Interlude: The Dragon's Empty Hoard
Jingshen Bei Wulong 2
Year 238
Behold, the Jingshen Clan, certainly the most pathetic of the desert powers. Not that they are even that anymore. A power.
By the time Wulong reached home from the Quiet Peaks, the fighting was long over. What they had thought to be mad - and what the mad thought would need decades even after that - had terminated in conclusive fashion in less than twenty years. Old Gold, curse the decrepit bastard, had unleashed a reserve power that everyone thought the Golden Devils had lost over their millennia of decline, that they would have unleashed sooner were they any less mad.
No one who saw how he did it survived. If there were the slightest hope that one of Jingshen Junjie's heirs survived the murder of their ancestor with the conclusion to the Siege of the Underworld Spirit Palace, it too was quashed when the sky turned a hateful red and mist like blood descended upon all of them, staining the souls of some like the clothes they all wore.
Even after taking the war into account, the slaughter amongst his kin was painfully immense. Even the Jingshen Bei, who were caught up in a malaise under the mountains after Manuel Konstantinos struck them all with some sort of Soul Art and left too listless to send aid, had turned upon themselves in an orgy of blood and blood-hunger. The Blood Mist had, if anything, struck the Jingshen Bei harder than the other Outer Clans. Than even the Core Clan, whose decadence left them less able to withstand the alien hunger that gripped all who stood beneath an open sky - and many who did not.
This used to be a plaza, Jingshen Bei Wulong thought. He still remembered the Mid-Autumn Festival just a decade and change ago, the streets lined with feasts and gifts for one and all to share. The wealth of the Bei, favoured by the Core Clan, is now a distant memory as far as the plaza was concerned. There were cracks in the tiles, presumably damage from tromping squads of Golden Devil Legionnaires, marching here and there in their corpse-armours. The flower bushes that had lined the streets were now weeds and withered vines, the stalls and teahouses now closed or barren, for those whose owners are dead.
There were even bodies not buried yet. Bodies no family has claimed, or with no family members able to claim them. The smell was awful, but the ennui that gripped the Bei left them barely enough energy to take care of the living, let alone the dead. If nothing else, their ghosts had not risen yet either.
As Wulong stood amongst the bones of his family, both distant and close, he wondered just how many had been driven to desperation by the Nightmare of Jingshen Bei. How many had been unable to defend themselves because of that. How much blood stained Manuel Konstantinos' hands.
Intellectually, of course, he knew that the Bei could have easily been wiped out to a man. That any survivors at all was a blessing, if not from Heaven then from the old bastard. Intellectually, he knew that precision on such a grand scale was difficult, because all souls resisted such attacks to a different extent, and differently for the various methods. Intellectually, he should be thanking Old Gold for making the effort to spare their lives.
But the only thing Wulong could see was a great deal of darkness and uncertainty.
His brother tugged on his left sleeve. Dalin, now all grown up, a Cultivator in the 3rd Heavenstage. His hair was now grown long, done in a long braid in the style of the Bei. But the devastation, and his absence, left his little brother still acting like the child he was when Wulong left for the Qiguai Realmgate, to find his fortunes and to do a favour to a bastard who was also his brother. A dead man.
Ancestors, what a shitshow.
"What are we going to do, big brother Wulong?" Dalin asked. He was not the only one turning to him for direction now. Others of the Bei, his extended family, turned to him with a complicated mix of despair and hope as well. Like he could give them a direction out of this nightmare. Just a few years ago, many of these same people disregarded him as a mere whoreson, some child that his father, Wushan, kept around as a curiosity. Now, he was some sort of chosen one.
But despite the name of the bow he carried on his back, Wulong had no direction, no reference point. He was just as blind as the rest of them.
He looked his brother in the eye, expression impassive, his emotions swirling torrentially as he sought desperately for a proper plan. But as he reflected, he saw nothing. Even his eyes, famed even outside of the Clan, were useless to him.
What options did he have? Where would they go? What would they do? There was a chance that the Golden Devils would allow them to keep their homes, but Wulong saw little reason to expect that, even as ignorant of the regional politics as he was. More likely, they would be ousted. The last time any of the Jingshen would walk the Great Scorpion Road would come soon.
"I…" Wulong felt a lump in his throat, swallowed, and found his mouth still too dry to speak. He did it again and licked his dry lips. Somehow, despite the oppressive heat, he felt a chill run through his body. As he spoke, his brother looked up at him, an iota of hope acquired.
But it died just as quickly, when Wulong's gaze turned downwards and he found his brother, the headstrong archer who cared for little but who always saw his next target ahead of him, was just as lost as the rest of them.
"...I don't know," Jingshen Bei Wulong finally said to the rest of his clan. He looked up, saw they had all become smaller, more pathetic. He found that so was he. "I'm sorry."
They stewed in silence then, a mob of Qi Condensation who had little greater direction, greater inspiration; all the Experts of the Bei who survived had either their Meridians broken or their spirits broken. For the Core Elders, it was both. The majority of them would never fight again. At least a third would die within the next twenty years as their cultivation base eroded to nothing.
A pathetic way to go, Wulong thought. He had hoped his father would not die that way. But then, he had always thought of his father as some distant star, impersonal but eternal. Jingshen Bei Wushan was a respectable, industrious and decisive man, the most impressive of the Bei Clan's Elders. His death was never even up for consideration.
And that was why he was the first one the Golden Devil Legionnaires aimed to cripple. Somehow, he had fallen under their crosshairs, a dangerous foe that had to be neutralised the moment an opportunity came, someone that must never be given the chance to fight back because the whirlwind he would reap would be too much for them to bear.
Such men like Jingshen Bei Wushan were destined to die like men, like legends, screaming defiance, seizing glory. And that was why Jingshen Bei Wushan had to die the death of a pauper, rotting like a tree in a bog.
It might have been kinder to die in the war, but Wulong does not think such thoughts. He could do nothing but pray his father beat the odds.
The ground and walls shook. Dust fell from the ceiling, as they have not been cleaned and tended to in months since the war ended. They all felt more than heard the heavy footsteps thumping down the gateway to their mines, knew that there was no one else they could be.
Golden Devils. Here to give their ultimatum.
They show their heads soon enough in the plaza, bronze-skinned tyrants clad in the bones and essence of their literal ancestors. One of them, bearing the crested helmet of a Centurion, stepped forward with a decree scroll, not bothering to remove their helm before they addressed the gathered Bei, those who still had the energy to move. Wulong felt irritation, but quashed it. Though it was customary to remove your headwear and show your face before making such addresses, the Golden Devils were making the point of foregoing it. A statement of their new authority.
"Families of the Jingshen Bei Outer Clan," the Centurion said, his voice bearing a booming quality that carried it across all the mine, a peculiar technique to amplify noise and strike fear, or at least incite attention. "By the grace of the
Archgetes, Manuel Konstantinos, you have two choices. Take the bronze, join the
Imperial Optimatoi, and you will be permitted to remain in your homes, with the full rights and responsibilities of a Clansmen. Refuse, and you will be dispossessed of all your territories and ancestral lands. Over the next decade, you will be remanded into the care of the Strength Purity Sect, as per our agreement with the Blood Defiance Federation. Whatever assets you cannot carry with you will be surrendered to the Clan and redistributed at our discretion. All those who would take the bronze, step forward."
The Centurion waited for a minute, and none did. All the Jingshen Bei around and beside Wulong looked coldly and hatefully at the Golden Devil Expert, this
invader who had the temerity to throw them from their homes, a place their Clan has known for thousands of years. It was unfair. It was unthinkable. But it was all too real.
The Centurion continued, clearly expecting this reaction. "Those of you who remain will be escorted as groups of a hundred, determined by lottery." This rang hollow to Wulong; more likely, their orders will be determined to minimise all ability to resist and rebel. "You will be delivered beyond the Desert within twenty years. That will be all, return to your affairs."
The Golden Devil returned from whence he came in short order, and none of the Jingshen Bei were sorry to see him go. When he was done blighting the plaza of their forefathers, the crowd dispersed. Soon it was just Wulong and Dalin, standing together as they now stood alone.
"What do we do now, big brother?" Dalin asked. "Should we fight?"
Wulong shook his head. With proper planning and preparation, he was able to fight one of their paragons and bring her to her knees, suffering only mild injuries in the process. But he could not resist the efforts of an entire Clan. Not when they held all the cards. Not when they were here.
Not when
they were a broken, scattered people.
"We will remember those we lost, and look after those we still have," Wulong said instead. "And when the time comes for us to cross the mountains… we'll do that together."
"What if we don't?" Dalin asked, quietly afraid - not for himself, but for his brother.
Wulong's cold anger radiated outwards like a cold snap, confirming his little brother's fears. "Then remember me when you take our family across the mountains. Together."
----
Year 243
The Devils did not wait long to send Wulong and his family on their way. The story of his triumph over one of their most promising young juniors had already made its rounds all over the desert. Anyone with a pinch of sense would make sure that anyone capable of such a comprehensive hunter-killer mission would be kept on the other side of the Bronzewall, lest they grow up to become a bandit chief of good standing and disinclined persuasion towards the ruling powers that be. And the Golden Devils were, if nothing else, a sensible lot.
So they had left, their caravans and carriages now heavily laden not with trade goods and spirit stones, but all the possessions they had to their name. What was left of their ancestral treasuries, after the Golden Devils had taxed and demanded tariffs and ransoms that would be daylight robbery by more proper Sects and Clans, along with their lives and resources. Few if any Servant Cultivators followed them; evidently the Golden Devils had cut a suitable deal with them now they were free of the Jingshen yoke. That was their prerogative, Wulong believed, though there were those of the Jingshen - even the Bei - who treated this as absolute rebellion.
The journey on the Great Scorpion Road would last months, their wealth dwindling with every passing day. They were escorted by Golden Devils, of course, the legionnaires marching alongside them supplemented by their odd scorpion cavalry that came and went at incredible speeds. The Legionnaires were faceless and nameless, rarely interacting with those they escorted, but they were at least professional and did not attempt to skim more wealth from them than they'd already been shaken for.
The sights that Wulong had taken for granted before were now tinged with a dreary pallor. What did he care for the Scorpion Tribes, or the Neutral Oasis Lands? What stung the most was crossing past the Dawn Fortress, the citadel of the Golden Devil Clan, possibly the greatest fortification in the Desert. Before, it had to contend with the investment and depths of the Underworld Spirit Palace, but now that moniker was uncontested.
Just watching it made Wulong irritable and short-tempered. It almost made him snap at his younger siblings when they called him to dinner, when he ventured from the caravan to get the lay of the land. It made him sharp-tongued in the presence of his lord father, who remained maimed but was at least cognizant of his surroundings again. It blinded him to certain things, like the blankness that Wushan's eyes were filled with, instead of the quiet strength he once exuded.
It reminded him of that battle in the Qiguai Secret Realm. A well-chosen hunt, against a talented but inexperienced Junior who had purified her Soul. Who continued to demonstrate immense power and unbridled growth under pressure even though he kept the initiative and held every card. Who could have won that final exchange, had she been just a bit more restrained or just a bit more reckless. If her foot had landed anywhere else, it would have been difficult. If his arrow had been any less true, he would be dead.
A fine battle. An excellent hunt. A marvellous contest against an apparent peer.
Completely irrelevant. Entirely ancillary. Because the war he saw on the horizon, the war they all feared, was already raging. And what did it matter to him, to kill one of their future prospects, when it was their current strength that threatened - and crushed - his Elders?
It would have been simple to just leave her alive. Perhaps even escort her from the Realmgate as a further demonstration of his respect. But when she revealed that parcel of information it had shaken him to his core. It disrupted his judgement, devastated the conclusion he had already drawn. And that scared him enough to want to take petty revenge on an opponent he had already bested.
That was what he was really mad about, he knew. That was the outcome he had already accepted. That he had violated his own honour, his own hospitality, out of something as banal as being corrected of a misunderstanding. It was a weakness he would have to resolve. It was a weakness that hurt too much to consider right now, which made healing a difficult prospect. The best he could do now was ignore it for the moment.
And standing in the middle of the core territories of the Golden Devil Clan, beneath the constant gaze of their Array Masterpieces, made it difficult to ignore. Which made him prickly and irritable.
Yet something more to reflect. But it was tiresome to confront and tiresome to engage, so Wulong could do little but stew in his own frustrations, wishing he had been stronger, or at least wiser.
Because if he had just turned down Hei'en's selfish request and had him impose his idiotic demands on someone else, perhaps even someone else less capable, he might have been able to save Hainan's life at Haoshen Fort.
Now he did not even have anything to remember her by but the pain of loss.
The looming Bronzewall made all this especially tiresome.
----
Crossing the Grand Mountainwall was the least of his family's troubles, for all that Wulong left his sour mood behind its array-hewn faces. The first of the caravan's obstacles was Dying Curse Peak, a more enduring legacy of the Golden Devils. The guides that brought them through it, giving them various talismans and instructing them to remain within array formations they held up on palanquins as they rode alongside them, told them the story of Old Elder Komnenos, one of the old bronze monsters of myth and legend.
Old Komnenos, the Old Gold of those days, was a man who mastered curses. He was brought low early into the conflict between the Devil-Punishing Coalition - the Righteous Path of those days - but his spirit lingered, as did a great many of his works. Dying Curse Peak is but the greatest and last of them, a masterstroke that broke the back of the Coalition and ensured that the Golden Devils survived to escape into the desert. Survived to rebuild, and wage war, and take
his family's territories.
All that, the work of a single Spirit Severing Elder. A power long since lost to the Third Sea, ever since the rise of the Demonic Soup Chef. It shook Wulong to consider that such powers were once very real and felt, not merely seen through the frosted glass of time. Surely on other living seas, they had Spirit Severing Elders of their own. Patriarchs, Masters, Sages. Ready and willing to offer their ancient wisdom to those who passed their trials.
The ruins of Casta Komnenos, suspected but never quite confirmed to be connected to Old Komnenos himself, were not much better than Dying Curse Peak. It was here that the cultivators of the Jingshen cut their teeth on battle again, not as a matter of pride but as a point of necessity. With the troubles the Sorrowful Blacksmith Sect had with their own rebels, it was now necessary for caravans braving the pass to see to their own protection as well. Wulong spent many a sleepless night for the week they were there, a tireless sentinel armed with bow and arrow against endless legions of restless dead.
Breaking free of the ruins was a relief, and from that point Wulong tried to put what they had lost behind him, to consider what they could achieve in the future.
The Reverse Flow Falls were a rare marvel, a river that flowed towards them and never in any other direction. Wulong did his best to ignore the Golden Devil guides that managed their boats, corralling the currents to their liking. These, Wulong knew, were those who had turned their backs on the rest of their Clan, and they were rare indeed. The Golden Devils had forged a culture of shared solidarity and discipline, harshly punishing those who broke with custom and rewarding those who worked for the greater whole.
He hated the will that drove the Golden Devils, the wounds still raw. But he had little but contempt for those who would turn their backs on their kin, no matter the cause. You did not turn your back on your own people, no matter what. It was why he was here, minding his family, and not back in the desert plotting vengeance. He had his wishes, and he had his responsibilities.
It was obvious which took precedent.
Onward and onward they travelled. When the caravan rested, the children played. The men traded with the merchants, exchanging wares for what they needed. The elders, what few they had, minded their own business, and Wulong saw his father wither by the day. As they climbed the Spiritfall Stairs, as they drank their share from the Manizkert Fountain-Array, when they crossed the Doors Between and spent time at Doorway City to settle their papers and find supplies and contacts with the Strength Purity Sect, which awaited them on the other side of the Pass. Soon they stood in the shadow of the Obsidian Tower, which remained invisible to Wulong's eyes despite the claims of his guides as to its sheer size; the Expert that led them through the Pass even claimed to have approached it once as part of a greater expedition and saw some of the beasts that swarmed around it, monsters in Nascent Soul and beyond.
It was around this time that Wulong finally realised that their supply of spirit stones had dwindled, and things were becoming difficult. Some of the wounded had already begun to surrender their allotment, even the Elders who might be able to find treatment. Among them was Jingshen Bei Wushan, who seemed to have his mind already decided.
By the time they crossed the Old Bronzegate, Wulong's father was white and wrinkled, a shadow of his former power. And he was ready to face death, if not in battle, then at the very least with dignity.
When they finally reached the Eastern Citadel, the Eastern Trade Society City that stood in the shadow of the Hard Shell Mountains, Elders of the Strength Purity Sect were waiting for them. And Jingshen Bei Wushan would engage with them, alongside every surviving Core Formation Elder in their procession.
It would be the last thing he would do as an Elder of the Jingshen Clan. Not one year later, he passed of old age, buried in the foothills by the mountains.
As part of his grave goods, Wulong left his prized arrows, the ones that remained unused anyways. They would serve his father better. Though they had not known each other well, and though Wulong never spoke with him on his deathbed, his father had given him room and board his entire life. He never looked down upon Wulong, nor did he deride his origins. In his own way, he cared for his son, his fourth son, his pitiful whoreson.
He stuck with his family until the very end. At the very least, he had moral fibre.
With his father's passing and the deaths, disappearances or madness of all his older siblings, Wulong now found himself the oldest surviving son of his branch. A mere Qi Condensation Disciple, albeit one with promise, he now had the responsibilities of a patriarch. With no home and no resources, for either cultivation or investment.
At least the last thing Wushan did was ensure his family would keep a roof over their heads. Theirs was a more modest estate than they had in their Core territories, but it was still much better than a cramped townhouse. Another thing he had to repay. Another standard he had to live up to.
Wulong intended to exceed all expectations.
----
The Jingshen Clan are a Clan of Spirit Stone Cultivators.
For generations, for eons, for as long as they have been Jingshen, they have derived their Qi entirely from Spirit Stones. The bounty of the earth was how they gained power, not through the breath but through wealth itself. It was through labour in the depths of the mines and the grace of the Heavens that they sought Immortality and power in equal measure. The words 'Jingshen' and 'Flush with Spirit Stones' are as synonymous as 'Jingshen' and 'Rich Asshole'.
Now they were neither of those things. They were but the Jingshen Clan. No, barely even that.
They were the Jingshen Bei. And they were destitute.
To their credit, the Bei men who stuck with Wulong were not strangers to struggle. They were, after all, all veterans of the Devil War, and the Bei were always known for their martial focus amongst the four Outer Clans. They did many jobs for the Strength Purity Sect, offered their expertise to the Eastern Trade Society. But that was hardly enough.
Expenditures, ever more expenditures. Wulong never wanted for anything material, but now he was confronted with the reality of cost. Building a home out of more than tents and thatch needed money. Finding suitable work crews and a trustworthy architect needed money. Demonstrating their own reliability needed money. Working around Strength Purity Cultivators and dipping into their 'territory' demanded money to ease tensions before they erupted. Food, money. Clothes, money. Materials for the children to learn, money money money.
Those were comparatively minor expenditures, however, to Cultivation Resources. Trading with mortals was easy, if distasteful, easily paid off with promises of lending a Cultivator for protection for a given period in exchange for work and food. But the Cultivators amongst them needed materials to Cultivate - not even to progress, but simply to stay put.
And the Jingshen Clan are a Clan of Spirit Stone Cultivators.
With the War against the Demonic Altar and the Poison Crushing Siege alike raging furiously, with the current destitution of his family, there was no possible way Wulong could see to acquire sufficient Spirit Stones for his family. The survivors were invariably crippled or too young, and he was loathe to leave his kin to die again like his father did. But while he had some experience with different forms of Cultivation Techniques, it was simply impossible for Wulong to teach everyone how to simply respire the Qi they needed from the Green Scale Plains around them.
He was a talent. He was a rising star even without the incredible backing of the Jingshen Clan's coffers. Had Wulong set off on his own, there would be no question that he could continue to survive,
thrive, and become an impressive person in his own right. But Wulong's relatives were not talents, and he had only so many hours in the day - many hours already spent managing household affairs, spent in negotiations, spent hunting down more and more damnable Spirit Stones!
Wulong simply could not teach people who did not have the talent to Cultivate in other ways how to respire Qi fast enough.
The result was inevitable.
Year after year, his household grew quieter and quieter.
----
Year 244
Still, things were not truly desperate anymore. The Eastern Trade Society lands they resided in were far from the Great Battlefield, and Wulong was fast mastering various skills, some the Jingshen were known for and others they were not.
Negotiating passage into Sorrowful Bandit Lands was trivial, for they hated the Golden Devils themselves and were in no condition to screen the border as strictly as they did before. After that, bow and arrow in hand, it was simple for him to hunt Spirit Beast after Spirit Beast, from afar, with unerring accuracy. The mountains were dangerous and the beasts were plentify, but Wulong moved like a whisper and struck like a thunderbolt.
Where he went, beasts died. Their meat would be sold to the Sorrowful Bandits, their parts to the Ten Million Spirit Stone Auction House for the highest bidder. He made a name for himself amongst the Eastern Trade Society mere months after his household situation became stable enough that he could leave on hunting expeditions constantly, for his pelts were the most untouched and whole that they had received in a long, long time. The half-dozen strong hunting parties of cousins and uncles who would come with Wulong would say that they come not as hunters, but as pack mules for the Silver Archer.
Wulong never offered his own thoughts on the matter, but he found they were overstating things. He only killed most of the beasts they found, not all of them. And he was far from being able to hunt Foundation level beasts reliably. When one needed a hundred arrows to guarantee a kill, it was not something that could be done lightly.
Still, he hunted, he killed, and he put food and herbs on the table. And when the time came that Strength Purity 'requested' the Jingshen send men to the Great Battlefield and do their 'civic duties', Wulong was the first to volunteer.
His service at the Great Battlefield was short, only a single year, though it proved largely inconsequential. As a mere Qi Condensation junior, if a powerful one, he was tasked to the Fearless Line, and there he saw limited action. But during those limited actions, he caught the keen eye of the Broken Arrow Bandits.
It was a paltry matter, all told, one that their Core Elder could have caught if he was of a mind to. All Wulong did was save a group of juniors from a dozen Altar Cannibals with carefully placed arrows.
Some would note that he did so at a distance of thirty thousand paces. That he did so with a dozen arrows, which each landed simultaneously and flawlessly, each a fatal blow. That he did so through a raging tempest he could not even feel, on a battlefield he could not see, from low ground.
Some would not understand archery. They were trivial complications, as far as Wulong was concerned. Those who praised him have never hunted bandits as they ducked through the desert dunes. Those who claim his feats unthinkable have never developed a natural sense for the voice of the wind and where it sang. Those who struggle to consider how he hit enemies on high ground have never thought to contemplate Mt. Tai.
It was, as far as Wulong cared, all in a day's work.
But he had caught the eye of Elder Leafsplitter, once a rising star of the Thousand Arrows And Flowers Sect, now the leader of the Broken Arrow Bandits. Leafsplitter gave sympathy at the loss of the Jingshen, despite his own correspondence with one the Golden King, and offered him a position among the Broken Arrow Bandits. Wulong refused that, but he did accept a standing offer to fight beside them on the Fearless Line, and to exchange a number of Bow Arts.
His service ended meritously, vouched by the Broken Arrow Bandits and winning no small amount of prestige and wealth for it, Jingshen Bei Wulong returned home with a strongly conflicted feeling in his gut. The reminder of the Golden Devils that meeting Elder Leafsplitter brought him had only brought back the pathetic image of his Clan, defeated and destitute, into his mind.
Not only the image he had then, though. But a new one. Discordant with new information, offered out of hand by someone with no goat in the game.
"Hell of a thing," Leafsplitter had said to him.
"But at least your family got out of it in one piece. Rina tells me Old Gold can be a sentimental old guy sometimes, and I didn't use to believe it, but you don't see that kind of mercy from a Nascent Soul everyday."
It was preposterous to consider the sheer scale of the loss and suffering his people have suffered any form of mercy, but for the remainder of his service on the Great Battlefield had Leafsplitter tell him a number of stories, particularly about Nascent Souls and the nature of Nascent Conflict.
In the Desert, there were no great Nascent clashes in his lifetime. It was said the last Cannibal Crushing War had been ruinous to those who bore witness to them, but that was a conflict solely between the Golden Devils and Battle Blood Cannibals, and the Jingshen had no dog in that race. He had only his own experiences to reference, and what he had seen was terrible in the extreme. But Leafsplitter enlightened him as to the scale of a Nascent Soul's power.
Where two fought, armies died. Errant flickers of Will were enough to snuff out hundreds or thousands of lives dozens of
li away, to say little of the backwash of their techniques - or the techniques of the Demonic Altar's Nascent Souls, fueled by Blood Qi. Or even some techniques of the Righteous Nascent Souls, who would sometimes kill cities of mortals and poison their remains to deny them to the Blood Path, without so much as a moment's hesitation. Not only because hesitation could be the difference between life or death, but also because they believed it was the righteous thing to do.
It was a terrible thing, considering mass murder a good thing, and he had said so to Leafsplitter. The Broken Arrow Lord had agreed, but he also noted that the perspectives of a Nascent Soul were often warped; the pain of their Cultivation was not a trivial thing, to say nothing of what it would take to even reach that vaunted stage. What could they say about the judgement of an Old Monster - and for the first time Wulong truly did reflect on
why Nascent Souls held such a moniker - when they were so far beneath them, without their experiences and without their struggles?
That, Leafsplitter had said, was why Old Gold's mercy was remarkable. It was his last day on the Fearless Line. he had long since rotated off, and the Broken Arrow Bandits were there to see him and the rest of the Jingshen Bei off. He had not wanted to see Leafsplitter again, but the Core Elder had been there, with the shape of the solution he had not wanted to contemplate.
Objectively, a Soul Attack of the nature that had washed over the Jingshen Bei was inefficient. It was difficult to modulate such a Technique to have the same effect on two targets, because the strength of a given Soul was often different, and at the scale of a Nascent Soul it was more effort to contemplate such matters than to simply deliver a blow certain to kill everyone at all. Yet, Old Gold had done it. He had spared as many lives as he could, and 'only' left them crippled, maddened, or both.
And there was only one reason for him to have done this, if his objective - the complete denial of the Jingshen Bei to Lord Junjie and Lady Jiao as a viable military force - could have been more easily and more quickly accomplished via a single fatal Technique.
It was a lot for him to grapple with, and Leafsplitter had been gracious enough to end matters there and bid him farewell. But contemplating the nature of Old Gold's mercy had consumed him even after he returned home.
If this was the nature of Nascent Mercy, Wulong had thought on the way home, then this was a miserable
fucking world to live in.
----
Year 245
It was a matter of months after Wulong returned from the Fearless Line that lightning began to rain in the west. Tribulation Lightning was not rare in the lands of the Strength Purity Sect, given the many strong and wealthy Cultivators around, but this storm was unlike any Tribulation he had ever seen, even from a distance.
He had been tending to the Clear Compass Bow at the time when the lightning flashed. A minute later, a roar of thunder rolled over the household, still loud enough to startle some of the children. It was fairly concerning, even as Wulong kept his head about him while the rest of the household looked about in surprise. Thunder often took longer to hear than the lightning it came from was seen. But a minute long gap was almost unheard of.
He stepped outside and watched as column of lightning fell, again and again to their west. It was immensely powerful and spoke of incredible spite. Even from this distance, Wulong could feel the killing intent emanating from it. Not directed at him, not even slightly. But it was already terrifying to behold.
Such a Tribulation was not for normal people to face. He could only start to consider what the Cultivator in question had done to rouse so much Heavenly Ire.
Wulong shook his head and returned to his work, disregarding the angry storm in the west. He did not look up from his bow when the clouds dispersed and the first of the Silverlords to appear in this era rose not far from him. And he did not care when the caravan carrying him back into the lands of the Golden Devils trundled past the village his home was close to.
It was inconsequential to him. He had greater worries. The Jingshen Bei under him were stable now, but still destitute, without even a single Expert to their name. He was their best hope for further advancement, and he was also their greatest breadwinner. Until their situation improved, he would not be able to face Tribulation.
How vexing.
----
Several months after, his nephew was born. Dalin had been blessed with a wonderful, strong son, and his younger brother looked up to him to provide the little one with a name. To be bequeathed to him when he was of age.
Wulong, after some thought, prepared a suitable name, to be presented to the young one in a few years time.
Jingshen Bei Tai Lung. A good name for a good boy. A herald of good times.
A/N: Wulong's story hasn't been forgotten, it's just been slightly non-relevant at the moment. Hopefully I'll be able to explore the Jingshen Bei's new sorry state some more in the future. Anyways, consider this one an advance Turn 15 omake for a Tribulation Boost.
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