Savage Divinity

When it comes to big ticket fights, I’ve seen some real shit.

I had front row seats to Akanai’s duel against the Demon Vivek Daatei. When Bastard Liu’s sword erupted from Yo Ling’s belly, I was dangling in the splash zone. In Sinuji, Nian Zu unleashed the Shooting Star on Zhu Changzui, and I was almost knocked off my feet by the resulting aftershocks. It was all incredibly impressive, but then, in that same battle, I witnessed the Ancestral Mole-Lady raise a towering wave of earth and Guan Suo disperse it with a much smaller cloud of ash, and I thought, “Wow. Blessings are overpowered.”

Those were the greatest hits I ever had the misfortune to experience first-hand, but aside from the sheer resilience of Big Poppa Piggy, none of the mundane Martial Warriors were particularly impressive. Now, to be fair, every single one of the previously listed combatants could kill me with ease, even when I was at the peak of my strength, but I’d always believed there was a stark difference between Blessed Martial Warriors and their mundane counterparts. Despite Dad’s efforts to convince me otherwise, everything I’d ever seen pointed to the same, undeniable fact, that focusing on a Blessing was much better than focusing on Forms, because the disparity in endgame power-levels is just too high. It’s like fighters and wizards in video games; the fighter is strong early and falls off late, while the wizard is the reverse, and well... late game is all that matters, right? Plus, I thought it’d be cool to shoot water bullets and conjure water shields, but when it comes right down to it, I always believed that at the highest levels of the Martial Path, an Elemental Blessing was an advantage mere physical strength could never overcome.

Turns out, I’ve just never seen a Peak Expert really cut loose.

Nian Zu’s Shooting Star is impressive and all, but considering he was unable to beat Goujian in single combat, I’ve been feeling mildly scornful of his physical prowess. However, the Legate’s moves put everything I know to shame, and I suspect he might actually be a half-step Divinity, a warrior stronger than Peak Experts but not quite ready to take on Ancestral Beasts. For a tenth of a second, he all but disappears from sight as I reach for Enlightenment, but where normally this would slow things down to a crawl, the Legate’s battle is reduced to mere flashes of gold and black. It’s like watching a poorly made flip book, where scenes jump from one to the next with little to no transition as the golden-robed Legate blinks about the room with multiple obsidian blurs hot on his heels. I’m still able to parse together the battle’s progression thanks to context clues and such, but my mind is barely able to keep up, much less wrap itself around the seemingly impossible feats taking place. Gravity seems like an afterthought as the Legate puts his feet wherever he pleases, jumping from bed to windowsill before running up the walls and onto the roof, whereupon he leaps over his foes and trades blows mid-air in an awe-inspiring effort to keep them off his back. Never before have I seen anyone move with such speed, to the point where I can’t even identify the type of sword he wields or where he drew it from as the metallic blur darts about his slender frame in a dazzling display of skill and finesse. Aside from the jet-black dagger jutting out of his chest, the Wraiths’ weapons are unable to penetrate the Legate’s steely defence, and the wound doesn’t even seem to slow him down as he fights with the grace and elegance of a god given flesh.

And yet... the Wraiths still stand, even the one who was sent flying out of the room in their first exchange, clutching a single obsidian dagger while his other arm hangs loosely at his side. Not only are these cloaked assassins able to match the Legate’s speed and skill, their practised coordination seems to have him on the back foot. It’s a combination of their billowy cloaks and confusing movements, flowing about the room in a ring of ebony death. Even their exposed skin is dark as night, covered in ash or ink to better hide in the shadows, and their smooth, gliding motions leave me unable to keep track of each individual Wraith. To my eyes, it almost seems like they melt into one another, crashing without impact like weightless shadows shifting about the room with impossible speed and grace.

All this takes place in the blink of an eye, with dozens of exchanges ringing out so consistently it could almost be mistaken for a single note. Then, before the daggers in my sleeves are even halfway out their sheathes, the Seneschal joins the fight, and I regret mouthing off to the old fart so many times before. Though the others are fast, the Seneschal is even faster as his dazzling sword bisects a Wraith with ease, and my eyes are unable to even follow his movements except in those brief moments when he slows down to pivot. If the Legate and Wraiths were a flip book, the Seneschal is more like a static comic, with panels poorly arranged to illustrate flow and seemingly pulling off impossible movements. One moment he stands at the Legate’s side with back turned to his enemies, and the next he’s behind the Wraiths and facing his foes with weapon drawn, then back to the Legate’s side once more as the bodies hit the floor. Double-edged Jian humming whilst covered in the sickly-green blood of his enemies, the Solitary Sword stands ready to defend his liege, but there are no more foes to be found aside from the singular bisected form lying dead on my bedroom floor.

And just as quickly as all the chaos began, the battle comes to an uncertain end. Several seconds pass before I even realize it’s all over and my daggers are utterly useless, a period of time which seems longer than the battle itself. As the dust settles, I find my room in complete tatters, with the floor, walls, and furniture all carved to pieces and strewn all about, and a pool of greenish Ichor spilling out of the corpse and slowly spreading across the wooden floors. Sentinels and Death Corps silently appear in droves, their weapons at the ready yet seconds too late to defend their liege, who rattles off commands without a care for the weapon lodged in his sternum. “There are five Peak Expert Wraiths on the loose. Lock down the Citadel and double the guards for all General Officers. Peak Experts are to gather together and travel in groups, and secure our hospitals, craftsmen, and other vital tradesmen to ensure they are not picked off.”

There’s more to the Legate’s orders, but my world goes silent and fuzzy as I notice a gaping absence in my awareness, one whose presence I’d only just come to terms with. Shuffling in place, I turn around and try to orient myself in the ruins of my old room, but even after a full circle, I find myself unable to find my bearings. There’s something wrong, something off about my perception, and then it hits me like a hammer as I come face to face with a gaping hole in the wall where the Seneschal’s sword must have passed through. The wall once housed the shattered remnants of my Spiritual weapons, but no more. The tumultuous battle has rendered my fragile weapons to little more than fine, metallic sand, spilling off the shelves they were lovingly displayed upon. They were symbols of better times when I rode to battle with those weapons in hand, and of a hopeful future in which I would repair and reclaim them to use against the hated Enemy.

A past which exists only in memory, and a future I can hope for no more.

Faltering beneath the cumbersome weight of the truth, I stumble in place and fall to my knees. The shadows close in around me, smothering and suffocating me as I struggle for breath, and I do nothing but pray for a rude awakening from this nightmare or the warm welcome of death. Neither comes and I am left to face the cold, harsh reality, that my weapons are gone for good, never to be seen again. It was a slim chance I’d ever bring them back, even if I somehow miraculously recovered, but the dream was what sustained me, and even that has been denied me. I’ve seen this coming for months now, have known my weapons weren’t recovering the same way I was, but to see it realized hurts me in ways I wasn’t prepared for. Moving without knowing, I reach into the growing pile of what was once Peace and run my fingers through the mixture of metal, dust, animal fur, and who knows what else, and confirm the connection is dead and gone.

I’ve lost a part of myself today, as real as any limb or organ. Peace, Tranquility, and Unity were all named for things I hoped to have one day, ideals I yearned to bring to this turbulent world, but now it seems those dreams were for naught. Despite all my protests otherwise, I always believed I had a purpose in this world, had come here for a specific reason, not out of arrogance or self-importance, but because... I needed to believe it. How else could I explain my mere existence? Why else would I have been put through so much suffering? It’s what drove me to endure all that harsh training and to push through all those horrific experiences, to continue onwards through all the grief and hardships, the trials and tribulations, because I believed it was all for a reason, to prepare me for what lay ahead, but that’s all a lie, and I can live it no longer. I’m no hero of fate or Chosen Son of the Mother. I’m just a terrified man who’s been thrown into circumstances beyond his comprehension, and this, more than anything, fills me with dread and terror.

Bony fingers clamp about my shoulder and wrench me to my feet, where I find myself face to face with the Seneschal. Solitary Sword Zhang Jun Bao, a contemporary of Grandpa Du’s, but from the two... or maybe three attacks I saw him execute, it would appear the Seneschal has left his old rival far behind. The Legate too, as even in the state of Enlightenment, I couldn’t wholly make out his movements, and I’ve only seen flashy acrobatics like his when the members of the Iron Banner are messing around to determine their rankings. The Seneschal’s lips move, but my brain is unable to parse through his meaning, the sounds all distorted and nonsensical like muted, warbling trumpets covering speech. Frowning, the wrinkled Seneschal gives me a shake and repeats himself, causing something to snap into place as my brain kicks into gear once more. “ – wrong with you? Were you injured?”

“No,” I reply, my tone remarkably neutral considering the circumstances. “I’m fine.” Glancing down at the rest of me, I double check to make sure, but the Wraiths didn’t even look at me askew during the entire assassination attempt. Weird. My notes survived the chaos though, both the revised copies and the final product I dropped in favour of my daggers. They’re a little crumpled now, but should still be legible, so thank the Heavens for small favours. “Yep. All in one piece. Lost my Spiritual Weapons though. Dusted. Gone.”

The last bit just slips out as I had no intention of saying anything, but the Seneschal simply ignores it and drags me over. “So long as you are unharmed. Now, do whatever it is you do.” Gesturing at the bisected Wraith, lying there with his head next to his ankles, the Seneschal takes my notes, pushes me towards the corpse, and steps back to watch, but I have no idea what he expects. Grimacing in exasperation, he explains, “The Ichor, boy. Do whatever it is you do, and keep a clear mind. The young master will have questions for you, and he expects coherent answers.”

Glancing at the Legate, I see him watching me with focused clarity from the ruined remains of my mattress. The bed frame was shattered beyond repair sometime during all the chaos, but the mattress was only cut up a bit and is still more or less in one piece, which is enough for the Legate to lie down on while an Imperial Healer in Liang Family robes tends to his wounds. Aside from a light sheen of sweat across his brow and single lock of hair fallen out of place, there’s no sign of exertion in his aloof expression, nor any indication of pain. Not bad for a dude who just had a poisoned dagger lodged in his chest, but from the looks of his mostly clean robes, he was able to stop the bleeding almost instantaneously. The entire battle was over and done with in maybe two seconds, if that, yet I saw more than enough to know that the Legate’s Imperial Title of Shen ZhenWu is not undeserved.

Divine True Warrior is the exact translation, but True Divine Warrior would probably more accurately convey its meaning. A minor difference, but language shenanigans have gotten me into troubles before.

Urged on by the Seneschal’s impatient noises, I return to the task at hand, though my mind is still mourning the loss of my weapons. Seeing only Death Corps soldiers around, I figure there’s no point hiding anything anymore and dip my fingers into the foul, yellow-green Ichor pooling about the Wraith’s corpse, which I only now figured out meant that this is no Wraith, but a Demon in human form. I am, of course, immediately proven wrong as the viscous goop does absolutely nothing besides stink up the room and cling to my fingers. There is no tingle of Energy rushing into my body, no draining of whatever this foul liquid might be, and it’s all I can do to keep from flailing my hand about in a desperate attempt to free myself of its touch. “Ew. That’s not Ichor.” Wiping my hands on the dead Wraith’s loose western robes, I tear free the garments to better wipe my hands, and uncover a haggard, torso underneath, his cracked skin lacking moisture yet hanging loosely from his frames. Though freshly slain, the Wraith’s corpse looks like it’s been dead for some time and then partially mummified by someone who doesn’t know what he’s doing. Dark, unseeing orbs peer out from open eyes, eyes which are pitch black as far as I can see, and removing the veil reveals brittle, grey skin in the shade of an overcast sky. The darker colours leech away as the seconds tick by to reveal a pale, wan complexion underneath, and those darkened eyes begin to clear up and reveal hints of white around the edges. This leads me to believe this inky darkness routine is brought about by Chi, but then again, everything is technically an expression of Heavenly Energy, so what else is new? One thing is for certain though. “This isn’t a Demon. This is a man. A Defiled man, but human nonetheless.”

“Impossible,” the Seneschal declares, though utterly lacking in conviction. “It must be a Demon, one cast in human form. I cut this monstrosity down myself and watched Ichor spew out. Ichor, not blood, but Demonic Ichor.”

“Like I said, it’s not Ichor.” Shrugging as I dab at the pooling goop with the Wraith’s cloak, I hold up a wet glob for the Seneschal to see. “It looks and feels similar, but it’s not caustic and never was. The floorboards are all still intact underneath, and I don’t remember Ichor stinking so much.” Plus there’s the whole lack of Succ happening, meaning there’s no Heavenly Energy or whatever in this nasty gunk. Eyeing the corpse once more, I notice a trail of crimson blood trickling out the side of his mouth and draw the Seneschal’s attention to it and shrug.

I should be more concerned, but this all feels like this is all happening to someone else, and I’m merely a bystander trapped in my own flesh watching it all go by. Prying the Wraith’s dagger out of his lifeless grip, I jam it into his chest just below the neck and punch through the bone and sinew. Foul, sickly green goop dribbles out, but I work the dagger back and forth to ‘pump’ the wound until it starts leaking blood instead, the two liquids streaming out yet never mixing much like water and oil. “See? He bleeds goop and blood. Maybe our foe discovered some way to supercharge his Wraiths with an injection of some derivative of Demon Ichor, since the real stuff would melt his test-subjects from the inside out. Hope he doesn’t have too many of them, because they looked like a real handful to deal with. Then again, considering how Demons consume corpses for sustenance and what we’ve already seen in Anathema production, I’m guessing death and suffering feature prominently in this goop’s ingredients list, and our enemies have plenty of both on hand.”

Looking up from my work, I find the Legate, the Seneschal, the Imperial Healer, and even a few Death Corps looking at me oddly, but I can’t find it in me to care. Maybe I’ll regret it later and lose sleep trying to convince everyone that I’m me and not a Zhen Shi meat-puppet, but I think I’m in shock or something, like my brain is still lagging from trying to process the martial arts fuckery I just witnessed. “Could someone bring me a washbasin please, and a hand towel too?” I’d also like my notes back, but not until my hands are clean and dry again. Wouldn’t want to ruin the pages.

For once, none of the Death Corps leap to obey and instead look to the Seneschal for orders, who in turn looks to the Legate. He nods and a Death Corps guard scurries away, but I’m beginning to think things aren’t as hunky dory I initially suspected, because the Imperial Healer is done working but the Legate is still lying prone on the mattress. Knowing his love of power games, I doubt he enjoys appearing vulnerable before me, but unlike him, I won’t judge him for his weakness. Rather than meeting his gaze or studying his wounds, I look around for another Wraith dagger, since they always come in pairs, but it turns out the dead Wraith is the same one who stabbed the Legate. “Well, at least you got even,” I quip, before thinking better of it. “Is the poison different too? Worse than normal?”

“...Yes.” A single word reply, and strained at that, but the Legate still manages to look calm and haughty. “Much worse. I do believe I’m paralyzed.”

...Huh. Well shit. The battle lasted only a few seconds, which means this Wraith poison is not only more potent, but also faster acting. Why did the Wraiths flee then? Was this just a test run? A warning? “Should I send someone for my Teacher?” I ask, approaching the Legate to check his wounds, but the Seneschal moves to intercept. Ah, right, they still suspect me of being controlled by Zhen Shi.

“No need.” Still studying me with an unreadable expression, he pauses for a few beats before saying, “A suspicious man might note that the Wraiths ignored you entirely.”

“He would also note that the Wraiths had you dead to rights, in spite of the Seneschal’s speedy defence.” Shrugging, I spread my hands to show I have nothing to hide, because in this case, I really don’t. “I have no idea why they ignored me, but I’m not in league with them.”

I don’t have any proof, but thankfully, the Legate seems... not reluctant, not hesitant, but unwilling to order my death, even though it would probably be the easiest solution. While someone must have seen me standing here uninjured, the Legate could easily lie and say the Wraiths returned for a second attack. They even have a Wraith dagger they could use to poison me, because if it can paralyze the Legate, a bonafide Peak Expert and maybe half-step Divinity, it will most certainly kill me, a mere commoner, outright.

Maybe he believes me, or maybe the trick I pulled in the Peony Pavilion tea house back in Central has him thinking I’m resistant to poison and will be too slow in dying, but either way, the Legate doesn’t give the order to have me killed and instead has the Seneschal return my notes to my still intact desk. Gesturing with his chin, the Legate says, “One glaring mistake in your notes there. The Core is not the powerhouse of the Martial Warrior.”

...God dammit. That was like... the one thing I was certain of. “How so?”

“Our power comes from the Heavens,” the Legate Sends, grunting as the Seneschal lifts him into his arms. “The Core is merely the medium through which we harness it. Therein lies the key to humanity’s success, young Rain, as well as what may be our ultimate downfall.”

Though he intends to say more, the Legate is wracked with a coughing fit and unable to Send, at which point the Seneschal interjects. “Enough,” he says, out loud for everyone to hear. “You overtax yourself. Rest, young master, and your loyal servant will see to your care.” For the first time since I met them, I’m given a glimpse behind the curtain of their private relationship, and I see tender concern and affection in the old man’s gaze, so similar to how a father might look at his injured son. That love is reflected in the absolute trust the Legate has in his Seneschal, who nods and closes his eyes to lapse into blissful sleep. Considering Zhang Jun Bao disappeared some five decades ago, it’s entirely possible he’s been serving the Legate since the day he was born, watched him grow from a boy into the man he is today, and I find that... disturbing. It’s so much easier to guard against them when they’re cold, calculating killers who hold my fate in their hands, and humanizing them makes me want to trust them even more.

I can’t though. Between Blobby, Ping Ping, and Pong Pong, that’s three secrets they’d be willing to kill for, plus there’s the whole Natal Palace diving thing Mahakala warned me to never reveal. There’s probably more stuff I’m not remembering right now, but any one of those secrets would be enough to keep me from trusting them, because at the end of the day, no matter how much value I might bring to the table or how many fancy titles he throws at me, I am still, and always will be, a pawn in Shen ZhenWu’s eyes.

Clutching my notes to my chest, I hold them tight and watch as the Death Corps escort the Seneschal out, at which point my family comes crashing in to make sure I’m alright. Mom, Dad, Akanai, Husolt, Song, and Grandpa Du all arrive in full force, their weapons in hand and escorts at full alert. Bombarding me with questions as to my health and well-being, their warm concern fills me with much-deserved guilt, because even though I knew five super Wraiths were out sneaking around, never once did I stop to worry about my family.

Because I was too busy mourning a couple fragile weapons, instead of being concerned for my loved ones. Great priorities there, buddy. You’re a stand up guy.

Tensions are high for the rest of the night as I fill everyone in on what happened over dinner at my manor. Charok and the twins came back with Taduk and Lin-Lin to celebrate my return to consciousness, but now that he’s here, none of us feel safe letting him go back alone, especially not with so many of our strongest warriors here guarding Ping Ping or out with Alsantset, Mila, and Yan. Luckily, my manor has plenty of extra rooms since I don’t keep many servants, enough for everyone to have a room for themselves. Mom and Dad take the room across the courtyard, and Akanai and Husolt claim the one beside it, while Song tries to borrow Mila’s room and requires subtle convincing to take a free room instead. The last thing I need tonight is for someone to ask about the steel monstrosity Mila and I use for safe happy-fun-times, but luckily, Song is easily swayed by the allure of a courtyard window with a view of the red panda who supposedly plays on the tire swing at night. Even Taduk and Lin-Lin stay over, though Guard Leader makes it clear she’ll be staying with my sweet wifey and that there will be dire consequences if I am found sneaking about.

I still can’t make heads or tails of her relation to Lin-Lin, but I’m pretty sure she’s an Ancestral Beast. Whether she’s Lin-Lin and Taduk’s Mother still has yet to be seen, but I know I’ll feel better having a Divinity around. I mean, the Wraiths waited to strike until after the Enemy Divinity drew Chief Baldy away, which means they’ll probably avoid my house too. That is, of course unless Guard Leader is not a Divinity and just a really strong, pushy half-beast, but either way, I won’t complain if she wants to stick around.

Today threw my perception of power levels all out of whack, and I’m not sure where anyone sits on the scales anymore. There was a time when Akanai was the end all, be all of strength, but now I don’t even know if she’s on the higher end of Peak Expert. I’ve never seen her pressed in a fight except in that battle against Demon Vivek, but she was sorely hampered by her need to put up a mental barrier against his odd, dream attacks, and still easily beat him into the ground. She had trouble dealing the killing blow without taking injury herself, but she was also handicapped by the need to keep him away from the slumbering soldiers, so it’s hard to say if she could match the Legate’s strength. Never one to shy at asking questions, I bring it up after describing the Legate’s strength to the best of my abilities, but Akanai merely purses her lips and frowns. “Impossible to say which of us is stronger without trading blows.” Though uncertain, she gives me a reassuring smile and pats my head. “But fear not, little Rain. Even if my strength is found lacking, there are still taller shoulders to hold up the Heavens. Your recovery is progressing faster than any of us expected, but even if you need another century, the People will ensure you have all the time you need.”

That’s my family. Always here to look out for me, but never willing to tell me how. It’s wonderful and frustrating all at the same time, but I wouldn’t change a thing about them.

Despite the threat of Demon-Juiced assassins hanging over our heads, we still try to make the best of the situation and spend the evening in each other’s company, mostly sitting about the courtyard watching the twins and animals play. For once, I can’t bring myself to enjoy their cutesy, floofy antics, not because my mind is stuck on the day’s events or my mysterious, unread notes, but because I can’t get over the loss of my weapons. It’s stupid and silly to be this distraught over a few broken pieces of metal, but they meant the world to me. Not just the strength they represented or the concepts they embodied, but also the memories which came with them.

I remember how thrilled I was upon receiving Peace, a princely gift I didn’t even entirely understand at the time, and all the frustration which came after. My beloved wife wrapped the hilt, my gruff father found the needed materials, and they, along with Husolt helped me find my way along the Martial Path and bind the weapon for my use. I named it Peace, because I knew that the peace of the sword was the only peace I would ever know in this life. Might makes right, so without might, I would forever be waiting to be trod upon, just like I am right now. Make no mistake, despite my lofty titles and rising star, without the strength of the People behind me, I would be long dead and forgotten. Even then, should the costs of keeping me around ever begin to outweigh the benefits, I’ve no doubt the Legate would be rid of me in a heartbeat. I could see it in his eyes today, the way he calmly and logically considered the pros and cons of having me murdered in cold blood, and I’m still not sure he’s made his final decision.

So without my sword, without strength, I will never know peace in this life, and forever remain but one step shy of disaster so long as I draw breath.

Next came Tranquility, a gift from Yan and Grandpa Du. Also crafted by Husolt, he poured his heart and soul into a unique shield suited for my fighting style. Despite all my fears and reservations, I fight close and dirty because that’s how I prefer it, and Tranquility was perfect for my needs. It complemented my aggressive tendencies, yet also afforded me the luxury of fighting defensively if need be. I always thought it strange how I associated the shield with the more aggressive side of my personality, but Tranquility suited ‘Baledagh’ perfectly by reinforcing his strengths and shoring up his weaknesses. With this shield in hand, I could go all out and still have something to rely on in case of disaster, and I cannot count the times the shield saved my life. Not just by blocking an attack or claiming a life, but by just being there, it afforded me options I might otherwise not have had.

I named it Tranquility because that was what it gave me, the ability to calmly take a step back and find a much-needed moment of serenity in the chaos of battle. With this weapon in hand, I knew I would be protected from the worst of my mistakes, but now, I live life on the razor’s edge, with no room to err in any direction I turn.

Last of all, was Unity. Unity of mind and unity of purpose, the transforming glaive-gun was the missing piece of the puzzle. Peace and Tranquility are good and fine, but Conflict and Turmoil are all but inevitable. I wanted to be myself and keep the Warrior separate, to protect myself from the horrors of war and stay true to my modern morals and beliefs, and while Mahakala showed me what I had done, it was Unity which showed me why my methods were flawed. Even a modern man must take up arms and kill when the situation demands it, for the right to freedom, liberty, life, and perhaps more, but we all like to pretend peace is the only way. It’s not. Peace requires compromise, and even without the Defiled, there are just some people who are unable to compromise, which is when violence becomes a necessity. Fight the good fight and adapt to new circumstances when necessary, but do not lose yourself along the way, that is the lesson Unity taught me. I am the ruthless warrior, but I am also the silly animal enthusiast, and I can be both without having to sacrifice one or the other.

And now all my weapons are gone, and all I have left is dust and memories. Soon, even those will fade away, and then what?

As the night grows late, everyone heads off to sleep, though I hang back to make sure all the animals have a place for the night. Grandpa Du also lingers behind, scooping up sweet, snoring Kishi as if she were a tiny baby rather than the hundred kilo beast that she is. Coddling the spoiled quin, Grandpa Du gestures for me to walk beside him as he heads off to his room. “When I was first crippled,” he begins, sparking up a story out of nowhere, “All the Healers, Herbalists, and Physicians I met with all recommended the same thing. Amputate the useless leg, because all it does is cause pain. I of course refused, because it was my leg. How could I bear to part with it? So instead, I treated the pain and clung to the hope of recovery, and where did that get me? Addicted to dream smoke and in constant pain for several decades is where. The Medical Saint could have restored my leg even if it wasn’t there, so the only reason to keep the leg was pride and pride alone.” Shaking his head with a sad smile, he fixes me with a knowing look. “I understand why you held onto your Spiritual Weapons for as long as you did, but do not make the same mistake I did. Hope is both sweet nectar and deadly poison in one. The weapons are gone, you must accept this. When you recover, you will have new weapons forged, and it will be a day to celebrate, but do not cling to hope without cause. Do not let yourself be poisoned by hope.”

Smiling in spite of myself, I hug Grandpa Du and ask, “Is it that obvious?”

“Of course. You’ve been sitting around all night instead of poring over your notes in search of answers.” Ruffling my hair, which is still covered in product and less disgusting than I expected, Grandpa Du says, “My advice, which you will likely ignore, is to get a good night’s sleep so you will be bright-eyed and fresh-faced when you read your notes tomorrow. You are making great strides in your recovery, so there is no need to over-rush, and haste makes waste even in the best of circumstances.” Puffing up with pride, he says, “The others are too stuffed up to say this often, but you are a marvel, little Rain, and not because of your strength or brilliance. Even if you never recover and fall from grace, this old man is proud to have you as his grand-son in law, because you are a good man.”

“A good man,” I repeat, wry and unimpressed. “And look what that’s got me.”

“A loving family, two affectionate wives, a devoted concubine, and a charming young wifey, by my count.” Grinning as he shooes me away, Grandpa Du adds, “Do not underestimate the value of love, little Rain. Love makes heroes and monsters of us all.”

“...Love makes heroes and monsters of us all.” Once again, I repeat Grandpa Du’s words to myself while shuffling back to my room. Ping Ping’s loving Aura is in full blast as she herds me towards bed with a bevy of squeaks, while the red panda glares at us from on high in the trees so he can finally be free to swing. “Love makes heroes and monsters of us all.” Picking up the pace, I burst into my room and do exactly as Grandpa Du expected, sitting down at my desk to flip through my notes in a frenzy. The information all but leaps off the page at me as I search for the relevant sections, the answer on the tip of my tongue but still yet to coalesce into a real thought. “Love makes heroes and monsters of us all,” I mumble over and over, more so I don’t forget, until finally...

“Holy Shit! That’s it!”

Chapter Meme