B3 Chapter 20

Many of the invitations orange-crest had received from Huangshi's cultivators could be answered at his leisure. Cultivators were not very prompt creatures. Everyone understood that even in Qi Condensation, closed-door training could take weeks, or even months near the peak of the realm. A senior cultivator could demand that it be interrupted, but they would only do so at the most dire of need. Deviation, collapse of cultivation base, or even death could result; and damaging a junior's cultivation in such a way due to arrogance or negligence was a transgression that would stain the reputation of even the most overwhelmingly mighty.

Orange-crest had once thought the mightiest of human cultivators were tyrants who knew no limitations. But the longer he lived among men, the more he was coming to see that their rules inked in iron protected as much as they restrained. He was entitled to a period of time to stabilize his advancement and settle his affairs after emerging from closed-door training, and not even the mightiest would take issue with him for using it.

The eighth stage of Qi Condensation made the monkey a force to be reckoned with in the city. Not the sort of great power that could stand against all others, or anchor a faction. But in a city with hundreds of cultivators, he estimated there were only a scant few dozen who stood above him. Definitely more than twenty, but certainly fewer than a hundred. The average rogue cultivator, clan member, or shopkeeper would not dare question his anonymity, nor antagonize him needlessly.

Things got more tricky, when backing came into play, but the rules of the martial world still restrained even Foundation Establishment and Core Formation cultivators. Orange-crest couldn't afford to offend them, but they wouldn't bully him needlessly either.

Yet there was one faction that these rules did not truly apply to. The faction he had an appointment with, for one did not answer their summons in their own time. The faction that decided what the rules were.

The Ministry of Daoist Affairs of the Empire of Xiao.

The faction backed by the emperor, who was in turn backed by the legendary patriarchs. A great mountain of authority that scraped at the heavens, its members answering to no one except their superiors.

Orange-crest swallowed beneath his hat. His mouth was dry. He was afraid. That was new. He'd been too tired to be afraid for such a long time now. But now, he finally felt like he had something to lose.

One word from the man he was to meet, Pei Zihao, and orange-crest could be cast out or imprisoned. The unyielding blade of imperial law, the grand shadow of human civilization itself, cut both ways. Its awesome protections could turn to inescapable fetters in a moment. Considering the importance of this meeting, orange-crest had gotten up very early. He was to speak with Pei Zihao in the hour of the horse, around noon. The monkey had left his compound well before dawn.

He'd already extracted what little information he could from his men last night. For all their surprising breadth of knowledge, none of them knew much about imperial law or cultivator politics. Hong Bo had been the most useful, but his advice had still been vague and generic. Be polite, but don't let the official walk all over him. Never directly contradict the official. Mention the Beggar Clan, if pushed into a corner, but don't state any relation to them.

It was a kind gesture, but orange-crest had bigger sticks than that if he needed one. He just wasn't sure a stick was what this meeting called for.

Since he had nobody he could ask for advice, nor anything he could read on the matter, orange-crest had decided to let the city teach him. He wandered through the streets as the sun first began to peek above the horizon. Staring into a thousand faces, the monkey faced the fear in his stomach. He imagined the loss of what he'd found, until he grew bored enough that his mind began to wander, and he saw other futures. A small farm in the mountains. Giving truth to the lie Fu Daxian's men had lived, or bringing them to Mount Yuelu.

Orange-crest dwelled on his uncertainty, the roiling in his belly. He imagined his mind a gentle fire, the fear a pot filled with water, and let his attention steadily boil it dry. On the Azure Mountain, he'd avoided ever looking his fears in the eyes. Orange-crest knew better now. You couldn't surmount a thought you couldn't look directly at. The morning sun warmed his robes, as men and women filled the alleys, displacing the cats and birds that haunted the shadowy predawn. In the quiet light of day, standing like a stone in a river of humanity, orange-crest felt Pei Zihao grow smaller in his mind. Not an insurmountable empire, but just another human to play with, a man to trick or befriend.

What would come would come. If he knew not who to be, orange-crest would be himself.

Through the long walk, orange-crest meditated upon the character floating in his dantian. His theory was simple. Grand Elder Tian had chosen three potential inheritors who all offended the Heavens. Even Xiao Yongzheng, the most orthodox of the three of them, had spoken words in the Azure Mountain's Holy Land that orange-crest doubted he would have dared utter on this crowded street. Grand Elder Tian's inheritance, at least the way orange-crest had used it, had been a chance to forge a false fate, a chance to learn from the experience, and a protection intended to keep Heaven from snuffing out his inheiritor before they could stand on their own.

Orange-crest finally saw the pattern. When he broke through, thunder gathered. Not in his first few breakthroughs. But after the bath, after becoming a Stone Monkey, it had become consistent. It hadn't been an issue at first because most of his breakthroughs had been underground. But his master had told him of Yang Shui shattering one such storm with his spear, while orange-crest cultivated in the centipede cave. Orange-crest had performed both his breakthroughs on Mount Yuelu in Li Xun's cave, and the weather both times had been unseasonably fierce. The heavy rains and lingering thunder Huangshi had experienced last week were probably his fault.

Li Xun had faced a lightning tribulation when he sought to form a core. Even with the protection of the 'Wei' character, orange-crest suspected he would need to face one to achieve Foundation Establishment. Every time the character intervened to push back misfortune, more of it faded. Already it felt a full third weaker than it'd been when orange-crest had grasped that seal and twisted fate.

He would need to find a way to conceal himself before he tried advancing again. Breaking through below the ground, or behind a formation, would probably strain the blessing less, help it last longer. He would also need to make use of the power while he had it, since every advancement in his cultivation ate away at Grand Elder Tian's blessing. It hummed, when misfortune or auspicious circumstances neared. So orange-crest just needed to learn to better listen. That was his idea, inspired by the Grand Elder's blessing, by Wukong's eyes, by Han Jian's earth-sense. He would train his ears, eyes, or nose, to perceive fate.

Hence the very long walk. Orange-crest had a vague idea where he was going. He knew what part of town to head to, if he had to ask directions. But he was deliberately avoiding looking at the signs or banners that named the street or ward he walked down.

Being a cultivator seemed to require endless training. There were always more techniques to master. But if training was to be orange-crest's life, he needed to find a way to make life his training. That was part of the essence of A Stone Monkey Carves Himself. The flows of steel and gold qi could represent many things. Life and cultivation. Peace and strife. Yin and yang metal. Body and spirit. Maybe even monkey and human, if orange-crest squinted.

Balance, in most things. That was part of the way he was practicing here.

If he wanted to perceive something ineffable like fate, orange-crest thought it was best to do it through something grounded, like his five senses. If he wanted to practice, he should practice by doing what he needed to do anyway.

It felt a little strange, to walk down the street pushing qi into his orifices. To look at strangers and imagine threads of red or gold binding them to wives or customers. To strain his ears for a hum he did not hear. To sniff endlessly, trying to smell blood that was not a butcher's trade, or treasure that did not already belong to another.

Orange-crest had a fated appointment. But over the course of three hours, he saw nothing, heard nothing, and felt no tremors in his dantian.

He did, however, smell something.

"Mmm..." The monkey hummed. His stomach grumbled. Without fear to fill his belly, it felt terribly empty, and something nearby smelled divine.

Perhaps his fate was to have a good meal before his meeting.

He found divinity in a small stall tucked into the side of an alley. He almost couldn't see the proprietors through the great stack of steamer baskets that formed the walls of their stall. They were a matched pair, a husband and wife, perfectly opposite. He was rail thin, she healthily plump. He had a wispy white beard, and no hair atop his head, while her thick hair retained its black color despite her matching age.

The only sign was a board with the character 'Ding' written upon it, but none could mistake that smell. Ding Pork Buns. Something about that sounded familiar.

Orange-crest got in line. Several people shifted uneasily. One even left, rather than stand directly in front of the faceless cultivator. Orange-crest resolved to purchase an additional bun to make up for that. The next man offered orange-crest his spot, but the monkey just shook his head silently.

The line moved quickly.

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"Four buns."

"Six wen." Auntie Ding answered, not the least bit perturbed by her strange customer.

Orange-crest handed over the coins. He received an armful of steaming buns. He activated the Phantom Paw, to keep the three he was not currently eating from staining his nice robes. He wondered how it would look from the outside, seeing a bun slowly vanish behind his veil.

Orange-crest barely suppressed a moan. Those buns tasted better than anything he'd eaten since... Since Li Xun had last cooked for him. The filling was chewy, with big chunks of onion and long thin strips of pork, all in a sweet brown gravy that tasted of ginger. A more traditional bun would have had smaller onions, a more uniform texture, more spices. But orange-crest found he liked Ding's recipe greatly, it was heartier, like biting into a chunky soup. The monkey shoved the rest of the treat into his mouth, trying to avoid getting grease on his magical veil. Delicious they were, easy to eat they were not.

"Well. That's quite handy." Uncle Ding remarked, his own hands steadily filling buns. He looked upon the shimmering orange paws, just hazy enough one could mistake them for human hands, with far less awe than orange-crest had come to expect. "Imagine how fast I could work if I could do that."

"Imagine how fast you could work if you just worked faster." Auntie Ding shot back.

Orange-crest stepped to the side, letting the more efficient half of the couple take the next customer's money.

"Does a man with a scar come here during the hour of the rabbit?" The monkey asked Uncle Ding.

"A scar?"

"A big one, like a worm on his face? Sour expression, but kind heart?"

Uncle Ding frowned.

"An odd way of describing a fellow, but aye, I think one does. Do you know him, immortal?"

Orange-crest knew where he was now. Fu Daxian had set the appointment. He'd told him where to go. He'd also talked about this stall, frequently. The monkey thanked the confused man, and left.

Orange-crest walked slowly, but with a purpose. The buildings grew taller, more intimidating. The robes finer, and the qi denser. He passed a shopkeeper berating an errand boy. He slowed, listening. The boy stared at the ground. He didn't have his boss's payment. The shopkeeper's face was red. Spittle flew. The shopkeeper's words were terribly harsh. This was clearly not the first time the boy's master had come up short. But in the end, the boy left with a box.

Someone had tried to do that on the Azure Mountain, hadn't they? Orange-crest vaguely recalled the inner disciple who ran the ingredient shop, Yan Delun, sending a young man away empty-handed, with reddened ears, and not-quite-teary eyes.

What was the difference between them, that one left with what they came for, and the other did not? There were many factors. The backing of the two parties. The rules of the institution. The value of the request. But which factors had changed the outcome?

In both cases, inferior parties wanted something from superior ones, and had nothing to offer except promises. Orange-crest's own situation was not so different. The monkey spent the rest of the walk thinking about that, savoring the other three buns.

This was where his nose had led him. Han Jian had said the Dao was in everything. If orange-crest wanted to look for fate, he couldn't be picky about what he found, could he?

Orange-crest was not sure if he'd found an answer, by the time he found the hall belonging to the Ministry of Daoist Affairs. It was an imposing building, squatting in the center of a plaza, set apart from all its neighbors by a dozen chi. A circular pavilion of three stories, supported by sixteen pillars of thick wood, lacquered a shining crimson, with a steep roof. The building reminded orange-crest a little of a hat atop a head. A pair of cultivators near the peak of Qi Condensation stood guard at the door.

Orange-crest swallowed. He stuffed what remained of his final bun into his mouth, chewed, and then swallowed again.

He tried to picture Xiao Shulan. The ice in her voice, and the fire in her eyes. The way she had walked through the bowels of the Azure Mountain as if she had owned them, and looked upon a full daoist as at best a peer.

Orange-crest stepped forward.

"I have an appointment." He said coldly, trying to channel the indifference of winter. "With Official of the Fifth Rank Pei Zihao, at the midpoint of the hour of the horse."

"Daoist..." There was a hint of a sneer in the guard's voice. "Big Hat."

"Yes."

"Fellow daoist, I must insist that you remove your hat before entering the ministry's hall."

Orange-crest knelt down on the paving stones of the plaza. He didn't bow or kowtow, just inclined his head forward a hair, and waited.

Li Xun had once told him that to endure, an empire must be unquestioned. They could brook no disobedience. But they also had to be benevolent, or at least appear benevolent. They might be able to suppress any of their subjects. But they couldn't suppress all of them, so the appearance of even-handedness and benevolence were vitally important.

"Fellow daoist?"

"I have sworn not to remove my hat." Orange-crest explained simply. "I will wait."

There might be a rule against concealing one's identity in a government building. Orange-crest had not read any great book of imperial laws. He only knew there were an awful lot of them. But if Li Xun had not known all the laws, how could these two guards hope to?

"Fellow daoist, we cannot allow you entry if we cannot confirm your identity."

Orange-crest remained on his knees.

"My hat is proof of my identity. I always wear it, that you might know me by it."

"Fellow daoist, be reasonable. Anyone could steal your hat."

Orange-crest didn't object, or ask them to speak with their boss. He saw no reason to give them a solution, other than the one he wanted them to see.

The plaza did not see much traffic. But orange-crest cut a distinctive figure. He already featured in the rumors of the town. He'd spent the morning walking the streets. Now people would see him kneeling, and they would ask why. Somehow, orange-crest doubted the answers they came up with would have any relationship with the truth.

The two guards entreated him to compromise. They quietly threatened him with the consequences of missing his appointment. They cited imperial laws that sounded very intimidating and plausible.

Orange-crest just waited. A quarter of an hour passed. The guards gave up. Several cultivators entered the building. All but one of them was weaker than orange-crest. The guards shifted uncomfortably, when the visitors stared at the kneeling monkey, and breathed sighs of relief, when none of them asked questions.

As the sun reached its apex and began its descent, a wave of spiritual sense swept out from the hall. Orange-crest shivered, his qi surging reflexively, limning his body in a tight shell, preventing the foreign influence from pushing right through his veil.

He'd known Pei Zihao would be powerful. He was one of the highest-ranking officials in Huangshi. But his spiritual sense felt like Li Xun's had, on the rare occasions he'd found it necessary to seek out orange-crest from a distance. No fumbling or insubstantial thing, even with orange-crest's own qi pressing back, it felt like Pei Zihao had a hand upon his shoulder.

Foundation Establishment. At least late stage, possibly the peak. If he pressed, orange-crest knew Pei Zihao would rip right through the anonymity of his hat.

"Commissioner Pei will see you now, Daoist Big Hat." The guard on the left said, teeth showing through his grin. "I hope your meeting is productive."

Orange-crest rose, and let Pei Zihao guide him into the maw of the tiger.

The invisible hand of the commissioner's influence led the monkey through a set of winding halls. Clerks at their desks looked up, then let him pass unchallenged, as he was shepherded up a flight of stairs and through a circular hallway overlooking the working floor. Dozens of brushes glided smoothly across scrolls, and orange-crest was suddenly struck by the sheer scale of it all.

He was one small monkey. This place was one tiny branch of an empire that spanned the horizon, and it employed cultivators only modestly weaker than him to stand outside and tell people to take their hats off.

There was a terror in that thought. But orange-crest smiled as a second thought followed on the tail of the first.

Xiao Yongzheng might one day rule over all of this, a distant lord to all these diligent men. And orange-crest had once used his unconscious body as a pillow.

Maybe even big things could be small, if you approached them from the right angle.

Pei Zihao's invisible hand stopped, leaving the monkey standing before a door that looked much the same as any other adjoining the second-floor hallway. The door swung open, and orange-crest entered without waiting to be shoved.

"Sit." Pei Zihao commanded.

Orange-crest sat. He took in the man responsible for every cultivator who travelled through this city of more than a million.

Pei Zihao reminded orange-crest a little of Li Xun. The same steel in their hair, the same no-nonsense look in their eyes, the same balanced frame, muscle without bulk. A small exhaustion that only showed at the edges of an unyielding focus.

But in Li Xun, orange-crest had known where to look to find softness. If Pei Zihao had such a side, beneath the steel of his duty, the monkey could not see it.

Orange-crest was just considering how to open, when Pei Zihao cut him off.

"Great Xiao Code, Penal Division, Disruption. Perverting the ordinary course of business in a residential area. Penalty: A fee of one hundred percent of material damages, not less than twenty taels of silver, or fifty lashes with the light bamboo rod."

"What?"

Orange-crest briefly considered what it would feel like to get lashed with a rod. It was a pity it would probably give him away. That could honestly have been fun, breaking a dozen bamboo rods on his back.

"Great Xiao Code, Penal Division, Punishments. A cultivator who has attained the third stage of Qi Condensation is entitled to appeal any charges raised against them to a censor or prefect. Any fee levied upon them is to be tripled. Any beating they are sentenced to receive is to be converted to a financial penalty or term of penal servitude at rates of one spirit stone per ten lashes with the heavy rod, and one year of service per twenty spirit stones."

Orange-crest winced. Two spirit stones was a lot more than twenty taels of silver. But he still had the out of just paying the fine. Wait, what if Pei Zihao used sneaky math and converted the—

"Great Xiao Code, Penal Division, Fraud." Pei Zihao's voice was not malicious. His recitation was not lifelessly rote either. He spoke like Li Xun reciting a formula. Like these bloodless laws were something dear to him. "Deceiving an imperial official in the furtherance of a criminal endeavor. Penalty: Fifty lashes with the heavy rod, or an increase of one grade of punishment per charge."

Orange-crest couldn't track the math anymore. He had no idea what a punishment grade was, or how it worked. But he was up to at minimum seven spirit stones. At most... He had no idea. Seven stones was already more money than he had. This was man-math of the worst sort, torturing innocent numbers until they agreed with you!

"I haven't said anything!" The monkey protested. "How can I have lied to an official?"

Pei Zihao's brow furrowed.

"You claimed to have sworn an oath never to remove your hat. You have sworn no such oath." Pei Zihao leaned forward, the tips of their respective hats no more than an arm's length apart. "Daoist Chengse."

Orange-crest felt the pork buns churn unwholesomely in his stomach. Maybe he should have stuck to grains today. That was bad, Pei Zihao knowing that name. And he'd been listening in below as well. But how was he so confident orange-crest had lied about his hat? That was such a personal thing to know. A technique? It had to be.

Orange-crest inhaled slowly, taking the air in between his teeth, mind racing. He couldn't afford to lie, if that was the legal penalty attached. One or two missteps would bankrupt him, if the official desired it. There had to be things he was missing, rules the man wasn't telling him. But he could only work with what he had. There had to be a path here, if he was clever enough to find it.

"What do you have to say in your defense, fellow daoist? Or should I perhaps continue? The name Chengse has a number of interesting irregularities attached to it."

Pei Zihao wanted to play rough? Fine. Orange-crest had hoped to keep this amiable, but he would see if the official could keep that disinterested mask of judgement on his face once the monkey started throwing his own threats around.