Kind Young Master [Progression Fantasy - Cultivation]

The master walked until he reached the end of the world, and he found death waiting there. A dragon black as the void itself, with jaws wide enough to swallow kingdoms, and eyes like violet seas. When he turned back, he saw what he had been unable to see at the start of his journey.

All three realms would die. Earth, the hells, even the heavens would not be spared. It was the heavens that were the problem. Their ruler had bound the wheels of fate in chains and doomed them all.

The solution was as straightforward as the edge of his blade; he had to kill the Jade Emperor. But he could not fight this war alone.

A drop of wine trembled at the lip of Gao Fushuai's silver pitcher, stubbornly refusing to fall one way or the other. Red wine was imported, therefore reserved for rare celebrations. Seeing it reminded him of the day, now years in the past, when a servant had been killed for stealing just such a bottle. His father's words had never left him.

If a man drinks from our cellars without leave, let him return what was taken. Cup for cup, ounce for ounce. Not in silver, but in blood.

Cool static brushed across the back of his neck, a faint thread of qi. He shifted an instant before brother Lei's shoulder clipped past.

"Watch yourself, Bai Tu." It was the name of their youngest sister's pet rabbit. Anger coiled hot and quick in his belly, and he switched to a calming breathing cycle to keep from breaking the pitcher against the back of his brother's head.

He hated blood.

Fushuai had attempted to save the thief's life. All he had succeeded in doing was dyeing his hands red. That day marked a turning point in how he viewed the honor of his family, the practice of cultivation, and the jianghu. It was a part of why he held a wine pitcher instead of taking his place as the firstborn son of the great Gao Ligang.

Tonight's feast existed for one purpose: to impress the legendary Xiao Sheng, who had spent the last week touring Ashen City in search of a disciple.

The grand hall of the Gao estate had never looked so magnificent, except perhaps the night before, or the night before that. Lanterns cast pools of warm, golden light that chased the shadows into hiding. Servants hurried about, arranging polished dishes piled high with roasted meats, colorful vegetables, and delicate sweets that perfumed the air. Soon, they too would vanish, cast out like the shadows, unworthy of remaining in the presence of a cultivator of legend.

He was the eldest son, yet tonight he might as well have been another servant: permitted to pour wine for family and guest, forbidden to present himself as a candidate.

Nearby, brother Chen brandished his sword, boasting of techniques Fushuai had never been allowed to learn. Meili laughed softly, as lovely as the promise of her name, hiding her disdain for the bravado.

A bell rang outside, and the courtyard gates clanged. The stubborn drop of wine finally fell, and he caught it with his slipper, which was dark enough to hide the stain. This was the night. Xiao Sheng was here. If a drop of wine fell the wrong way, mortals would suffer whether they had a hand in it or not.

The remaining servants scurried into hiding, and Fushuai's heart tightened as he moved into the shadow of one of the alabaster columns that upheld the hall. The event should have meant nothing to him, as there was no real chance of his being chosen. Still, this might be his only opportunity to look upon a master as venerated as the "Living Blade," as he had been called in stories.

The demeanor of his siblings changed in an instant. Gao Lei had been distracting the others with a display of his favorite qi technique, a crackling web of lightning sparking between his hands. Now, that energy faltered, and even Chen sheathed his sword. All seven youths took their places before the hall doors with minimal scuffling as they opened. Their parents ushered in the famous cultivator together.

"Most Honored Grand Elder," their father said, lowering his head, "it is the eternal fortune of our humble lineage to receive you. On behalf of the Gao Clan, I bid you welcome to the ancestral seat, where every stone will remember its debt to your name."

Fushuai's father was classically handsome, tall and lean, with jet black hair swept back into a tail and eyebrows that could have cut glass. As a child, it had often been remarked that Fushuai looked like his father. No one said that anymore. The sons and daughters on display bowed in unison, uttering greetings and thanks that were more of the same.

Fushuai peered around the column, seeking a better look at the man who was the center of all this fanfare. Xiao Sheng was not as tall as his father, nor as thin. He looked more like a middle-aged merchant or baker than a Living Blade. There was a bit of fat under his chin, and his robes were practical and dusty from travel. He had a few tarnished rings on one hand.

The wandering cultivator retained a pleasant but uninterested expression under their unrelenting compliments and welcomes. His gaze swept slowly across the ornate decorations, the nervous faces, and the lavish banquet waiting nearby.

"I see you have prepared a meal."

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"Yes, Grand Elder," Gao Ligang said stiffly. "Please, join us."

At the heart of the hall waited a single-slab ebony table, its surface crowded with lacquered pork, blossom-shaped dumplings, and whole fish that still gleamed beneath the lanterns. Steam carried ginger and honey through the air, enough fragrance to make Fushuai's empty stomach tighten.

Xiao Sheng took a place of honor at the table's head, his expression calm but appreciative as he considered the meal before him. Gao Ligang and his wife, Lifen, sat on either side, careful to maintain a proper distance, while Fushuai's siblings had been assigned seats in the order of their birth to prevent a potentially embarrassing conflict for position.

Fushuai slipped forward, subtly adjusting the flow of qi in his limbs. It wasn't quite a qinggong* technique, just enough to make his steps a little lighter and his movements more fluid. No rule forbade him from using what he had mastered before being banned from training.

He would not be put on display, but he could perform in his own way, whether his father liked it or not.

He reached the head of the table first. Moving with deliberate care, he tilted the silver pitcher. A thin arc of crimson flowed into Xiao Sheng's cup, then into the next and the next, each surface settling as smooth as polished glass. No ripple betrayed haste or uneven breath.

When he had finished, he risked a glance. His family pretended he didn't exist, but the visitor rewarded him with the barest of nods. Almost imperceptible, and gone in an instant. Then the meal began with a formal toast. Gao Ligang rose, lifting a slender jade cup toward their guest.

"To the honored Master Xiao. May the heavens favor your righteous path, and may your wisdom shine upon all who serve you."

Xiao Sheng did not answer. He served himself before Fushuai could, and a ripple of stiff laughter traveled the table. Sister Meili leaned forward, wearing a rehearsed smile.

"Master, it is said your grasp of the Spiritual Sword Path is unrivaled. Might you one day honor our humble family with a demonstration?"

Their mother's stare turned Meili to stone. The request was not in the script.

Xiao Sheng only plucked a dumpling, chewed with evident delight, and let the silence stretch. Brother Lei tried next.

"Your greatness surely finds little worth among us, yet we hope you may take some small amusement from our skills." It was strange to hear him speak so formally. He must have practiced in front of a mirror.

Xiao Sheng sampled a slice of honey-glazed pork, offering neither agreement nor refusal. Fushuai stepped away from the table. As the elder had served himself, the others would follow his example. He needed only to monitor their cups.

Questions continued, along with praise for his famous battles, flattery, and attempts at insight, each ignored. The man known as the Living Blade only showed interest in the feast itself.

He sampled everything. At times, he closed his eyes as though committing the flavors to memory. Here and there, he uttered a small praise to those who had prepared the meal, though notably, not to the Gao family themselves.

Fushuai could not help but feel admiration for the master's disregard for their fawning. Is that what true power meant, to be free of all pretense?

At last, Xiao Sheng clicked his chopsticks together.

"Eat before the dishes cool."

The rebuke struck harder than silence. Plates shifted, and no one dared another compliment.

Fushuai let the lull cover a quiet theft. With a flick of his sleeve, he secreted a half-cooled pork dumpling and took it with him back to the shadow of the pillar. The elder had appeared to enjoy these in particular, and he wondered if he could taste what made it stand apart. If other great cultivators were like Xiao Sheng, perhaps he could go farther in life by becoming a chef than by studying sword manuals in the middle of the night.

It was savory, well-sauced, but nothing special.

Xiao Sheng's gaze brushed past him. For a heartbeat, being invisible took effort, and he breathed a sigh of relief when the moment passed.

The elder returned to his food with scholarly focus. Duck, fish, and sweet soup, each granted his full attention.

Fushuai topped the cups again. His siblings had nursed the wine instead of dinner, their smiles tightening with each passing minute. When brother Chen ventured, "What did you think of the heirs of Ashen City?" the elder lifted a piece of braised fish.

"The marinade is well balanced."

Fushuai hid his smile behind the silver pitcher. He could not help but take some small pleasure in their discomfort.

Petty, he knew, but witnessing how little the elder cultivator seemed to think of them was vindicating. Fushuai had always believed there was more to life than beating people to death, and Xiao Sheng at least appeared to harbor a similar sentiment.

Finally, the elder set down his chopsticks and leaned back in his chair. His plate was empty, as were several others stacked neatly at his side. The man had the appetite of an ox. He wiped his mouth once more, then, without a word, brought his hands together in a single crisp clap.

The sound echoed through the hall, the force of it causing the lanterns to swing.

"While the meal settles, you may entertain me."

Gao Ligang turned sharply to his children, who had already begun rising from their seats. Fushuai cleared the table as the rest of the family moved to the back of the grand hall, where cushions ringed a square arena inset in the marble floor.

He shivered, feeling a brush of spiritual attention move through him. Thinking Lei was toying with him again, he glanced up from a platter of plates and cups with his anger concealed behind practiced blankness.

Even now, with a Grand Elder in their midst, they played these games?

But Lei only had eyes for their guest, and Chen seemed to have forgotten his existence. Xiao Sheng, the Living Blade, had his back to him. And yet, Fushuai could not shake the sudden intuition that it was the elder who had taken note of him, if only for an instant.

He stacked the last plate, resolving to seize any opening to stand before the master that presented itself.

Chen had already drawn his sword.