SU TANG (素醣)

  Day 21, 4th Month of the Lunar Calendar, 6000th Year of the Yun Dynasty, Taishan Province, Tian’an Sect

  Once the work was done, I locked myself into one of the practice rooms and barred the door with an unreasonable amount of determination. Qi Qi had handed me a new manuscript, written in that elegant handwriting of hers, containing a variety of pill recipes I hadn’t tried before.

  Sheesh, they’re all tier-six or higher.

  My eyes caught on one: the Restoring Blood Pill, mid-grade tier-seven. Supposedly, only one pill was required to replenish lost blood and nourish spiritual marrow. A battlefield saviour. I remembered Qi Qi had made dozens of them during the civil unrest in Shuishang, always fussing over someone else’s health. Always worrying. That was her nature. Mine, on the other hand, leaned more toward catastrophic curiosity.

  Maybe I’ll give this one a try.

  I went through my practice forms first, half to loosen my joints, half to delay the inevitable frustration. Then I sat down at the cauldron and began the gruelling process. Four hours in, I forcibly coaxed a stabilising flower base into being, sweating through my robe. By the fifth hour, the entire concoction erupted in a blinding pop of light and noise.

  When the smoke cleared, all that remained was a single pink pearl glinting amid a mound of sad, grey ash. It was definitely not a Restoring Blood Pill. Possibly a cosmic insult.

  I slumped over my desk like a dying cat, limbs flopping out like I’d just fallen from a tower. My head throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache. It started right behind the eyes, of course, where it hurt the most. I stared ahead, but my vision decided to detach itself from my will, meandering about like a drunk on stilts. I dropped my head onto my arm and closed my eyes.

  My head really hurts. I must be out of practice.

  Outside, creaking floorboards, laughter, and raised voices sliced through the haze of failure. I cracked one eye open, just enough to glare at the ceiling. What now? A parade? A coup? Have we declared war again?

  I forced myself up and pressed an ear against the door. Muffled or not, I would’ve recognised that voice anywhere. I blinked. My face lit up in spite of myself, and I flung open the door.

  “Lao Zhe yéyé!” I called, bounding into the corridor with all the grace of a swan in a wind tunnel, completely forgetting that I was in the process of falling apart. Pain promptly slammed down my spine like a metal rod, and I doubled over with a grimace.

  As the throb faded to something survivable, I looked up…straight into the sharp, unimpressed gaze of my shījiě. Ju Ying stood there, arms folded with surgical precision, frown arranged just so. I straightened, bowed, and murmured, “Good day, Blossom Chief Ju.”

  Her eyes narrowed, then flicked to Lao Zhe, who gave her a look that was somewhere between amusement and accusation. Without a word, she turned and walked away. The crowd parted around her like water. She was always so dramatic.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Lao Zhe gave me a little wave. “Come with me, Su Tang.”

  When Lao Zhe spoke in that tone—serious as a physician’s final diagnosis—you obeyed. We walked through the hallway, the crowd folding in behind us like we were prey being swallowed by an enormous snake. My legs shook, my vision still blurry. I squinted at the floor to keep it steady.

  We entered the practice room I had just been in. Ju Ying had already installed herself like a particularly elegant painting. I shut the door behind us and gave another small curtsy, mostly to delay the headache spiralling in my skull.

  “Blossom Chief, what is your request?”

  Lao Zhe didn’t answer. He just grabbed me gently by the forearm and guided me toward a chair that had been perfectly placed dead in the centre like some ceremonial execution seat.

  I resisted. There was no way I was sitting on that. If you sat on that Chair of Doom, you were getting interrogated.

  Lao Zhe paused, gave me a Look, and raised one of those bushy, caterpillar eyebrows. “Su Tang. This is not an interrogation. Stop making it weird.”

  “I’m not the one making it weird,” I muttered, shooting a glance at Ju Ying, who sat at the edge of her seat with her arms folded like she was posing for a stern painting.

  Lao Zhe groaned. “Can we all just act normal for once? Ju Ying, you spent all last week asking Chun Li if Su Tang was well, and now that she’s right in front of you, you can’t even smile?”

  “I never asked that,” Ju Ying snapped. Her posture tightened like she was trying to compress her soul into a single vertebra.

  “Okay, okay. Fine, you didn’t do that,” Lao Zhe said, rolling his eyes and turning back to me. “And you!”

  Ordinarily, I would’ve returned my typical doe-eyed surprised expression, but instead I nodded dully. The pounding in my head was now echoing with a heartbeat rhythm, and breathing felt like trying to inhale through wool. I pressed a hand against my chest.

  He gave me a pointed look. “We heard about your antics. Blossom Chief Ju was so worried. You don’t get to pretend that didn’t mean anything.”

  I lowered my gaze. Let them scold me. The sooner it ended, the sooner I could curl up and pass out somewhere discreet.

  Strong arms wrapped around me. Lao Zhe’s familiar scent of musty old scrolls and sun-warmed cotton, flooded my nose. I leaned into the hug, ignoring the new wave of pain that lit my nerves like kindling. His hand smoothed over my hair, gentle and steady. It hurt. But it was comforting.

  When he pulled away, I looked into his face and smiled. He returned it with a wide grin, all tea-stained teeth and grandfatherly mischief. He didn’t need to say we missed you. I already knew.

  But something moved behind him.

  Ju Ying was approaching with that cool, composed, elegance owned by her. Her steps barely made a sound, and her hands were perfectly arranged around the folds of her skirt. Regal to the last breath. I gave her a nod—

  —and then the world tipped sideways.

  My knees buckled. Lao Zhe caught me halfway, his hands grappling around my arms. My head lolled, the spinning sky now a swirl of blotches. Ju Ying’s cool hand slipped beneath my arm and braced my back.

  “Su Tang! Why didn’t you say something?” she hissed, which felt less like concern and more like someone throwing fireworks directly into my ears.

  She pointed at something. My arm? I squinted. A thick black line had been drawn across it.

  It’s just ink. Ah, she’s probably scolding me for being dirty.

  She’s yelling at me…something like ‘it’s not ink.’

  Had I said that out loud?

  Ju Ying’s fingers were cold and unyielding as she checked my pulse. Her mouth kept moving, words ricocheting like cymbals. I couldn’t tell if she was yelling at me or at Lao Zhe. Either way—too loud. Could she stop shouting?

  My head really hurts.

  I just want to sleep.