motherfucker, your hair is really green?"

"Yes!" Chang Bao gasped out. Booker could only pump his fist – this crew might not look like much, but once you gave them a plan, they followed it no matter what. Even after being forced face-first into a water barrel over and over, Chang Bao stuck to the simple script he'd been given.

"Then go home and tell your wife she's a whore!" Wild Swan kicked him once, and as Chang Bao sagged, he walked away.

What a lovely character. Booker thought.

Wild Swan glared at the crowd laughing at Chang Bao. "And you, all of you! Don't you have somewhere better to be?"

And what a strange reaction. Booker was beginning to be puzzled; He seems almost hostile to the idea of the prediction coming true. Does he fear fortunes for some reason?

Either way, his glare was more than enough to send the crowd scattering. Booker and his crew shrank back into the alleyway as Chang Bao crawled away from Wild Swan, who had fully turned on the crowd. "You superstitious idiots!" He called out, raising his fist. The whole crowd shrunk back in shock.

There is definitely something more going on here. Booker thought as he checked on Chang Bao. Despite being waterboarded, as he reached an alleyway and was no longer in the sight of the crowd, he turned back, met eyes with Booker, and lifted his fist.

What a champion. In response, Booker lifted his own fist.

One of the three signs was down. And Wild Swan seemed unsettled, more so than even Booker had hoped. His strange reaction – pure rage – seemed to show he was susceptible to the scam, but it also showed what a wild card he was.

I was expecting him to lie down and chase fate like an idiot. Frankly, it's how Rain thought, so I thought maybe all cultivators would fall for the same trick.

This… This is something different. And maybe dangerous.

But nevertheless… he was in too deep to back out now.

"Come on brothers. Let's get to the next scam…" Squeezing the shoulders of Lu Wei and Jie Quing, Booker retreated out of the alley.

It was time for the next phase.

As the Young Master Wild Swan approached the teahouse, there was a huge commotion. The doors began to swing open, but before they could, a blue-faced spirit burst straight through them, pursued by a fiery alleycat with gray fur and scarred eyes. The alleycat was hissing and spitting, and the ghost seemed genuinely terrified as it rushed past Wild Swan, forcing the young master to leap up on one foot to dodge the alleycat which barrelled past him, hissing and yowling with the very rage of war!

All along the street, people shouted, screamed, and hid behind their stalls. The ghost rushed past, trailing spiritual vapor as the alleycat chased it away from the teahouse.

From behind a stall, Booker chuckled. Brother Han was the one he'd knew he could rely upon; the ghost truly was a great actor, wailing silently and wearing a bug-eyed expression of fear as he fled from the tiny cat, like he was being chased by all the hordes of hell.

As for Wild Swan…

His face had gone completely ashen. He looked pale and sick, as if something was upsetting his stomach, and hung in the surprised pose with his left foot up in the air for far too long. When he finally put his foot down and returned to normal, his face was shock-white and he immediately marched towards the greeter for the teahouse.

"Ah, master Wild Swan. We apologize for the inconvenience. It was only a minor ghost–" The man began to say, but Wild Swan was having none of it.

He grabbed the man by the nape of his neck and yanked him in close. Booker strained to hear what he said next, because it was in a low, bloodless whisper. "Where did you get that cat?"

"Ah, ah, that's the teahouse cat! We've had her forever! I don't know what got into her!"

But Booker did. Beast-Taming wasn't a property he could buy at the markets. But creating a battle rage pill was easy enough he could have done it in his sleep.

And since the ghost was the next thing the cat saw, all its rage was focused on Brother Han. Chasing him out of the teahouse was nothing! Hyped up on battle rage, the scarred old teahouse cat would have tried to chase a whole army if the army had been willing to run from it, and even if they weren't it would have tried anyway!

That was why Booker had fed it the pill in a bit of tuna, after all.

Wild Swan seemed shaken as he let the man slip out of his grip. He mumbled something, and when the attendant nervously asked him to repeat it, shouted violently, spit flying into the man's face. "I said, I WANT THE BALCONY! Can you not even get that right? Must I repeat myself? I want the balcony seats! Three more are on their way, and we expect the best of service – so you can get out of my sight!"

A casual slap knocked the man to the ground, and Wild Swan seemed on the verge of attacking again before the teahouse's owner appeared, descending the stairs to the base floor. She was an absolutely gorgeous woman, her face painted to appear porcelain white with elegant lips and imposingly bright eyes, her body concealed behind a silk dress. "Wild Swan, why are you so cruel today?" She called out, her voice piercing.

Even Wild Swan, even in his current state, paused for this level of beauty. His face flashed nervous embarrassment, and he grabbed the man by the shoulder and pulled him back onto his feet. "My… composure slipped… that's all."

Booker couldn't help but crack a grin. So the great Young Master Wild Swan was susceptible to beauties. That would be good to know if they had to pull another caper like this…

As the beautiful madame led Wild Swan up the stairs to the balcony, Booker retreated back out of sight.

In the mouth of an alleyway, Lu Wei was preparing for his role by gulping down gallons of water they'd tinted with red dyes. As Booker returned, he lowered the jug and gasped out… "Is everything well?"

"Everything's going exactly to plan. Wild Swan has taken roost on the balcony, and is in the perfect position to see your show." Booker said.

"Ah, but are we sure this will work?" Ji Quing nervously asked, rubbing his hands together. "I mean… No, it has to be said! Wild Swan could kill any of us as easily as we could wave our hands! And you saw him yourself! He's enraged. He'll surely act like a madman when he sees this sign too, and Lu Wei could really die!"

Lu Wei burped nauseously, and said, "I admit, this plan seems… grotesque."

But if Lu Wei was merely doubtful, Ji Quing was deep in the middle of a crisis of faith. Cold sweat dripped down every inch of his face. "Cultivators… cultivators fight beasts face-to-face and upheave entire countries. What chance do we have, brothers? We're just rabbits trying to trick a tiger…"

Booker placed his hand on the trembling man's shoulder. "How do you think a cultivator puts on their pants, Quing?"

He blinked in confusion.

"One leg at a time." Booker answered his own question. "And they piss with their dicks in hand too, if you were wondering. The fact is, they're stupid and greedy, hungry and angry, all of the mixed up things that come with being human. And our ancestors…"

He pulled Ji Quing to look dead into his eyes.

"Our ancestors weren't the strongest or the fastest creatures alive. They didn't survive by strength or speed. We're not tigers and we're not rabbits. Our ancestors survived because they were smart, just like us. We're humans. That goes for cultivators – and that goes for us too. There's not a single member of the human race who can't fall for a scam. Do you hear me?"

"Y-yes." Ji Quing stumbled out, squeezing his hand into a fist. "They're just– they're just human."

Letting out a swollen belch, Lu Wei slapped Booker on the shoulder. "Give me the pill. It's time for my big entrance."

Booker passed him a small, unassuming pill, and Lu Wei placed it between his teeth as he composed himself, taking on the role of a passing merchant. Not a person on the street took notice of him as he stepped out of the alley and walked along the road…

Not until he came to right beneath the balcony where Wild Swan was sitting, and suddenly froze. Booker caught the small motion of his throat as Lu Wei swallowed the pill. His face turned shock white, and he dropped to his knees. People glanced at him in alarm as he opened his mouth, and let out a strange, gasping sound, "Ghhauuaaa!"

And before anyone could reach out to help him, his mouth suddenly exploded open, and he vomited a geyser of blood! Two, three, four… five meters of blood! It shot up alongside the balcony of the teahouse, and Wild Swan surged from his seat in shock.

"GHAAUUUAAA!" With a scream, he vomited blood again! This time it spewed across the ground and filled the gutters.

Back in the alley, Booker leaned against the wall and covered his mouth, laughing hysterically.

That was some poison alright!

Chapter 11: Feeding the Swan Poison (Part 2)

The whole market had come to a standstill as Lu Wei struggled across the ground like a drunken beetle, and people stepped back to avoid his 'blood' flooding across their shoes as he continued to vomit up the red dye water he'd swallowed. It was a truly sick scene, and several people were shrieking or running, especially those showered by the initial six-foot plume of blood.

Booker could only hold back laughter. On the balcony, Wild Swan gripped the railing and stared down. Lu Wei was coming to the end of his performance. With his stomach totally empty, he continued to retch several times before simply slumping down into a pool of his own 'blood'. It was totally disgusting, and Booker probably owed him a drink for going through with it.

As Lu Wei collapsed, Booker's final helper rushed onto the scene. It was the doctor from the clinic, and he only had a two lines. "He's been poisoned! You and you, help me carry him to the hospital."

That nailed it.

On the balcony, Wild Swan's face had turned completely white. There was a splintering sound, and a piece of the railing broke away underneath his fingers.

From here the plan splits two ways; either he doesn't bite down hard, and we have to wait till tomorrow for me to reappear as the 'fortune teller' orrrr.... He goes looking for me now that he's seen my predictions 'come true'.

After a moment, Wild Swan looked down and saw the chunk of railing that had been crushed in his hand, and dropped it with a numb expression. He stepped back from the edge, said something to his friends, and then took a running leap off the balcony. The crowd gasped as his blue robes swirled and his feet slammed into the ground.

Barely sparing a look at Lu Wei, he began to run at his full and nearly inhuman speed through the markets.

And that's a bite! Booker grinned. As Lu Wei hurtled through the crowded streets, the mob parted, people shouting out his name as he shot past. Booker was doing his best to keep pace by following him through alleyways that cut between the bends of the serpentine market street, but he was still falling behind as Wild Swan rushed past like a blue streak.

When he reached the part of the market where he had first been given the fortune, Wild Swan skidded to a halt. His eyes swept the scene. Booker, gasping and panting as he arrived well behind Wild Swan, kept himself hidden until he had time to regain his breath, pulling on the rags and masks. If I knew he was going to run here I would have given myself a head start.

The essence of a fortune-telling scam was simple. They were usually run alongside lottery or raffle scams, anything that included an element of luck. The fortune-teller would convince the mark that they could really foresee the results of the lottery, giving them the winning numbers, and encourage them to bet more and more. Of course, when they finally bet all their money on the outcome– the luck they'd been promised would dry up, and the fortune-teller would be nowhere to be found.

Of course, Wild Swan wasn't known to gamble on lotteries. But he did love curiosities, ancient trinkets, and similar mystic baubles.

And if he's anything like Rain, somewhere in the back of his mind, there exists the possibility that one of those ancient trophies will reveal mystic powers. It's not unknown in this world, it really happens – so why couldn't it happen to him?

Booker stepped out into the light in full disguise, using an old piece of driftwood as a cane to imitate a limp. As soon as Wild Swan caught sight of him, an unknowable emotion ran across the boy's face. Up close, it was easier to remember that Wild Swan was only fourteen at most.

Honestly I'd feel bad picking on him… But rich is rich, and he can afford to lose both his money and some of his pride.

"The young master returns!" Booker croaked out, voice shifted by medicine. He lifted both his hands to the sky dramatically, gesturing with the cane. "Did my fortunes come true?"

"Yes!" The look on Wild Swan's face was… religious fear? Booker didn't know how else to phrase it. It was the look of someone terrified of the very universe around them. "That's why I have to know!"

He sank to one knee and placed his fist on the ground, fully bowing. Booker was taken aback by the sincerity of the gesture.

"Is it possible to defy the commands of fate?"

Oh fuck. Oh this is why he's been responding so strangely all day. He's already run into a fortune teller who's given him some kind of evil prediction. And worse, I know I'm a con artist, but I have to consider they might not have been. I've already accepted magic as real – it would be foolish to write off the possibility that fate is too.

"Fate… is made by man." At least I fucking hope it is. "The future… is born from the present you make. If you wish to defy fate… You must first learn to believe in a different outcome. In short, you must believe in your own potential. But you'll also need heaven defying luck. Listen to me; when eyes of jade look your way and the ancient gods scowl, believe in your own luck!"

And he flung a lit grenade to his feet. This one, he'd taken out half the black powder inside and added dust to the compartment for alchemical poisons. The result was an explosion without any teeth that kicked sand up into the air, creating a swirling veil. He'd even mixed in some copper filings to make the flame blaze green.

So in a flash of green flame and a burst of sand, he vanished.

For a single instant Wild Swan was stunned, and then he barreled forward, shouting– "Wait!"

He went clear through the alley out onto the street on the other side, and frantically turned left and right, carriages tilting to swerve away from the madman who'd rushed out in front of them. But no matter how he looked, he couldn't see any sign of the mysterious fortune-teller in the white wooden mask.

That was because Booker had dived headfirst into a cart that was driving past, buried himself under a tarp, and gone completely still. Surrounding by bales of firewood, he was completely disguised as he stripped off the beggar's rags and tucked the mask into his robes.

All told this expedition had been expensive.

The rags and the mask had cost him three liang.

The medicines to dye Chang Bao's hair had been surprising expensive, at five liang.

The medicines to infuriate the alleycat, Booker had gathered for free from the Sect gardens.

The medicines to make Lu Wei puke explosively, had cost thirteen liang.

The cart and driver had cost them five liang to rent for the day, and the firewood another five.

All those expenses had left them with twenty-four liang to buy the centerpiece of the whole plan, which was in Ji Quing's hands now.

As the cart turned a corner out of sight, Booker dismounted in his novice robes and made his way quickly to a square in front of the Sect gates. This was where Wild Swan always ended his strolls through the market, with cherry-filled sweet buns from a food stall that he was known to be fiercely protective of. For no reason anybody knew, Wild Swan adored their food and was uniquely kind to the little old lady who served the food there. He was also known to savagely beat anybody who interrupted him while he was eating his sweet bun.

But today would be an exception.

Meeting up with Lu Wei, who was clutching a bucket, and Chang Bao, who was still green, Booker nodded, "The plan is on."

They all piled into the backyard of a teahouse and watched from behind a short wall. Ji Quing was sitting right next to the old lady, appearing like another merchant. He was in the perfect place to find Wild Swan off-guard.

And he was risking, by far, the most.

When they had drawn straws, Booker had obviously rigged the drawing so he would be the fortune teller. But he hadn't counted on Ji Quing drawing the short one. The brother he saw as the junior – the most nervous, the most likely to break under pressure – was sitting in for the role the entire plan hinged upon.

If he failed even slightly, they would have to abandon the plan entirely and rush out of hiding to save him. At that point, all bets were off.

But as Wild Swan appeared, Booker felt his odds rising. The young cultivator was clearly unhinged, walking with a sort of hurried nervousness and chewing at a hangnail like a dog with a bone.

As he stepped up towards the cherry-bun stall, Ji Quing burst out with– "Young master?"

Instantly Wild Swan spun around and lifted his hand to strike – but before he could, Ji Quing bent down and lifted up a small bronze idol, using it to shield himself while he cowered.

The bronze idol depicted some ancient tribal god scowling, and the eyes were made from flecks of deep green jade.

Wild Swan was stunned for a moment and Ji Quing took the opportunity to stammer out, "Please buy this idol from me young master! I don't know what, but my grandfather always told me it had a secret to tell! And– And I need money for my little boy, who's sick, oh, my little boy is so sick!"

Booker winced. That last part was all Ji Quing.

For a moment Wild Swan hesitated, then he said, "Fine! Take ten liang and be gone."

He scattered coin at Ji Quing's feet, but just as Ji Quing reached out to give him the idol, Xan jogged up and shouted, "Hey! Don't let him treat you like that!"

Booker grinned. Xan might have struck most people as a big oaf, but he was pretty good at improvising lines.

"I'll give you twenty liang." Xan offered.

This was the meat of the plan. They'd get nothing if they couldn't drive up the price – but Xan had agreed to the part and not even asked why.

"Thirty." Wild Swan spat out instantly, "And you!" He pointed an accusing finger at Xan, "Fuck off, the man offered it to me!"

Booker was trying not to laugh again. Wild Swan had taken the bait; he had refocused onto Xan and stopped trying to judge the idol's real value. Now what he was really weighing was how much he valued winning.

"But for forty it's mine!" Xan snapped back, grinning evilly.

How high would they go?

Wild Swan didn't bother going to fifty. "One hundred!"

"Two." Xan replied with a smirk.

"You don't have two hundred!" Wild Swan protested.

Damn, he's got us on that. But again, Xan's improvisations came in clutch.

"Show me what you've got then." Xan returned, crossing his arms indifferently. "Pour it out. And I'll match it."

For a moment Wild Swan stood stricken, and maybe some part of him sensed something was off. But at the same time… Booker could almost see the gears in his head turning. The fortune-teller had said to believe in his own luck! This idol was a mysterious scowling god with eyes of jade, clearly the answer to the prophecy! Could he really afford to ignore this chance? Just to save a little money? What did money mean to him anyway!?

With a snarl, Wild Swan ripped two pouches off his belt. "Each of these bags…" He dumped them out, one by one. Golden coins shaped like round-edged tablets fell out, sparkling like shards of sunlight on the ground. "Contains five hundred-liang coins cast from skygold!"

"Hmm." Xan pretended to scratch his cheek. "I admit I'm beat, but still– I thought you were richer than that."

"I'll take it!" Ji Quing shouted, grabbing the coins. "Here, take the idol! May it bring you luck!" Pushing the ugly statue into Wild Swan's hands, he grabbed up the precious coins and bowed his head repeatedly before ducking away and running – as much to get away from Wild Swan as to outpace any thugs who'd seen those ten golden coins and gotten ideas.

Behind the wall, Booker and the rest were screaming in dead silence, staring at each other with mouths open and pumping their fists to the air in triumph. One thousand liang! They were fucking rich!

They crawled away from the wall, and met up with Ji Quing. As he showed them all the ten gold coins in his hand they screamed again, aloud this time, tilting their heads back and howling up to the moon like dogs. It was an absolute triumph!

— — —

As they sat together in an empty teahouse, the entire place rented to them for the rest of the night, the three brothers lifted their bowls of wine to toast.

"We swear loyalty!"

"We swear it!"

"Eternal loyalty for Brother Rain!"

Their eyes sparkled drunkenly and wine sloshed across the table. "Brothers, brothers… We can't be using our real names anymore!" Booker shouted out, lifting his own bowl. Like the rest of them, he was totally drunk off his ass. "We're daoists! Cultivators of the scamming dao! We need…" He slammed his fist onto the table. "Cultivator names!"

"Me first." The bald Lu Wei slapped the table. Booker took one look at his round, egg-shaped skull and shouted,

"Daoist Egg!" But just as Lu Wei's mouth started to curl with distaste, he added, "Because you know he gets laid!"

The entire table howled with laughter, and Lu Wei pressed his flat-handed palms together into a triangle, bowing, "Daoist Egg it is!"

"Me, me." The skinny Ji Quing pounded the table.

"You? You shone today!" Booker lifted his bowl and they all drank. With wine running down his chin, he shouted, "Daoist Inchworm, because you know he's gonna be great when he comes out of his shell!"

"Do me, do me..!" Chang Bao demanded.

Booker looked at him and…

Honestly, there isn't a single thing about him that stands out! He's really the perfect middle-man to big Lu Wei and little Ji Quing, but aside from that – he's just the most normal person!

"Uhhh, Daoist…" Booker froze, and then, letting himself panic and stumble for once, shouted out, "Daoist Roaring Lion!"

"Daoist Roaring Lion?!" Lu Wei protested. "Hold on, you gave me Daoist Egg! Why does he get a good name?"

"This is outrageous!" Ji Quing added in, splashing wine over himself. "Outrageous."

"Ha! Both of you simply have mundane souls." Daoist Roaring Lion proudly proclaimed, "I'm cut from higher cloth. You can't match my unshakeable foundations, and clearly Brother Rain–"

"Use my daoist name, Booker." Booker cut in.

"Booker?" They all looked confused. "What kind of daoist name is is that?"

"Maybe, uh, Brother Booker isn't so good at naming things after all." Daoist Egg snickered. "He might have had a bit too much to drink. Yes, his great and powerful brain is overworked."

"Fuck you, I'm dead-" Booker struggled not to slur the word, "-sober."

He leaned back and let the conversation fade from his ears. Instead, he indulged in holding up one of the golden coins, letting it strike the light and gleam like a tiny star. It was the most wealth he'd ever touched in either life he'd lived.

Well, cross one dream off… Never mind Roaring Lion, I got the lion's share. Six hundred liang.

I'm rich.

Chapter 12: Fortune Strikes

Booker woke up in his room with little idea how the last of the night had gone. He had bid a tearful goodbye to the three brothers, explaining that with the success of their scam, they shouldn't be seen in each other's company for at least a week. He hoped he'd remembered to set them looking for connections to the child buried beneath the bathhouse. If not…

He'd have to find a way to stay in contact without revealing his connections to them.

Heavy is the head that bears the crown. He grumbled, trying to shrug off the sunlight falling through the shutters onto his eyes. It was a losing battle. Heavy, heavy, heavy…

Stretching, he slid out of bed naked and shadowboxed around the narrow confines of his room, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet and throwing quick jabs, heavy rights, feeling out the basic vigor of this new body until sweat dripped down his face. In the corner, a confused Snips was attempting to dance along, waving his claws in rhythm.

Booker smiled. He had been nearing the end of his 20s– enough to feel the beginnings of age's gravity pulling down the arc of his MMA 'career'. Now he wasn't sure if his body had even hit twenty proper. He was tall and lean with a dense muscle and a chance of one last growth spurt. With better nutrition and modern weightlifting, Booker could pack a real muscle onto this frame.

I really need to cut down on the nights I spend drinking…

I haven't trained nearly enough for the Martial Basis quest. A few less parties and it'd be done already.

But I need better food, too. This congee diet isn't doing me any favors in terms of nutrition.

He cleaned up in the basin, thanking the source of the Sect's cold, clean water, which trickled out from a small hole in the wall. No other buildings in town had any sort of plumbing, but the Sect had a single continuous flow.

Washing his hair, he sighed as he went through the motions of tying and layering his robes. It was a black outer robe around a white inner robe. Both were tied shut by a sash of red cloth. I wish we could dress like normal people.

But before he left for the day, there was one thing he wanted to see.

Quest: Miracle Worker

Goal: Heal (5/5) other people of their sicknesses or wounds.

Reward: Karmic Pill.

His work in the hospital had finished this quest, and he wanted to know what a 'Karmic Pill' might be.

As he focused on the quest, a light poured through the surface of his outstretched hand, materializing into a small redwood box that sat neatly in his palm, barely large enough to contain a single pill. As he set it down and pried open the lid, a bloody metallic sourness reached his nose, distinctly unlike the heavenly aromas of other medicines.

Within was a pitch black pill. Unlike a normal pill with a smooth surface, the exterior was wrinkled and warped like a walnut, with many ridges and trenches arranged in a spiral.

On the inside of the lid was written 'This is a lucky pill. What kind of luck depends on you."

That… could mean almost anything.

Iron Hell Crucible Pill

29% Potency // 43% Toxicity

Effect:

Grants a burst of energy, resilience to pain, and exercise efficiency. Forges the body stronger.

Special Effect: Benefits are magnified by physical strain and damage taken during the effects of this pill.

Ingredients:

Bitter River Draketongue

Blue Imp Toxin

Jade Twin-Tail Scorpion Gland

Hangman Willow Bark

Hmm. The pill itself has nothing to do with luck, so I guess I can put together that Karmic Pill means some kind of random draw.

His nose wrinkled.

Does it being a hell pill mean I have bad luck?

— — —

Overnight the clouds above the city had transformed. From a low and persistent drizzle, the rain had become a driving force of cold wind and sharp, stinging droplets. The trees beyond the city bent and swayed wildly in the gale.

Thunder crackled within massive inverse canyons carved between the clouds. In those spaces, Booker thought he saw the white shapes of birds flying through the storm's desolate gray towers. Storms were simply bigger here – more magnificent, more threatening, the wind strong enough to pluck people off the streets unless they stayed indoors. A true storm could rip the rooftops of the city apart.

But for the cultivating students it was a time of excitement. As a group they were preparing, tied together with ropes and dressed in heavy hoods to absorb the rain. When the instructor called they would begin to climb the mountain, rushing through the alpine forests and trudging against the sloping mud, until they reached the mountain range's lowest peak, the Stormfront Pagoda.

There they would cultivate under the lightning-strewn heavens, collecting the energies of storm and wind to use in their cultivation.

Booker was glad he wasn't one of them today. He got to stay indoors, and eat free congee. Because there were fewer mouths to feed, it wasn't the burnt ends from the bottom of the cauldron today, and there were pickled greens and bacon chunks sprinkled on top. Booker sat down with a grin.

"You're chipper today." Spider said.

Booker looked up. The wiry, bald-headed cripple sat across from him, digging into a bowl of congee. Hmm. What's he want?

"Yeah, well… The storm is out there and I'm in here. That puts a smile on any face, surely." Booker allowed himself to ease up, treating the conversation as casual talk instead of some kind of verbal duel. "And the food is good today."

"The food is good today…" Spider agreed sleepily, stirring at his congee and lifting a piece to his mouth. He slowly chewed, taking his time to get to the point. "But today's the day the examiner for the Sparrow Examination is chosen, Rain." He leaned forward and his eyes shone.

"And who would that be?" Booker asked cautiously.

Behind them, the doors banged open and the crews of tied-together cultivators went roaring out into the boom and pour of the rainstorm.

"Word is, it's Instructor Graysky." Spider said happily.

Graysky. The name brought instant bile to the pit of Booker's stomach. Rain's memory of him was pure, acrid hate. The Instructor who had Rain branded. He hates me – he always has, because of something my sister did.

He'd never gotten the details.

Shit. I'm not going to pass with him at the helm. Not a single chance. Booker's expression turned sour and he glared at Spider, knowing full well the man had gotten what he wanted.

Spider chuckled and stirred his congee.

"Ugh, an animal. Get out you filthy vulture!" Sister Mei snapped, sitting down beside Booker and glaring at Spider. The man laughed and pulled his tray off the table, walking away and settling with his friends further down.

"Thank you Sister Mei. You are a shield against all evils." Booker said. She did a petite bow, accepting the praise like a venerable master.

"You shouldn't let the ugly old vultures bother you like that. They don't see you like I do. They see you being nice, and they think it's weakness." Sister Mei bumped her shoulder against him.

"I'll keep your advice in mind. You certainly seem adept at warding them off." Booker ate with enthusiasm between words. He needed all the food he could get if he was going to keep up this triple life, working and training and getting into trouble in the city.

Honestly, I can read her signals but… I don't have time for romance. I especially don't want to end up in relationship where I have to lie.

This whole dual-life situation… It's really a lot on my shoulders.

But if there was one thing that relaxed him, it was working. Oddly, there was a great deal of satisfaction in the act for Booker. The lightning-fast way his hands moved, like they had a lifetime of experience, the razor certainty with which he could handle the knife… It took just enough effort to be satisfying and just little enough that he could think.

He was smiling faintly as he made his way to the alchemy lab.

— — —

"Today, we were meant to go out and police the forest for toxic weeds. But the heavens had other plans." The old master said, tying on his apron. "Do you know the root nature of toxic plants?"

Booker paused, trying to think. The root nature of toxic plants. "No." He admitted.

"Plants draw power from the soil, the water, and the sun. Of these three, the soil is the source of toxicity. If you taste it…" He reached into the pot holding a small leafy herb, taking a pinch of the dirt and placing it in his mouth. With a wave, he suggested Booker do the same.

Booker did so, and winced. He couldn't taste a damn thing over how much he hated the texture on his tongue.

"You'll sense a bitter, metallic flavor. But were you to taste the soil of the upper mountain, it might taste sweeter. That's because the Sect has drawn the pollution out with a formation of sacred trees. This allows sacred herbs to survive and prosper, where normally the inherent sickness of the earth prevents all but a rare few specimens from flourishing."

"The earth is poisoned?" Booker asked, scraping his tongue clean.

"This earth's essential nature is poison. Only rainwater and the wind are pure; everything that touches the ground inherits some portion of the pollution." The master gestured to a small beaker full of something pitch black. It only took Booker a moment to recognize it; beast blood. "And where this pollution grows too thick, monsters are born. Common animals and plants can become possessed by a rabid desire to kill humans; this plague manifests as red eyes."

He took the beaker in a pair of tongs and held it out towards Booker. The blood inside began to writhe, extending into red tendrils that brushed the glass inside the beaker.

"You see? The plague changes them on a fundamental level. Even their blood seeks to kill humans." His master said triumphantly.

"Why? What makes the plague so hateful towards us?" Booker asked.

"Hateful? It's not hate, but greed. The greed for immortality. Beasts and corrupted cultivators practice a form of cultivation that can only devour others. It creates nothing, but one can achieve immortal life simply by killing and eating." He set the beaker back down, and explained the final part in a soft voice. "Listen to me, Rain. Every pill we create contains a certain amount of poison. Pill usage leads to psychosis, to fits of rage… to addiction."

Booker remained silent.

"It is of the utmost importance to use medicine carefully. That said…" He did not look directly at Booker as he asked. "Have you been approached by illicit alchemists yet?"

Booker paused for a second, and then realized there was no need to lie – whatever faults Rain had, he'd chosen to die over remaining Zheng Bai's dog.

"I was approached before I knew who they were, and they helped me with my exams. When I found out what they wanted, I told them no." Booker said, leaning back against a granite topped workbench. "I think they'll kick me around a bit but I don't think they'll kill me."

I like the old geezer too much to really bend the truth, but Rain made it easy.

"They will certainly not!" The master's nostrils flared, and he turned. "Make no mistake, your master is no pushover. If they try to bother you, you will remind them I am not blind. Harm you, and I'll tear up all their petty grifts in this workshop!"

His words echoed and several people in the workshop looked over. Booker winced, but when the embarrassment faded, what he was left with was a deep impression – his master did really care about him. He scratched the back of his neck.

"Thank you, master."

"Mm. Listen to your master, Rain, because one day this duty may fall to you. The workshop is infested with parasites." His master's voice lowered to an uncharacteristically harsh whisper. "The black market feeds off the Sect wherever it finds weakness. Too many disciples are content to collect their dirty money without looking at the full picture, and seeing how many small leaks will sink the ship."

Damn. Poor Master Ping… He's really bad at spotting a liar. And he trusts with his whole heart. I guess I'm lucky to be here. If someone who was willing to take advantage of his generosity had become his apprentice…

It wasn't hard to see how badly that could go.

But before the conversation could continue, there was a banging on the doors to the courtyard, and someone shouted, "Open the doors! There's a man injured!"

As disciples rushed to move the massive wood bolt and pulled it aside, the wind drove the doors open. Six men came through bearing a seventh on a stretcher. It was Wild Swan, but his face was red and raw with vibrant red burns and his hair had turned shock-white, smoke trailing up from where embers flickered and burned on the edges of his skin.

"What happened?" Booker asked as he rushed to the boy's side, checking his vitals with a finger to the neck. Despite everything, his breathing was clear and strong.

"Struck by lightning!" A rain-soaked cultivator gasped out.

They all heaved him onto a table on the workshop. His master elbowed his way in, pressing a pill to the boy's lips. Seizing a pair of cutting sheers he began to cut away Wild Swan's clothes. As he peeled the cloth away from the burns wounds, flesh sloughed off. He hissed.

"Disinfect some tar." His master commanded. Booker immediately seized ingredients off the shelf, tossing pillow moss bloom and coldfinger root together and dicing them into a paste, mixing the sticky sap of the flowers and the root together with pine tar to create a disinfectant paste that could be packed into a wound to glue it shut.

Joining his master, Booker began to slather it over the boy's wounds. "Cover everything you can. His burns are wide but shallow; more risk of death by infection than anything." His master said. "I will go fetch something strong."

He rushed off, and Booker was for the moment alone in the duty of caring to Wild Swan. The six disciples were nervously clustered around him, but offered no help. Some of them…

Some of them looked hungry. They had the dark eyes of vultures, gleaming with delight at the talented Wild Swan's downfall.

Booker checked the boy's belt. It was empty. No coin pouch or any other cultivating tools.

He looked up venomously at the nearest cultivator. "Do you want me to tell his father he was robbed on his deathbed?"

"Wha-" The man started to protest innocence, but Booker cut in

"His coin purse. His things. All of them are missing; did you think nobody would notice?" In the background rain and storm billowed into the courtyard as servants struggled to push the door closed against the roaring wind.

"Did the storm blow your wits out, cripple? Don't talk to us like that." Another disciple, lanky and long-haired, stepped in. His lips curled.

"I'll talk alright – I'll tell his father he died surrounded by jackals. And worse, he might not die. Do you think he'll abandon the matter if he discovers you took advantage of him today?" Booker didn't flinch as the cultivator stepped up to him, cracking his neck.

"What are you going to do?" He asked, pushing his face towards Booker's with a menacing snort. "Tell me again?"

"You don't have a winning hand." Booker replied, eye-to-eye. "The boy's father will extract payment, or the boy will. Anything you do will backfire."

The man stepped back and then suddenly threw a punch. Booker was ready for this most sophomoric of strategies. The blow exploded against the back of his arm, nearly breaking the bone, and sent him skidding back.

He checked that. It was only half-power.

Booker read the faint pause and backwards jerk as an attempt to stop short of killing him, but leave him badly bruised. Without that – I might not have been able to block at all.

Now the cultivator snorted, reaching into his robes and taking out a coin purse, he slammed it onto the table beside Wild Swan. "Satisfied now, cripple? He'll die rich while the rest of us eat congee."

"..."

It was so faint Booker couldn't hear it – he barely realized there had been anything to hear.

But Wild Swan had spoken.

"I said–"

"... dol…" Wild Swan's hand rose, shaking.

Booker tilted his head down to hear, and then straightened back up to stare down the cultivators again. The group was posturing tough, but even that first punch had already drawn attention. Instructors and witnesses were circling.

"He wants something back. An idol."

There was a moment of silence, and then a younger cultivator stepped forward, reluctantly pulling something familiar from their robes. It was the bronze idol with the jade-fleck eyes that Booker had sold him a day before.

Did it… The metal must have attracted the lightning.

He snatched the idol away and handed it to Wild Swan, who grasped it weakly.

His master returned, bearing a small wooden coffer. He took a single pill from within with tweezers, placing it into Wild Swan's mouth.

The boy swallowed, and after a moment, a gentle light rose from his chest. His breathing rose and fell, taking on a rhythm, and his fingers began to move. "Lightning steals control of the body. It can paralyze or kill by destroying the heart." His master explained. "I gave him a pill that promotes the regrowth of the spinal column. It's strange, but that is the prescribed method. So long as his heart is strong he should recover."

I'd bet that what that pill really does is repair nervous system tissue. So it could heal a spinal injury or the pervasive damage caused by 1.21 gigawatts of lightning.

Suddenly, Wild Swan's body curled inwards and the boy's head lifted from the pillows as he vomited over the edge of the table. Blood washed out of him, carrying large chunks of vile black tar.

"Lightning… also purifies the body. This is the impurities being forced out."

Or maybe it's some totally magical reason that it works for both. What do I know? Back on earth, lightning didn't make you puke black gunk.

Booker moved to help Wild Swan lie back down, but as soon as his hand came remotely close to the boy's shoulder, a thick spark-edged line of purple lightning jumped off Wild Swan and stung against the palm of Booker's hand.

Wild Swan sat up slowly. His legs folded before him, he rested his arms around his legs and looked very casual. "You're lucky…" His voice was a harsh, grating sandpaper sound. "This cripple saved you." It sounded hollow inside. "If you made me take back my property… I wouldn't have spared you…" Lifting his hand, Wild Swan made lightning sear at the points of each of his fingers, surrounding them with a white-blue glow.

The whole room was spellbound by that sight, the vibrant humming sound it made as the light flickered around his hand.

Wild Swan chopped down with his hand and a beam of lightning flung itself like a spear. It smashed into the wall inches from a disciple's head, and all six of the cultivators who'd brought him in bowed their heads and retreated swiftly from the room. The sudden and total retreat almost made Booker laugh, and he looked over to Wild Swan with a grin, inviting him to share the moment of triumph.

Wild Swan only looked at his own hand, seeing nothing beyond the light of the storm dancing between his fingertips.