PREFACE
𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘸𝘶𝘹𝘪𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺. 𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘶𝘹𝘪𝘢, 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘢 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘴, 𝘶𝘴𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘈𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘊𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘢. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘫𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘩𝘶 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘴. 𝘚𝘦𝘦𝘬 𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘴.
TW: abandonment, death (of a loved one), violence.
By T. Sai © 2023
Plagiarism is a crime.
***
The jianghu was still young when It first opened its eyes. A thousand years it took to perfect an art that required little more than wood, steel and a piece of a martial artist's soul.
It saw first the City, but It didn't know that yet. The ashes that birthed it had yet to be burned, its people yet to be vindicated. For now, smothered beneath the slats of downtrodden houses, they held their breath and waited.
It took Its first breath at the heart of that would-be ashpit, that fire dancing along Its skin, the lightning still fresh in its metal lungs. The room It woke to was barely a shed. The woman that faced It, barely a girl.
"You are to be called Sen," said she, and It knew then who Its master was. Small and lithe, she took up all the shadows, the shed shrinking beneath the severity of her eyes. Invisible threads pulled taut on Its limbs, pressing Its head to the floor at her feet. Her voice trembled as she spoke again. "Soulbound to mine, where I go you will follow."
The words sparked on Its tongue.
Where you go I will follow.
That first oath would prove brittle, but that had yet to matter. For now, It was as young as Its master, as foreign to Itself as she was to her own. Later, when her world collapsed, It would be the one standing above her. But later had yet to come. For now, their life together had just begun.
•
Quickly It learned how volatile mortal life could be. As the moons passed It learned the many names of the world. Its master collected them like cowries. Took challenges upon her sword as if they were whet steel. What was but an orphan from a no-name dance troupe grew into a promising martial artist. In the end, it was her name that granted them more leverage in that would-be City, which though far from its peak, was still ripe with opportunity.
Nothing was ever good enough. The jianghu was still young. And the path of Its master's will encompassed more than the grounds they walked on. Her ideals rose, as each night went by, higher than the winter moon. Soulbound, It could feel the echo of her greatest desires. Her ambition struck like lightning. Her anger a slow crawling thunder, waiting to resound in an expanding dark.
That anger lit itself once. The lint, a renowned spearman at a passing teahouse. It watched as Its master caught the spearman's eye, and when he approached with his fellow disciples, her face had paled like stone. In the next few minutes, the spearman was clutching at his face, jaw bruised; an ugly cloud blooming there, bleeding black and blue.
They had barely escaped the men that chased them after that. It mattered not what the spearman had done. That he had violated an unspoken tenet of the jianghu seemed little more than a misunderstanding.
Nor had she mattered, It realized, noting the crowd that had hardly parted. That had turned their backs to whisper and looked away when she turned to them.
