As Wu Ying resumed his walk with a baked, stuffed bun in hand, he pondered his options. As Uncle Tung had pointed out, cultivation and training without enlightenment was a surefire way of stalling oneself. Guilt was another hindrance in cultivation. Guilt and regret would hinder him if he did not see the city, but so would it if he did nothing but waste his time.
Wu Ying quietly plotted out his next few days as he entered the inn’s bottom floor and took a seat at one of the many dining tables. Training tonight, then rest. Then more training in the morning, followed by sight-seeing in the afternoon. He would spend a few hours in the mid-afternoon on more training, then more sight-seeing and snacking before returning to the inn for dinner. Or eating out, if he found some place reasonable. Then training again.
That should satisfy his guilty conscience. And if not… well, Wu Ying would adjust his schedule until the nagging guilt and regret balanced themselves out. After all, that was part of living too.
Chapter 17
Days later, Wu Ying found himself standing on the bow of a ship, watching as Lieutenant Tung Zhong Shei said goodbye to Ah Kong and his gathered friends. No family, Wu Ying absently noted, but it was not as if Zhong Shei was leaving forever. Just a short trip before he came back. That Zhong Shei’s friends included a bevy of pretty young girls was not surprising—but from the way the guard constantly searched the crowds, it was obvious that a particular young lady was not there.
Not that Wu Ying particularly cared. Beautiful or not, the lady Ong was obviously out of his reach. For that matter… Wu Ying rubbed his nose, considering. In the past few months, his interest in the fairer sex had waned somewhat. A side effect of all the cultivating? Or more likely a side effect of the sheer amount of training and work that he had faced. Who had the time to look at romance when you spent entire days running up mountains?
“Why are you laughing?” Zhong Shei said as he stomped over, his bag still slung over his shoulder.
The captain had yet to inform them—or send anyone over to inform them—where they would be staying, leaving the pair of passengers to wait at the bow of the ship.
“Just an idle thought. Your friends are gone?” Wu Ying said, his demeanor more relaxed now that they were mostly out of the city. That he was a sect member—even an outer sect member—had raised his social standing in Zhong Shei’s eyes. Enough so that the merchant’s son was willing to talk to him voluntarily.
“I sent them off. The captain wanted me on board,” Zhong Shei said grumpily. “Well, so long as you’re not insane. Though if you came from the Verdant Green Waters on foot, that’s arguable.”
“How…? Ah Kong, right?” Wu Ying said, remembering the dinner invitation on the second night and the conversation the pair had held. “You sent him?”
“My father,” Zhong Shei said. “He was quite interested in the news about the roads and the bandit Ji Ang. That news will do his merchant firm a lot of good. Spread some goodwill among those he tells and save him some money too.”
Wu Ying nodded slowly. “I’m not sure if Ji Ang would stay in that area.”
“Of course. We’d already heard some rumors, but confirmation is important,” Zhong Shei said. “But the bandit is a real problem. He’s smart. He cultivates a style that lets him sense the strength of others at a distance, and he and his group avoid targets that are too strong. Which means he picks on all the individual merchants and runs from everything else. Every group we send out…” Zhong Shei grew visibly frustrated before he relaxed, shaking his head. “We’ll get him. They never last.”
“Of course not,” Wu Ying said with a nod. Glancing at Zhong Shei’s slim bag, he leaned over. “I don’t see the bottle.”
“In my storage ring,” Zhong Shei said with a half-smile, especially when Wu Ying’s eyes widened. He smirked before touching the bag. “This is just for clothing. And some small keepsakes to keep the thieves busy.”
Wu Ying could not help but look at Zhong Shei with envy. Ah, to be young, handsome, and rich.
“You two, come along. I’ll show you your cabin.”
“Cabin?” Zhong Shei said.
“Yes, cabin. You are sharing one.” The sailor who had been sent to guide them gestured again. “Well, come on.”
“Damn it, Uncle! Forcing me to share…” Turning around, Zhong Shei glared at Wu Ying. “You better not snore!”
“Can’t sleep?” the sailor asked Wu Ying later that evening as the youngster walked up from belowdecks. Since they were heading downwind and downriver, the boat had its sail fully out, leaving the oars docked and Wu Ying nothing to do.
“Snores like a tree cracking in winter.”
“Well, don’t bother the others,” the sailor cautioned before he turned back to darning his pants by the light of the lantern he sat beneath.
The deck of the boat was quiet, only the slow creak of the deck and sails, the lapping of waters, and the occasional raised voice from below breaking the silence. Few sailors were up at this time of night, just the lookouts, the helmsmen, and a few others, like the sailor who spoke to him, catching up on their chores. In the silence, Wu Ying moved to the bow and found a clear portion of the deck.
If he could not sleep, he might as well practice. Sliding into a resting position, Wu Ying took a deep breath and exhaled. Light flashed as he surged into motion, the sword drawn from his hip with a flash. Each motion was sharp, incisive. A twist, a turn, the jian catching the lantern light and flickering like a firefly.
Step by step, form by form, Wu Ying trained in the sword style passed on to him by his family. Even if he had practiced it for years before, there was an impetus, a need that drove his actions now. Before, even in the sect, the knowledge that he would need this style to fight for his life had been academic. Now, Wu Ying understood in his flesh, his muscles, his bones, that to survive this world, he needed strength.
Sense of the Sword gave his actions perfect distance and timing. But it did nothing for how smoothly he moved, how he chained each action together. Only practice, only conscious practice, would do that. As he moved, Wu Ying paid minute attention to his body, judging his balance and weight distribution, the speed of his thrust and the integration of his muscles. He had replayed that final attack from Benefactor Yuan Rang over and over in his mind, seeing each motion, each turn of the body and exertion of muscle.
There was no way for Wu Ying to replicate the attack, not really. He knew not the chi flow, the theoretical underpinnings of the attack. It was one of the fundamental truths of styles—you could copy the motions, but it left behind the understanding of when, where, and how to use the motion. You could not copy the multiple variations of the attack that were never shown—or the way the attack might block off specific retaliations because of subtle positioning.
Still, Yuan Rang’s attack had been carried out in the Body Cleansing stage of cultivation, one whose major impetus was the use of the cultivator’s body. As such, while he might never be able to replicate it, Wu Ying could take some wisdom from the attack and integrate it into his understanding of the Long family style.
When he was done with the first sword form, Wu Ying moved to the second. Time passed as his body sweated, a small thrum of chi running through him as he unconsciously circulated it, cultivating as he moved. When he was finally done, the moon was high in the sky and the shift had changed.
Bringing his legs together, Wu Ying stared at the passing night sky and the wisps of clouds, thinking over what he had learned. For a time, he stood there, letting the knowledge settle before he sheathed his sword.
Enough for tonight. Perhaps Zhong Shei had quieted down.