Kind Young Master [Progression Fantasy - Cultivation]

When the hawk died, the crater fell into silence. Even the winds seemed to have lost their will to speak. Mist clung to the shattered edges of the stone maze, veiling its angles in pale gauze.

Fushuai remained against the wall, one arm braced against the ground. He forced his qi to continue its circuit through his meridians, refusing to allow it to slow. What was left of his tunic was dark with blood.

"Lie back." Zhang Sha stood over him. "I need a better look at that wound."

"It will heal."

He meant it. The slashes had parted muscle as well as skin and fat, but with spiritual energy to fortify his body, he could walk. As long as he didn't find himself the prey of another spirit beast, he would survive his journey back down the mountain.

Zhang Sha gave him a look. "Yes, of course. But perhaps you should allow me to help you anyway. For expedience's sake."

Fushuai didn't argue. He shifted with care, hissing at the pull of skin, and let Zhang Sha begin his work. He cleaned the injury with water, then covered it in a resin meant to prevent infection. Producing a hooked bone needle and black thread, he began to stitch. Each tug sent a jolt through his gut.

"I didn't like killing the hawk," he said at last.

Zhang Sha glanced up. "No?"

"It was powerful. Beautiful." His voice was low. "I don't believe it had the mind of a simple animal. It was advanced enough to think."

"All beasts do," Sha murmured, "in their way. But yes. Some more than others."

"Have you ever met one that could speak?"

"I have. There was a talking owl at the Hollow Reed Sect. Bonded to one of the elders. It mostly spoke in insults."

Fushuai blinked. "What happened to it?"

"The elder fell out of favor." A pull of the thread. "The owl was killed as punishment."

Sha didn't elaborate. And Fushuai stopped himself from asking about details that didn't matter. He knew well enough what kind of punishments cultivators devised for one another when politics went awry, and there was no sense in being bothered by something that had occurred far away and long ago. The past was full of strangers, and he already had enough ghosts of his own. Still, the image sat uneasily in his stomach. Not the dead owl. The implication of something ancient and knowing brought down by a whim.

Zhang Sha paused to tie off a suture.

"You've never killed another cultivator, have you?"

He shook his head.

"Not unusual," Sha said, "for one so young. And with a good master." He threaded the needle again. "Have you ever killed a mortal?"

Fushuai hesitated, then shook his head a second time. But the image rose unbidden. A servant brought into the courtyard, and blood poured into a basin by a boy whose hands had not trembled until the end.

Sha said nothing for a moment. Then, softly, "You will."

Fushuai tried to sit up. Pain bloomed white-hot in his gut, and he fell back, inwardly cursing his foolishness.

"Why would you say that?"

There was a pause. Sha worked steadily, his fingers slick with the resin, his needle passing in and out of torn flesh. Fushuai bore it without complaint, though his breath had grown shallow. He felt the blood drying on his flank, the crust of sweat behind his ears.

When he finally answered, he was as mild as ever.

"It is the natural course of things. Mortals die. Cultivators ascend."

"There is nothing to gain from killing a commoner."

"Perhaps not. Often, they are simply casualties in the contests of those above them. Or their deaths serve to send a message or weaken another's position. Or they committed some crime that needs to be addressed."

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Fushuai tensed. "Commoners can address crimes among commoners well enough."

Of course, he thought, not all crimes were simple. Mortals could be bandits, raiders, or murderers. They had to be dealt with. But the list of offenses that merited death when committed against a cultivator was long. A few cups of wine taken in secret, for one. And the Gao household was far from the cruelest in Ashen City.

Sometimes a wrong word was enough. Sometimes, no word at all. And what justice could the dead seek, unless they belonged to a house powerful enough to demand redress?

"You once asked me why I cultivate." Zhang Sha said. "Now I put the same question to you."

He gave the same answer he had given his master. "To end suffering."

Sha raised a brow, not mocking, genuinely curious. "Is pain not a teacher?"

"It can be. Other times, it is simply pain."

"I would say that being unable to learn from pain is the fault of the student. What would the world be like if there were no suffering? A field of flowers?"

"I am not a fool." His cheeks heated. "I understand that pain can be useful. What I mean is needless suffering. Pain that serves no purpose. Mindless killing. Callous bloodshed. Training comes with pain, but I would not call it suffering."

"Ah." Zhang Sha leaned back, folding his hands in his lap. "I think I understand you better now. But it is still a strange thought to hold."

His gaze moved toward the dense gray sky. "To me, suffering is of no significance beyond what it leads us to do in response."

"You said you wanted to raise people up," Fushuai countered, "not to ascend by pressing others down."

"And that is the truth. But it does not mean I will count every beetle that happens to be crushed under my foot as I go."

He tied the final knot, clipped the thread, and straightened. "There. Now you will survive the climb, at least."

Fushuai eased himself upright, the wound tight and sore. He breathed more deeply, and it held. "Thank you," he said, studying the other man. It occurred to him that he had been too quick to assume they were kindred spirits. Zhang Sha was not cruel. That did not mean he valued the lives of mortals.

Then again, what cultivator did?

Not Xiao Sheng. The Living Blade was no butcher, and yet it was said he had killed thousands in a single battle. A field strewn with corpses, and a man walking through it, brushing blood from his blade like pollen from a sleeve. He hadn't asked his master to confirm if any of the stories about him were true. From what he had seen, whatever the histories had recorded was likely only a fraction of the whole.

Perhaps he was a fool, or at least naive. He didn't know why he cared if mortals suffered. Only that he did.

"My hunt is finished," he said at last. "Where will you go now?"

Zhang Sha sighed. "I think I have enough to attempt foundation formation. If I fail, I fail."

"I'm meant to leave the mountain by the end of the year." Fushuai hesitated. "Do you think we'll meet again?"

"The world is wide." He rose. "But its paths are twisted. I look forward to seeing where your training takes you."

Fushuai looked up at him. He did not want to leave it there. The air between them felt too thin, the moment unfinished.

"I would not have completed this without you," he said. "And twice you've tended my wounds, asking nothing in return. I am in your debt."

"There is no debt among sworn brothers," Zhang Sha said. The sun had risen behind him, though it was still obscured by haze. The light it cast outlined the man and put Fushuai in his shadow.

He shook his head, smiling at the notion. "I have many brothers. There's plenty of debt among us."

"Blood is something different. A sworn brother is someone you can always depend on. It is not a matter of love or even friendship. It is a matter of honor."

Fushuai extended his hand. "Then let there be no debts between us."

Zhang Sha took it. His grip was firm, his eyes unreadable. "As you say, brother."

They did not embrace. This was no blood rite, no oath before heaven. But the clasp between them felt true enough.

Fushuai gathered the final core, its silver-veined glow warm in the center of his palm. Zhang Sha crouched beside the fallen hawk and carefully extracted several of its feathers and a clay bottle of its blood. He tucked them away with practiced care.

"I came here once before," he said absently, brushing dust from a column's base. "Found a ghostblossom growing through a cracked floor. I will thank the heavens if it grants me another."

He vanished soon after into the maze of stone.

Fushuai lingered. He checked his bindings, cinched his belt, and turned toward the long path down the mountain. But he did not descend. Something tugged at him, a weight in the air he had ignored in the chaos of the pursuit.

He retraced his steps until he found it again, the entrance he had barely stepped beneath. It led to a narrow hall sloping down, half-covered in lichen. The door to the cellar had rotted at the hinges and came free in his hands.

Though the darkness here was absolute, he did not need his eyes to know what he had found. His spiritual sense stretched, swept, and then recoiled.

The stench met him first; these were not fresh corpses, nor were they ancient remains. Mortal bodies. Dozens. Not strewn, but arranged. Stacked. Many were missing limbs. Others had cavities in the chest or skull. One had been flayed. Another opened from neck to pelvis and splayed like a textbook.

No beast had done this with talon and fang. It was a surgeon's work.

Fushuai stood frozen for a long moment. His fingers curled around the hilt of his spear. He thought of Zhang Sha and feared he had made a terrible mistake. When he ran back out into the ruins, he found that the wandering cultivator was already gone.

The rogue was foundation formation stage. They could not be the same man. Doubt still plagued him. If the butcher who had done this remained on this mountain, then he would find him, and he would not let them hurt another soul. No matter who they were. No matter what it cost. He swore it.