“How long are you going to be gone for?” Bin asked.

  Ishin gathered his extra cultivator robes and shoved them into his pack. He was collecting his few possessions from his assigned storage closet that all faculty members of the Martial Hall were granted. Brother Bin and Sister Na were with him, having visited him in the infirmary after their classes had ended. The two had joined him as he went to pack his things, and he filled them in on what had transpired along the way.

  “I don’t know,” Ishin answered, now dressed in his usual cultivator robes. He reached for one of his spear technique manuals. “Until Elder Fa decides to let me return—if ever.”

  “You shouldn’t have raised your voice against him,” Na critiqued softly. “He would have protected you.”

  “You’re right,” Ishin admitted. He went to retrieve a staff technique manual next, but paused. The manual covered six of the eighteen basic staff stances that he’d taught for the last year. He’d already memorized every word. Retracting his hand, Ishin decided to leave the manual. Instead, he reached for his spear—the same one he had used in his battle against Pan Fang.

  “Although,” Ishin added, “it’s possible that Elder Fa was always going to suspend me because of Jun Wu’s plot. I’ll never know.”

  “Do you really think that Jun Wu planned all of this?” Bin asked. “It sounds very elaborate.”

  Ishin tied the leather straps of his pack together, sealing it. “He must have, Brother Bin. Why else would his grandfather, a tribal elder, push for my dismissal?” He hoisted the pack over one shoulder and carried his spear over the other. “It was clever, I’ll give him that. I never thought he was smart enough to use one of his friends to lure me into a duel and then use my defeat to get me fired.”

  “You’re only suspended,” Na pointed out. “And you shouldn’t have challenged Pan Fang to a duel to begin with.”

  “I know that,” Ishin replied. He didn’t need a reminder of his mistake. I’ve been replaying events over and over in my mind for the past several hours.

  “Brother Ishin almost won though,” Bin asserted. “You saw him break Pan Fang’s nose! If it weren’t for Pan Fang’s cultivation, he would have won!”

  Ishin smiled at his friend and spoke before Na could object to Bin’s words. “I appreciate that, Brother Bin. I do. But as I’m sure Sister Na was about to tell you, Pan Fang did have his cultivation—and he did win.” Ishin let out a breath. “I thought I could win, but I didn’t, and it cost me. Now I know my limits.”

  Even if I hate admitting it.

  Mercifully, Na let the subject go. “What will you do now, Brother Ishin?”

  Ishin stared back at the nearly empty storage closet. Only the series of three staff technique manuals remained inside. “I don’t know.” He set both his pack and spear down, and then—to his friends’ bewilderment—Ishin untied the yellow obi from around his waist and threw it into the closet. He retrieved his pack and spear again before turning his back on the closet and its contents.

  “But you’re still an assistant instructor,” Bin said, agape.

  Ishin began to walk toward the hall’s exit. “I will not dwell on an empty title.” He looked at Na, saying, “To answer your question, I’ll see what my mother thinks.”

  The three exited the Martial Hall into the night landscape of Pale Fang Fortress. Several establishments were illuminated with internal lights, but most of the fortress had fallen dark and silent. The streets were mostly empty, with most of the tribe’s members having gone home for the evening. Dark grey clouds were approaching from the west—early indicators of storms to come in the next days or weeks. Despite it being the summer months, a consistent breeze brought a chill to the air.

  “Your mother?” Na asked.

  “Yes.” Ishin let his shoulders relax. “I can’t cultivate, and now I can’t even teach.” He squeezed the shaft of his spear. “All I know is that I want to find some way to use my martial talent, and I can’t think of anyone better than the First Warrior to ask for advice.”

  “Makes sense,” Bin admitted.

  “That’s a good idea,” Na added. “After you talk with her, please let us know if there’s anything we can do to help. I’m happy to spar with you in the evenings if you want.”

  Ishin smiled at her. “I appreciate that, Sister Na. It’ll be good to gain more experience fighting cultivators.”

  “Same with me,” Bin quickly added, moving to stand beside Na. With their significant height difference, the pair looked oddly endearing, even if they weren’t together. Bin looked down at Na, cheeks reddening slightly. “Sister Na and I will both spar with you. It’ll be good practice for us too.”

  “I am grateful for both of your assistance. I promise to take you up on that offer eventually.”

  “And if you need help with work, I’m sure my father could use an extra hand in his shop,” Bin offered.

  An extra hand... Bin’s father oversaw a blacksmith shop, providing various items—typically meant for combat. Ishin had no experience with blacksmithing, nor did he have any interest. I want to fight, not craft weapons for others. But still, he recognized his friend was being kind.

  “Thank you, Brother Bin. I will keep your generous offer in mind.”

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  Fortunately, before his friends could make any other awkward offers, they reached a fork in the road. One way led to the northern end of the fortress, the other west. Both Bin and Na lived in the northern region, while Ishin lived in the west. He bade his friends farewell, promising to reach out to them once he knew his next steps. Bin and Na wished him well before heading their own way.

  It took another hour before Ishin reached his home in the outer third ring of the fortress. This part of the fortress was reserved for the homes of the tribe’s prominent families. Many of the tribal elders lived nearby. He and his mother lived in a quaint, one-story wooden house. While not tall, the interior was spacious, largely thanks to Ro Akira’s high station. The house contained twelve rooms, including a small private garden in the center.

  Ishin entered the house and was greeted by Deng Xian, his mother’s personal servant. Deng Xian was a woman in her early forties with a gentle face and hair tied into a bun that was beginning to grey. She wore a simple grey-colored robe and bowed at Ishin’s arrival.

  “Welcome back, Young Master. I am pleased to see that you are doing better. I prayed to the Heavens for your quick recovery.”

  “Thank you, Deng Xian.” Ishin let his pack fall to the floor with a thud. Deng Xian proceeded to pick it up.

  “Would you like some tea or anything to eat?”

  “Some tea would be nice,” Ishin replied. “Is my mother home?”

  “Lady Akira is still out, Young Master. Would you like me to relay a message to her whenever she returns?”

  “No need. I’ll wait for her in the main living room. After you take my pack to my room, please bring the tea to me there.”

  Deng Xian gave a bow. “Of course, Young Master.” She eyed his spear. “Would you like me to bring your spear to the armsroom?”

  Ishin caressed the shaft for a slow moment before answering, “That won’t be necessary. I’ll keep it with me.”

  “Very well.” Deng Xian gave another bow before departing to fulfill her tasks.

  Ishin deposited his shoes on the mat in the antechamber before heading to the living room. This room contained a wide table, three chairs, and two wide couches for people to lounge on. Several potted plants decorated the walls. Despite their lavish abode’s size, there had never been more than a handful of visitors at once. It made the vast space feel lonely sometimes.

  Ishin took a seat on one of the couches near the table and rested the spear against its side. A moment later, Deng Xian returned with a pot of green tea and a cup. She set the cup down and filled it. She then deposited the pot on the table and asked Ishin if he needed anything else. When he affirmed that he was fine, she left again to see to the never-ending chores that kept the house maintained.

  Ishin retrieved the tea cup and took a sip. The herbal flavor of the green tea was always enjoyable. He set the tea cup back down, closed his eyes, and assumed a meditative position. It would serve as a relaxing way to pass the time until his mother returned home.

  Almost two hours later, Ishin heard the house’s door slide open and turned to look at the antechamber. He’d ceased meditating an hour ago and was now on his second pot of tea. As always, Deng Xian was shortly in the antechamber, using a movement technique.

  “Welcome home, Lady Akira,” the servant greeted with a deep bow.

  Ro Akira was dressed in the cultivator robes of the Daihu Tribe. In her hand was a ten-foot-long spear, covered with ornate carvings. The spear’s tip had a brilliant shine, indicative of the suncrest steel it was forged from. Ishin noticed that dirt was smudged over his mother’s left cheek and her hair was disheveled. She had been in combat recently, but he didn’t know if it was from training or something more serious.

  Akira held out her spear to Deng Xian, who immediately took it. “Bath,” she said.

  Deng Xian bowed. “I’ll draw it at once, my lady.”

  Ishin stood from his seat and after Deng Xian left, Akira’s gaze moved to her son. He bowed and offered his respects. “Welcome home, Mother.”

  Akira moved into the living room. “You’ve recovered.”

  Ishin rose from his bow. “Only thanks to the elixir provided by Elder Lee.” He bowed again, pressing his fists together. “Thank you for obtaining her services for me. I am grateful.”

  “You are welcome.” Akira waved a hand, and Ishin watched from the corner of his eye as the teapot and his own cup flew through the air to levitate before her. She grabbed both and poured herself a cup of tea that she downed in one drink. Then she poured herself another.

  “Stand tall,” she commanded. Ishin obeyed, straightening.

  “I heard from Elder Fa about your suspension from the Martial Hall. What do you have to say?”

  Ishin hadn’t expected her to learn about that so quickly. He decided that honesty was his best course of action. “I failed to consider the consequences of my loss before challenging Pan Fang to the duel. It was my fault for failing to have the proper foresight.”

  “You were outmaneuvered,” Akira stated bluntly.

  Ishin’s pride stung from the remark, but he knew better. She was right.

  “I was.”

  “Defeat is an excellent teacher. So is failure.” Akira drank her second cup of tea. She stepped forward and set the cup and pot down on the table. “You lost, and it cost you the minor standing you had in the tribe. Now, you are merely the son of the tribe’s First Warrior.” Crossing her arms, she asked, “What will you do now?”

  While direct, his mother’s words spoke truth. He had no cultivation and no real status. “I humbly seek your guidance on how to become stronger, Mother.” Ishin looked her directly in the eyes. “I have seen the limits of my own strength and do not know how to bridge the gap against those with cultivation. I do not wish to be weak or useless to the tribe. Or useless to you,” he added.

  One more time, he bowed. “Please, I beg for your guidance.”

  Akira considered her son’s request. “Defeat has taught you humility, it seems.”

  Ishin looked up at his mother, unsure of how to interpret the remark. “I... I thought that skill was more important than just being able to cultivate.” He let out a sigh. I was wrong.

  “Not entirely,” Akira said, surprising him. “You may have actually managed a victory—or at least a more narrow loss—against a first layer cultivator. It is amazing how much of a difference skill can make when two cultivators of different layers fight. This is why fights between two cultivators of the same realm are not automatically decided solely based on their difference in layers within the realm.”

  “Regardless, Mother, I have no cultivation. I accept that even improving my skill will only make me comparable to a first layer cultivator at best.” It was a truth he was no longer afraid to state aloud. “Do you know of any additional martial techniques I can learn to improve my chances? Perhaps the tribe can give me a position as a guard.”

  “Without cultivation, you will always be too weak to become a tribal guard,” Akira said.

  That revelation hurt. Ishin had hoped that his martial skill—and his mother’s position—would allow him to obtain the role, even if unusual. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  The finality of her answer was a painful shock. Am I really unworthy of any martial roles within the tribe? Ishin thought back to Bin’s offer. Would working as a blacksmith really be so bad?

  “Your best path forward,” Akira said, “is to become a cultivator.”