The Sundering Blade E-Book

Tao Wong

• Herausgeber: Starlit Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 235

Beschreibung

A blade cuts both ways

Newly minted an Elder of the Verdant Green Waters sect, sword prodigy Elder Cheng Zhao Wan - The Sundering Blade - is forced to leave the sect to fulfil an old obligation. A benefactor from the past is injured and has demanded Elder Cheng locate his assailant.

Forced to listen to the ramblings of a dying old man, amidst a small and unfamiliar sect, who Elder Cheng can trust is unknown. Was the injury nothing more than happenstance, or is something more dire afoot?
For once, Elder Cheng finds that his skill with the sword might be the least of his gifts.

A Thousand Li: The Sundering Blade is a world of A Thousand Li novel, featuring a much younger Master Cheng before he meets Wu Ying. A xianxia fantasy novel, The Sundering Blade is a standalone prequel to the bestselling A Thousand Li series and features high flying martial arts, tense battle scenes and contemplations of the Dao and karma alike.

Leseprobe

The Sundering Blade

A Thousand Li World Novel

by

Tao Wong

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

The Sundering Blade

Copyright © 2023 Tao Wong. All Rights reserved.

Copyright © 2023 Sarah Anderson Cover Designer

Copyright © 2023 Petr Donat Cover Artist

Published by Starlit Publishing

PO Box 30035

High Park PO

Toronto, ON

M6P 3K0

Canada

www.starlitpublishing.com

Ebook ISBN: 9781778551239

Paperback ISBN: 9781778551246

Books in the A Thousand Li Series

Main Series

The First Step

The First Stop

The First War

The Second Expedition

The Second Sect

The Second Storm

The Third Kingdom

The Third Realm

The Third Cut

The Fourth Stage

The Fourth Fall

The Fourth Wall

A Thousand Li World Novel

The Sundering Blade

Short Stories

The Favored Son

The Storming White Clouds Sect

On Gods and Demons

Clifftop Crisis and Transformation

Imperial March

Villages & Illnesses

Descent from the Mountain

The Divine Peak

Fish Ball Quest

Ten Thousand and One Fates

Table of Contents

Books in the A Thousand Li Series

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

A Thousand Li: the First Step Deluxe Edition

Author’s Note

About the Author

About the Publisher

Preview of A Thousand Li: the First Step Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The lowland lake was muddy with silt churned awake by the floods that had swept through the province days ago. In passing, it had taken villages and lives in equal measure. Stray boards and broken pieces of housing still floated through the lake, carried by the rushing water toward the clogged and teeming exit. Trees at the new shores of the overflowing body of water leaned precariously, even as the cries of cranes and ducks echoed through the deceptively peaceful surroundings.

Approaching the clogged entrance, the hongtou1 slowed, the single, long sculling oar—the yuloh—pausing before being raised from the water. At the head of the boat, standing silently, a man regarded the exit of the lake with compressed lips. He was young, barely in his mid-twenties if you could trust his features, though the expensive, black silk robes with dark green edging and the sect crest on its chest spoke of his standing as an immortal cultivator.

“Do not stop,” Cheng Zhao Wan said, his voice calm and commanding and highly refined. No peasant guttural growls or the sharp hiss of the tribesmen, but a nobleman’s speech.

At the back, the fisherman dipped the yuloh into the water once more.

Rather than reach for the unadorned jian by his side, Zhao Wan swung his right hand in a lazy cutting motion. Blade intent ripped outward, empowered by the barest fraction of chi from his dantian, before impacting the blockage, sending wood and water spiraling away and making the smell of mud and churning waters rise anew.

Gulping, the boatman pushed sideways on the oar, intent on delivering his dangerous passenger as quickly as possible. Water droplets rained down upon the boatman from the casual attack, along with splinters of broken wood as the pair passed through the opening in the debris. The fisherman shuddered at the wetting, flinched as a splinter bit into a hand, but he kept back any curse he might utter.

One did not anger cultivators.

Ignorant—or deigning to ignore—the boatman, Zhao Wan searched the horizon, seeking the village and their final destination. His other hand, resting on the hilt of his jian, rubbed the spirit ring on his middle finger as he recalled the urgent summons he had received.

The Forgotten Vale Sect was a small sect as things went in the state of Shen, with four Elders in the Core Formation stage and a Patriarch who had lingered at Nascent Soul for over a half decade. Their total membership barely crossed eighty sect members, with the majority—like most immortal cultivation sects—in the Body Cleansing stage of improvement.

Even so, due to a fortuitous encounter nearly a decade ago, Cheng Zhao Wan owed one of their current Elders a favor. And if there was one thing that Zhao Wan hated with a passion, it was favors owed. It was literally inimical to his dao path.

Now, an opportunity to relieve himself of this karmic burden had arrived and Zhao Wan intended to take it. Even if it might require him to lower himself to digging out mortals from their sodden and wrecked villages.

Lips twisted in a grimace at that thought, Zhao Wan exhaled and tried to still his mind. It would not do to show his distaste at such a mortal endeavor. Farmers were important, fishermen as well. It was not their fault they had been born into such positions, and they certainly were better than the merchants who plied their trade and made nothing.

Still, did they all have to be so ignorant?

Unconsciously, Zhao Wan’s fingers drummed against the hilt of his sword. Impatience would serve him no good, nor would speculation about the reasons for his summons. He would learn soon enough what the Forgotten Vale Sect had to ask of him.

Eventually, the village that was their destination made an appearance on the horizon. As the fisherman pushed against the single oar with renewed energy, Zhao Wan eyed the dock. It was a tattered mess, the piling on one side having broken during the recent storm, the floating portion tilting precariously with half of the dock itself still submerged. Once more, the boat owner slowed his vessel, frowning over the top of the low-slung shelter.

“Thank you for your service.” Zhao Wan had noticed the problem early enough, and with their destination so close, he saw no reason to delay.

He leapt off the boat, crossing half the distance with a single movement, then touched down on the water lightly, pushing against it as he exerted his internal chi. The action was sufficient to propel him the remaining distance, and he landed lightly on a post that stuck out of the water at the shattered dock.

Behind him, the boat owner swore under his breath—though not softly enough for Zhao Wan not to hear—as the boat rocked lightly from the cultivator’s swift departure. He then dipped his oar beneath the water, turning his boat around. If he paddled fast, it was possible that the exit would still be clear, and the boatman might make his way back to his village with minimal fuss. In any case, he had no desire to hang around the cultivation sect.

Bad things happened near immortals, especially to mortals.

Those who sought immortality were often embroiled in battles and other eventful tragedies, as though their very existence brought the wrath of the heavens and the twisting skeins of fate to the fore. Better for the immortals to exist in the jianghu2 and the mortals in the world beside it.

Zhao Wan searched the bamboo forest before him, spotting the muddy path that led away from the lonely dock. He also noted the broken signpost, blown over, next to the head of the path. From his position, the mud-covered signpost was illegible, though he glimpsed the character for what could have been for “forget.”

Choice made and without a greeting party, he leapt once more, letting his chi flow through his body and into his aura. He moved swiftly now, eager to see the end of his trip. His aura allowed him to utilize his sect’s Wind Steps qinggong3 method to swiftly run across the muddy ground. His passing barely disturbed the earth, and even the occasional rain drop or mud splash missed him as his aura easily deflected them.

Speed was important, but a good appearance was just as necessary. After all, he was representing the Verdant Green Waters Sect here, the most powerful immortal organization in the state of Shen. Furthermore, being the youngest Elder in the sect at this time, he had the most to lose if rumors of his uncouth appearance were to spread.

***

The Forgotten Vale Sect was neither in a vale nor forgotten. Its original Patriarch—the current Patriarch’s Master—had told tales of originating from such a place, hidden by mists and guarded by powerful Spirit Beasts.

His tales spoke of a land that he could never return to, for his banishment was permanent and he dared not, even when he reached the Nascent Soul Stage, challenge the leadership of his village. Of course, few believed him. Such stories were commonly created to boost the standing of an immortal cultivator who had no true lineage to call upon. Still, it was clear from the cultivation techniques and battle formations he utilized that he had acquired some lost knowledge.

Such occurrences were not uncommon.

In a land replete with powerful Spirit and Demonic Beasts, outposts of civilization could be overrun long before powerful cultivators or dutiful armies could arrive to save them. In such a world, a lucky wandering cultivator might stumble upon resources thought lost forever more.

Other tales, of cultivation caves where isolated hermits had faded away in pursuit of immortality or smaller sects slaughtered by the dark sects that plagued the jianghu, were commonly bandied about, popular stories being replete with drama and bloodshed.

In the end, no one cared so long as one could back up their wild tales with sufficient strength.

Nowadays, the Forgotten Vale Sect stood on a small rise, their pagoda-like residence overlooking the surrounding lands. What used to be rice fields sat beneath the hill, stepping down from the top to the cleared land in gradual waves. After all, even immortals had need for sustenance.

Recent flooding had seen many of these fields damaged, earthen walls broken, and gathered water flooding outward to spill below. Smaller buildings, residences for the farmers and other servants, stood mostly unharmed, dotted between these fields and steps.

Amidst all this wreckage, mortal peasants worked, their pants rolled up, their chests bare as they propped up sodden walls and sank long branches into the earth to stabilize foundations. Others moved among the dry rice stalks in the upper fields, picking their way between the crops to destroy pests and save the harvest as best they could.

More importantly, to Zhao Wan’s gaze, was the sight of the single Guardian standing aloft the sect building, uncaring about the breeze that threatened his perch. Yellow robes trimmed with purple fluttered in the wind, long dark hair streaming behind him as he watched over the surroundings. Yet as Zhao Wan neared, his gaze locked upon the cultivator.

“Welcome, fellow cultivator. to the Forgotten Vale Sect.”

The voice that spoke seemed to arrive in Zhao Wan’s ears without passing through the intervening space, the smallest bit of chi threading through the air the only hint of the cultivation technique in use.

“We beg forgiveness and understanding for the disarray you find our lands in.”

“You have nothing to excuse. The heaven’s will, and the earth sustains,” Zhao Wan said, trusting the other to have a skill to pick up his words at a distance. He certainly had no such technique to project his voice, though he made a mental note to look into one in the future. “I am Elder Cheng Zhao Wan of the Verdant Green Waters Sect. My presence has been requested by Elder Tung Chee Ying.”

“We have been expecting your arrival. Welcome, once more, honored guest. I am Guardian Mah. Elder Tung awaits you within on the third floor,” Elder Mah replied smoothly. After offering one last nod, he turned his gaze to the surroundings once more.

Zhao Wan did not take offense, understanding that the guardian’s duties required him to be on guard. In a time of calamity such as this, his duties were even more pressing. Demonic Beasts, sensing easy prey, would stalk the mortals whose regular routines and protections were in disarray.

Pouring additional chi through his body, Zhao Wan sped up further, crossing the open land. His passing raised a strong wind that fluttered robes and sent soggy leaves spraying out behind him as he ascended the hill, the peasants exclaiming in surprise at his sudden arrival. Within moments, he was at the door of the pagoda, landing lightly with the barest noise, and released the chi in his body. The pull of the earth resumed once more, making his bones and muscle ache a little at the sudden increase in weight, his hair settling just a touch faster behind him.

Sweeping his hand down his robes and feeling the precious silk slip through his fingers, Zhao Wan ensured he was presentable. Then he knocked.

The door swung open almost immediately, a boy—barely fourteen and an outer sect disciple by his drab robes—offering simple directions. Zhao Wan stepped within and turned toward the staircase alongside the outer wall. Above him, the enclosed wooden timber ceiling with its raised top allowed light to stream in, aided by spirit lights set through the building.

The pagoda itself smelled of wood, of mud and churned earth, of medicine and incense. Shuffling feet, a cough from above, the whisper of a brush on bamboo paper echoed down from above, though it was quieter than what Zhao Wan expected.

He was only required to ask directions once more when he reached the third floor, the scurrying inner sect disciple leading him directly to his benefactor’s door. Yet even before he reached it, Zhao Wan’s nose wrinkled. For a smell, dark and cloying like burnt tar, permeated the floor. At first in traces but growing stronger as he neared the door, such that he held a silk cloth to his nose in disgust.

His guide knocked once before stepping aside and Zhao Wan made his handkerchief disappear, knowing better than to show his distaste.

“Come.” The voice was familiar, but different at the same time. Weaker and thready, unlike the deep baritone Zhao Wan recalled.

Before Zhao Wan could collect his thoughts, the door swung open, releasing a concentrated miasma of the same odor and revealing the horrific sight within.

“Oh, senior…” Zhao Wan stepped within, his voice tinged with dismay, his shock fully exposed.

Elder Tung lay on his bed, propped up on one emaciated elbow, eyes sunken and a corner of the blanket pulled down, exposing his side and revealing the creeping darkness that had infected his torso.

“Young Cheng…” Elder Tung said, gesturing Zhao Wan to his bedside. “You have grown strong and famous. The exploits of the Sundering Blade are spoken of by many.”

“I could not have achieved the heights I have without senior’s guidance.” Zhao Wan bowed low as he crossed the distance and stopped by the bed. He schooled his face, even as the smell grew stronger now that he was near.

“A small enough thing.”

“Not to me.”

A tired laugh, then Elder Tung murmured, “What is a single life saved worth?”

“Everything. Nothing. It all depends on the person, does it not?” Zhao Wan replied.

Squatting with his legs folded underneath him, Zhao Wan clutched his benefactor’s hand, feeling the hot and papery-thin flesh slide under his fingers. Elder Tung should have been in his mid-fifties, a healthy middle-aged cultivator; instead a scarecrow was before him, a sickened and wizened man whose hair was sparse and his eyes hollow and darkened like a panda’s. Still, deep within those pain-filled eyes, a cunning light flickered.

“Modest still. Do you still follow that foolish dao you wrote to me about? What was it, a few years ago?” Chee Ying said softly. When Zhao Wan nodded, the injured man let out a laugh. “Fool still, then. No man can survive alone. Not unless they choose to be a hermit.”

“Hermit perhaps, one day. But I have too many ties that must be severed first,” Zhao Wan said. “I must free myself of these binding threads before I take such a step.”

“But you will eventually?”

Zhao Wan could not help but nod. He would. He had to. He would ascend to the heavens free of karmic burdens, of all debts. Then he would truly be a free agent, unburdened by mortal concerns or future attachments.

“Fool, boy.” Chee Ying closed his eyes. He fell so silent, his breathing so light that Zhao Wan almost thought he had fallen asleep. “So be it. I called you to relieve you of one such binding then. You may cut the thread between us, after you resolve this matter.”

Zhao Wan inclined his head in thanks, even as he wondered if this act of generosity had just added to the karmic thread between them. All such thoughts were washed away as Chee Ying uttered his next words.

“I charge you, Elder Cheng Zhao Wan of the Verdant Green Waters Sect, with avenging my death. Find the dark sect members who have crept into my sect and our lands and eradicate them. One and all.”

Chapter 2

Silence filled the small room. A very small room, Zhao Wan realized as he surveyed it. Strange that an Elder of a sect would have one so small. Then again, Chee Ying had always been generous to a fault.

A wooden bed adorned with a stuffed silk cushion and a wooden block to rest one’s head. A raised platform to accommodate the kneeling desk and the scroll and writing implements, a small brazier and copper teapot beside it. On the other side, a bowl with the dregs of medicinal tea within. A small bottle with writing that described the pills on a simple leather tag, the calligraphy barely legible, sat beside the bowl. From the teapot, the scent of old tea rose, the contents having been forgotten and uncleaned for weeks now.

Zhao Wan frowned at that minor indication of neglect, a strange sign amidst the careful cleanliness and care of the remaining surroundings. There was not even dirt on the windowsill on the outer wall, opposite his friend’s bed.

“Will you do it?” Chee Ying asked threadedly. Again.

Zhao Wan realized he had forgotten to answer his benefactor, so shocked had he been by the pronouncement. Rather than replying, he latched onto an incongruous element of that statement. “The dark sect? They were banished. Cast away decades ago. Destroyed.”

“They live and thrive.” Chee Ying touched his side. “This is proof enough.”

Zhao Wan was no physician. He was a swordmaster, a man who had achieved the Heart of the Sword at the age of twenty-three and formed his Core at twenty-five. He was an Elder of his sect, a prodigy even among the prodigies who strutted through the kingdom of Shen. For all his skills, all his achievements, the healing of bodies was outside his skillset.

Reading the doubt in the younger man’s face, Chee Ying shook his head sadly. “Go. Speak with Physician Gu. She will tell you the truth.” Then his eyes drifted closed, the energy he had conjured to speak with Zhao Wan fading. “But I do not release you from your promise. Not yet. Find them. Take my revenge for me.” Softer, so soft that Zhao Wan almost did not hear it, he said, “Save the orthodox sects.”

Zhao Wan watched Chee Ying’s eyes close, his head lolling to the side on the pillow. Zhao Wan shifted the blankets a little, making sure the older man was properly tucked away, the seeping, creeping black wound hidden. For a long moment, he stared at his benefactor, remembering the strong, powerful man who had stood in front of him, guarding his life and honor one autumn evening.

Then he strode off in search of Physician Gu and answers.

***

Logic dictated that the physician was a senior member of the sect. Custom demanded that she have an office higher up, in a place of prestige and adoration. Practicality though required her patients be seen to as quickly as possible, ensuring that her treatment rooms would be on a lower level.

Standing outside the door of Elder Cheng’s room, Zhao Wan extended his spiritual sense to sweep through the building. He kept his touch light, knowing that he was a guest and should not impose his will. Even going so far as to extend his spiritual sense—his aura in a greatly diffused form—to gather the answers he desired was considered arrogant.

That was no great burden, for he was from the Verdant Green Waters Sect. As the premier sect of the kingdom, they were well-known to be arrogant cultivators. No great burden to add to that perception, and Zhao Wan was too agitated by what he’d seen to wait for a passing sect member to tell him the location of the physician, not when he had a more direct method available.

By the time his senses had reached the top and bottom of the building, Zhao Wan had located her. He descended quickly, hopping over the stair railing to fall to the bottom floor through the empty center of the pagoda. He pushed at his chi as he fell, landing with a light thump that he absorbed with the bending of his knees.

Chiding himself internally for the disturbance and his lack of practice, Zhao Wan resolved to practice his qinggong techniques further. He had a scroll for the Tempered Sky Blade in his storage ring, a flying sword technique that would have been a much more elegant method of descending. However, to make use of it, he had to achieve a greater understanding of the Wind Steps qinggong technique first.

After all, if one could not lighten one’s body sufficiently, the weight imposed upon the flying sword would be too great. Flight was already onerous, and he, as a single-layer Core formation Elder, had little enough energy to spare. No. Better to train the basics first, before he took to the skies.

The least dignified thing he could think of was plummeting from the skies like a fallen bird.

Zhao Wan found the physician and her helpers in short order, following the cool energy of her aura. The crowded welcoming hall, set just off the main entrance, had been converted into a makeshift hospital, bedspreads laid across the floor and a single massive dining table set far in the depths of the hallway, formation flags sparkling around the table to hinder sight and muffle noise. A much-needed addition, for the traces of blood that ran from the table onto the wooden floor spoke of the grim business within.

Days after the flash flood, the hallway was mostly quiet, only remnants of the disaster’s aftermath showcased. A discarded piece of clothing, bloody and dirty. A forgotten doll, kicked to the far corner of the building. Piles of dirty laundry waiting to be washed, stuffed in a corner. Muddy tracks being scrubbed away by outer sect cultivators on their hands and knees. And, of course, the patients, lying asleep or propped up, whispering to one another, with their broken and bandaged bodies.

Making his way to the end of the hallway, Zhao Wan judged the mortals who rested there with practiced ease. Not even one had opened more than a few base meridians, even though the Yellow Emperor’s cultivation manual had been taught to them all by imperial decree.

Lazy, foolish, or just untalented, each and every one of them.

“You.” The voice brought Zhao Wan’s attention to the forefront, as the physician stepped through the curtain of energy surrounding the table. Her eyes darted to his sword, then to his clothing. “You’re the sword prodigy, are you not?”

“Some have—”

“Good. Come with me.” Bemused, Zhao Wan closed the remaining distance, only to back away as she thrust a single-edged, highly sharpened thin blade at him. Hilt first, at least. “Take this. I need you to do the cut.”

“Me?” Zhao Wan made no move to take the knife, going so far as to cross his arms.

“Yes, you. Place your sword intent into this blade and cut off his leg.” Physician Gu gestured inward at the one she spoke of, a patient tied to the table and half delirious with a fever and a mangled left foot, blood dribbling from the torniqueted wound. “I’ll point out where to chop. The man’s a Body Cultivator, and he reinforced his bones first, the fool.” She shook her head in exasperation. “Now, hurry. He is bleeding out.”

“I will not,” Zhao Wan said. “His fate is his. I will not add his suffering or his salvation to my own karmic balance.”

“You…!” Physician Gu’s voice rose a little before she jerked her chin, discarding his objection. She darted back, her voice rising as she spoke to her attendants. “Hand me the saw. And hold him still!”

Zhao Wan felt a flicker of empathy run through him as he stepped back, exiting the formation. He felt the energy of the formation part around his aura, the sense of what occurred behind the formation fading a little.

He understood the Physician’s needs, but he would not bend. His dao, his path to immortality, required him to free himself from karmic threads. Saving the life of another, one whom he had no familiarity with or prior obligation to, was anathema to his way.

Cries of pain and the grinding of saw on toughened bone rose from the table, and the formation flickered as it strained under the screaming voice. Zhao Wan turned away, knowing there was little here for him at the moment. As he did so, he spotted a little boy crouched just outside the formation flags, clutching a stuffed pig made of dried grass and remnant hemp, large brown eyes wide with fear.

A hand raised then dropped, Zhao Wan pushing aside his own weakness as he strode through the doors he had entered. It was not his place to change the boy’s fate. He would not bend.

Instead, he exited the building to find the training grounds set behind the pagoda. If he was to wait, then he would train.

The training ground for the Forgotten Vale Sect was in disarray, the sect having more important work to undertake than cleaning the empty courtyard of cut stone and pressed earth. Mud, leaves, and broken branches littered the stone flooring, wooden training pinions coated in mud and lying on their sides. Weapons racks lay scattered across the grounds, their contents missing.

Eyeing the floor with distaste, Zhao Wan let his gaze turn toward the plum flower piles outside the stone courtyard. The three dozen poles, each a foot and a half in diameter, were sunk into the earth to varying heights. The tallest stood over ten feet tall, the shortest a bare foot above the ground. The drunken staircase-like arrangement of the plum flower piles was formed in bunches of “flowers,” each flower made of a central stamen and four petal poles.

The piles were dirty, washed-up branches, leaves, and even a discarded training dao beneath them. Dirty they might be and their footing treacherous, but as his old master would note, that meant it was good practice.

Flooding his aura with chi once more, Zhao Wan leapt lightly onto the first post. His front foot brushed another raised pole lightly as he took his stance, a hand on the hilt of his sword. Breathing deeply, he settled his mind, casting the intrusive reminders of his humanity and the cries of a crippled mortal from his mind.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Move.

Zhao Wan drew and stepped, the first motion a sword draw. He chose the eighth form of the Sundering Blade to practice. It was new, it was unrefined, it was difficult. All the better.

The greater the challenge, the greater the degree of concentration he required.

The plum blossom piles with their varying heights and their slippery footing were just another obstacle to perfection.