Waterstrider

Canvas Town, Tseludia Station, Pantheonic Territory, Fifthmonth, 1634 PTS

The first indication that Han received was the screams. The shouted cries of fear and terror which echoed through the sect’s halls were more than Han could ignore, and he paused in his training, quickly wiping away his sweat as he pushed past the doors of the training hall to see a surging crowd of disciples running past. Almost on instinct, he grabbed one of the disciples out of the group, intent on figuring out what was happening.

The girl stumbled out of the crowd, unable to resist Han’s pull due to her current state. He narrowed his eyes, recognizing her. This was Sashan Ji, first disciple of the sect’s Steel Palace Leader. She, too, recognized him. While they hadn’t interacted very much, both of them, as personal disciples, were considered to have a higher status than most of the rest.

“What’s going on?” he quickly asked, grip still firm on her arm. Sashan forced his fingers off of her arm with a glare. As their eyes met, Han saw a deep look of fear within hers.

“The Hadal Clan has attacked us. They’re slaughtering everyone they find.”

Han frowned.

“That can’t be right. My Master would have-”

“The Sect Leader isn’t here. My own Master told me this morning that they would be gone for most of the day,” said Sashan, interrupting him.

“What about Vice-“

“They’re all gone, you idiot! Nobody is here, nobody can help us. We need to get out of here, and survive until they return.”

Han shook, his head, adamant.

“We can fight, we need to-“

His voice cut off as he saw the scathing look Sashan directed at him.

“You may die if you wish, but I plan to run. Live to fight another day.”

“But we’re not mortals anymore,” he whispered. “We’re different now.”

Still, Sashan looked at him as if he were the greatest fool she had ever seen in her life.

“You need to wake up to reality, Yu,” she said, “or you will not live long in the martial world. In the face of a spirit refiner, someone barely refining their foundation like us is nothing. There is no difference between us mortals. Not yet.”

She was right, of course, and deep down Han had already been aware of that fact. He had seen the way his master moved, and some of the insane illusions the Vice-Sect Leader was capable of. He could barely even comprehend his master’s motions, much less handle the speed or force of his sword swings.

Han had wished to become a martial artist to improve himself, to become someone who mattered. In the end, it seemed just becoming a martial artist was not enough. Every step he took further on the path, it seemed that the more he understood just how small he really was.

That was when Han thought of Qian. She was still somewhere within the sect, one of the many threatened by the invaders. His martial siblings as well, he thought. He felt like he had become good friends with them all. Even the solitary Blake had given him comforting words when he had needed them. If Han was being honest, this month he had spent in the sect was undeniably the happiest period in his life. Now, some bastards had come to take it all away from him, to kill everyone. The very idea angered him. Han knew that Qian could fight, he knew he could trust in her capabilities. Still, however…

Such thoughts made Han feel like he had a responsibility. Not just to Qian, but to everyone. Even his Master, he thought. He owed much to the opportunities that man had given to him. So long as they all held back the enemy until the Riverfiend returned, it would all be fine. Everything would go back to how it had been before, and nobody else would die.

“I don’t care,” he said, his eyes firm. “They won’t be delayed unless someone delays them.”

Sashan laughed at him.

“You really are a fool, aren’t you? Do what you will, Han Yu. I hope you’re fortunate enough to survive.”

With that, she slipped away, merging back into the thinning crowd. The shouting had continued all this while, and Han felt a strength fill his body. He pushed into the crowd, forcefully making his way against the flowing tide of bodies. During the time in which he spoke with Sashan, the group had thinned, but the terror of those who were present had greatly increased. Many of them had heavy wounds, hobbling their way by, eyes filled with a deep-seated horror. It wasn’t long before he saw the person he was searching for.

In the Hadal Clan, martial uniforms were not color coded according to one’s position as it was in the Redwater Sect. With the sole exceptions of the Matriarch and Supreme Elder, everyone wore black robes with green trim, and only had the embroidery on it to showcase their role and identity. This martial artist’s robe was completely lacking in terms of embroidery, which Han knew must mean he was not a member of the family itself. Or perhaps he simply could not see the embroidery under the thick layer of blood which covered the man’s body. The man was a butcher, Han thought. A demon.

Han had been training with a real sword, and it was still held in his hand, ready to be used. He clutched it tightly as he continued to move closer to the man, who unsheathed his sword from the body of a Tovus who Han vaguely remembered as one of the sect’s cooks.

Han had never killed anyone before, of course. Even before entering the sect, he had been in some pretty brutal street fights from time to time. But those fights generally only ended with someone losing some bones or teeth. Han and his friends had not had weapons, after all, and had not been foolish enough to fight anyone who had one.

Since joining the sect, he had been sparring every day, mostly with his martial siblings. But that was not the same as a true, life or death battle.

Han carefully raised his sword, shifting into the first stance of the Rising Downpour Sword Art. His master had told him that he needed it to be reflexive, effortless. But Han had not even been learning it for a month, yet. He simply had not been able to train it anywhere near such a level. But regardless of the awkwardness he felt in the stance, Han still believed it was his best choice. A poorly trained tactic was far better than no tactic at all.

The enemy swordsman charged without saying a word. His movements were smooth, and a thin green mist emanated from his arms as his sword slammed down towards Han.

Han moved to dodge. He first tried to activate the Water Striding Steps, but his proficiency in the technique was far too low, and while a thin line of blue mist spread from his feet and lower legs, nothing special occurred, aside from a painful muscle cramp that nearly caused Han to trip. Luckily, his instincts were sharp enough to save him regardless. The other man had telegraphed his next move, giving Han the time he needed to react. He swiftly back-stepped, barely managing to stay out of the blow’s range, and then immediately responded with a slash of his own. The man grunted, but did not even bother to parry or defend the blow. Instead, the slash landed on his shoulder, cutting through his robes and tearing into the man’s flesh.

But that was where the blow ended. It barely even cut into the man’s shoulder, trapped in the muscle long before it could hope to reach a bone. Han wrenched his sword out, but it was too late. The Hadal clansman’s sword was coming towards him again, and with such force that Han knew he could not hope to block it.

Instinctively, Han’s hand moved up to defend himself as he dodged, and his hand was lopped off, halfway down the forearm. It fell to the ground with a prompt splat, and for a moment it was as if the world had frozen. Han watched as blood bubbled from his newly severed arm.

It was almost funny, thought Han in that unending moment. He had not even lasted a minute.

Han screamed in pain, the agony of the wound something he had never before experienced in his life. He really was a fool, he thought. A fool to think that perhaps he could do something, to think he might actually have a chance to change things. Sashan had been right. His father had been right about him, too. The bleeding stump of an arm before him was evidence of this, and Han gripped tightly to it as if his fingers might staunch the flow of blood, might bring his hand back.

Of course, no such thing happened. It still sat there, wobbling and bleeding on the floor while the Hadal practitioner prepared another blow.

Suddenly, Han noticed the darkness.

A thick black smoke billowed around him, emanating from somewhere outside his field of view. It was starting to surround him, and a thick bead of sweat dripped down his brow in his confusion, the sheer quantity of which distracted him from the pain. Was this some sort of manifest technique, he wondered? If it had been any of the colors of miasma, he might have been able to identify it, but Han was unable to tell if this was a positive or negative development for him. He held only to the bleeding stump of his arm, frozen in shock and indecision. The smoke’s appearance had broken him from his reverie, but there was still nothing he could do.

The enemy practitioner before him seemed nervous, grip tightening on his sword as the mist began to surround the both of them. His eyes were wide, his breath unsteady and fast.

“This can’t be…“ he muttered to himself, his voice gruff and raspy.

From inside the smoke, Han heard words in a language he did not understand. The voice was feminine, but there was something slightly off about it. Despite the fact that they had been trying to kill one another, Han found the other man’s fear infectious. Just what was going on?

The Reth smiled at him, her expression seeming to be oddly soft. She spoke words in an alien tongue, as if to comfort him, and then turned to the Hadal clanmember. His face was enraged, as if fear and hatred were fighting one another inside of him, each unable to overpower the other.

Han, meanwhile, was not sure how to react. He had never seen a Reth before, at least not outside of the fictionalized versions of them he had seen before in films. Was this Reth woman on his side? She was certainly against the Hadal clanmember, he thought. An orthodox force would never work with members of the alien species. Meanwhile, the Redwater Sect was an unorthodox force.

Han had no problem with the Reth, personally. He was no Ceirran, after all, and was even a follower of the unorthodox path himself, now. Moreover, he was in no condition to fight anymore.

The woman stepped forward, and Han realized that the smoke was coming from her, steaming off of her colorless skin like miasma from a martial artist. At the end of each of her hands were dark claws, and a slight red mist mixed with the smoke, trailing from the ends of her claws, as well as her eyes and mouth.

They truly did, he thought, look like wraiths.

Han stumbled, his legs toppling as he fell to the ground, colliding with a grunt of pain. His vision slowly faded, as the smothering dark smoke continued to flow around him. The dark substance tasted foul, and he couldn’t help but feel like it was likely poisonous.

Han wondered if this was truly how it felt to die. It was something of a lonely feeling.

Technique Failure: [Of course, like with any motions and skills, techniques can fail. Whether it was an incorrect motion, incorrect body shape, or failed miasmic motion, a variety of results may occur upon the failure of a technique, depending on one’s level, how much miasma was involved, and how poorly the technique’s execution was. On the lower end of results, the technique might simply not function, and the motion be effectively a normal bodily motion. If the technique is forcefully interrupted however, or the miasma involved is too great, a failed execution might result in damage to one’s meridians or even the fracturing of the martial artist’s dantian itself. Usually, the more powerful a technique is, the more difficult it is to use, and the risk of permanent damage caused by a technique’s failure is part of the reason martial forces often restrict their strongest techniques to only the most talented of practitioners.]