Matriarch Pei Wanru stood petrified, clutching her collar while her mouth hung open. The perfect, man-shaped hole in the sect’s ancient defensive array gaped open, a portal to the untamed plains beyond. A faint breeze, carrying the scent of wild sage and a hint of distant monster scat, wafted through the new opening. A hollow quiet followed Shen Yimo’s sneeze, broken only by chirping crickets in the dried grass.
“My… my array,” Matriarch Pei whispered, her tone brittle as parchment. “Five generations of elders bolstered that barrier! The Spirit-Woven Bastion! It’s… it’s a *hole* now!” She pivoted toward Gong Zui, spitting flecks of saliva. “This is your doing, you idle, bun-hoarding oaf! You teach him to blow holes through perimeter wards?!”
Gong Zui, who had been meticulously inspecting a particularly stubborn patch of lichen on a nearby stone, sighed. “Matriarch, I merely taught the lad proper breathing for manual labor. The rest is simply… side effects of good posture. Besides,” he gestured vaguely at the gaping void, “now you have a natural ventilation system. Think of the foul indoor air you’re avoiding.”
“Foul air?” she shrieked, her voice cracking. “We’re facing *bankruptcy*! That array cost a fortune in Spirit-Sealed Cinnabar and Whisper-Stone weaves! Who’s going to pay to fix *that*?” Her gaze snapped to Shen Yimo, who cowered behind his oversized spade. “You! You’ll compensate the treasury! Your two buns a day are docked to two a month!”
Shen Yimo’s face fell. “But… I was just… trying to be efficient.” His shoulders slumped, chin dropping to his chest.
“Efficiently bankrupting me!” Matriarch Pei wrung her hands. “Unless…” A mercenary spark gleamed in her squinted eyes. “Unless we make outsiders foot the bill.”
Gong Zui groaned. He knew that look. It usually involved him doing extra work for free, or something equally unpleasant.
“The Annual Jade Peak Tournament!” Matriarch Pei exclaimed, smacking her thigh. “It convenes next month, but we can host an open qualifier right here! We levy registration tariffs! Steep tariffs! And the victor secures an undisputed berth in the finals! Yes! We’ll dub it the ‘Grand Charity Open’! Restoration funds!” Her grin was manic.
Gong Zui rubbed his temples. “Matriarch, our school hasn’t won a qualifier in twenty years. Cultivators assume we run an herbal compost club. Nobody will attend.”
“They will for that reserved berth!” she insisted. “And for the chance to humble a ‘lowly’ sect like ours. Pride, Gong Zui, is a powerful motivator. Now, you!” She pointed at Shen Yimo, who flinched. “You fix that hole. And you,” she glared at Gong Zui, “prepare the sparring grounds. And no more tea breaks!”
Days later, the flagging grounds bustled with a dozen wandering rogues and a crowd of curious farmers. Matriarch Pei had circulated flyers across three provinces, puffing the single tournament pass into imperial favor. Most attendees, however, were just there for the spectacle of a failing sect trying to milk some coin. The promised purse—a tarnished tin token and dried ditch-parsley—drew sneers from the competitors.
A shadow fell over the arena flagstones. A sedan chair of black ironwood, hoisted by four muscular retainers, dropped from the clouds amid ribbons of condensation. Gao Rufeng stepped out, his nose tilted skyward. The gilded crest of the Azure Cloud Pavilion glinted across his mantle.
He had cheekbones like chisels, dark irises, and an ivory pommel resting against his hip as he strode to the flagstones. His tunic bore sky-blue embroidery woven from moon-moth silk, each hem worth more than the estate's annual ledger. He surveyed the rotting eaves and the ragged spectators with an open sneer.
“This is the grand gala?” he scoffed, his baritone booming through focused breath. “A porch rally for beggars. You must be Matriarch Pei.” He flicked a wrist toward her trembling form. “Azure Cloud takes no pleasure in rustic clowning. We caught word of fraudsters peddling an illicit bypass to Jade Peak. Pack up this sideshow before noon, or answer to steel.”
Matriarch Pei blanched, though her jaw tightened. “Young Master Gao, our registration booth complies with code. The Council grants host rights to one regional qualifier. We merely stepped forward.”
Gao Rufeng let out a humorless laugh. “Rebuild with what? Dead vines and moss?” Gao drew his steel, letting the blade sing as nine vortices of cutting wind began churning the soil at his feet. “My Nine Gales Art will shred these ruins in three breaths.”
The resident novices backed against the pillars, pale as curd. The gale tore shingles from the rafters, reeking of raw ozone.
“Observe,” Gao sneered, sweeping his rapier upward. The nine vortices fused into a roaring gale of gray turbulence, whistling toward the main hall to shear the roof trusses off in a single blast.
Twenty paces away by the perimeter breach, Shen Yimo had his back turned. Gong Zui had ordered him to record the exact circumference of the hole. “Patience, boy,” the handyman had mumbled around a mouthful of cold dough earlier. “Measure twice, lay mortar once.”
Shen Yimo treated the instruction as gospel, clutching a splintered pine board two fists wide and an arm long. He had scored the timber with charcoal notches, mapping the irregular rim of masonry. The weathered pine was mottled with lime wash, held firmly in his calloused palms while Gao Rufeng's gale whipped loose dust into his eyes.
As the funnel of air ripped toward the eaves, Shen Yimo checked an awkward bevel near the masonry cap. He grunted, lifting the pine board overhead and twisting it to align with the damaged brickwork, locking his heels into the foundation soil just as Gong Zui had shown him.
The timber crossed the direct path of the vortex. There was no crack of thunder. Upon striking the edge of the board, the compressed vortex sheared, its spinning threads unraveling into harmless puffs of breeze that rustled the grass.
The raw mechanical momentum rebounded against the timber with a dull *thrum*. Shen Yimo's knees flexed, driving the kinetic recoil into the earth, which ricocheted back along the line of flight toward Gao Rufeng.
Gao Rufeng took the rebound full in the ribs and lifted off his sandals. He squawked, his azure robes tangling about his limbs as he somersaulted backward, planting skull-first with a wet splat into the manure heap behind the cabbage patch. Greenbottle flies scattered into the air.
No one spoke. Peasants, Matriarch Pei, and local youths stared at the cabbage patch. Gao Rufeng dragged himself upright, dripping black sludge, his gilded rapier abandoned in the weeds. He stared at his soiled gloves, then toward Shen Yimo, who was squinting along the edge of the lumber, oblivious to the gallery.
Gao Rufeng gaped at the ordinary timber in the laborer's hand, where a hairline fissure ran down the center grain. His voice dropped to a reedy squeak.
“What… what forbidden hex was that? What… *what manner of timber is that board*?!”