Ch. 1: Disappointment and Understanding
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"PRESENT YOURSELVES TO THE PATRIARCH!"
It was an auspicious day.
A spring breeze blew through the trees, and leaves floated gently down from the sky, in front of the famed Xianxue Hall of the Lai Clan. At the beginning of each spring, at the renewal of seasons, this gathering was held!
The plaza at which they gathered, normally a place of calm and quiet, was now a riotous affair; one that He Lai, Chosen of the Patriarch, was determined to keep calm, even as the fires within his cultivation base nipped at the very idea of leniency towards the 'mortals' in front of him.
What use did they have for them?
They gathered in front of the hall, bowing, scraping, hoping for a scrap of recognition, a hint of potential seen, but time and time again, every year, they were disappointed. None had talent for cultivation, none had a talent for scholarship, none had what the Patriarch demanded. Not that they ever could, of course, the Patriarch was never satisfied with the paltry offerings that most commonly came through the gates to the Wufeng Valley.
This year, though…
He felt something different. Maybe he would be proven wrong. Perhaps there would be one from without that would show promise. Or, more disappointment, and understanding, in equal measure.
There were few who entered into the service of the Lai Clan, and it had been many years since the last. The Chosen, of course, remembered most of them, as they tended to be those who distinguished themselves amidst the throngs of hangers-on, farmers, and busybodies that sought their favor.
The usual processions and fanfare occurred, gifts and honors presented in front of the mighty jade throne that the Patriarch, a few decades ago, once sat on, each time this ceremony took place. Now, like many times in the past, the throne lay vacant, and He guided the proceedings as he did in the past, although managing it with more grace and less temper than in years before.
Mounted upon the vertical surface of the throne was a pictogram, representing Him. The Patriarch, sitting in meditation, an icon, a symbol of veneration. It was common, in Shou Lung, to venerate various immortals like this, and for one so close to Attainment, it merely made sense for the peasantry and the simple rogue cultivators who lived within the valley to honor Zhou Lai as a deific figure.
Not that he seemed to care much for the attention,~ He thought, for a moment, eyes drifting back to the Hall behind them. Emblazoned on the front of the building, carved from the finest of qi-dense wood, were two characters: Attainment, and Tribulation. Within, the Patriarch…
He didn’t know, he hadn’t seen his father in a year. There were messages, of course, snippets of instructions, esoteric knowledge, drafts of essays that made his head spin and his cultivation base spin even faster.
The processions and hollow gifts came and went; a hundred-year-old Ganoderma placed in storage, alongside the thousand gardens of them they already possessed. Metal that fell from the heavens, to match his thousand blades made of the same. Silk gathered from lunar moths during auspicious seasons, that made up his thousand robes that vibrated with lunar qi. As the crowds began to thin, however, a ragged stranger, clearly having traveled a long way, came shuffling to the front. Clad in rags that barely resembled traveling clothes anymore, he had walked, walked, and walked even further, feet bloody and calloused under him. In his hand he clutched a book.
Incensed, He stepped forwards, hand already stretching to the blade at his side, to end this impudent beggar’s life, but something made him stop, his mouth falling ajar, his eyes widening.
He knew that handwriting. He knew that spindly scrawl, cramped letters, notes in the margins…
Without a word, He took the book from the beggar, and gave a simple bow to him, before handing him all the gifts that all the others had presented to him. All of the medicinal herbs, cultivated for centuries, all of the metal, born from the stars, all of the lunar silk, singing with the promise of qi.
They were nothing compared to that one, tiny, significant book.
“The Tribute Ceremony is over!”, He barked, voice ringing out over the plaza where only a few petitioners remained. What they had to offer was inconsequential, their concerns meaningless.
What mattered most to He, now, was the concern of a brother for his sister.
"Junjun, where are you...?"