The disciple bowed again—her hair dangled close to his face—and then ran off. She would be only too happy to leave; no one liked standing here, on the edge of the cliff at the top of the Trial of Glorious Ascension. The stairs were steep here, and covered in a pink-tinged cloud, and occasionally a slashing claw or flickering tail would emerge as the Remnants fought within.
Whitehall had just climbed the stairs himself, so he couldn’t be bothered, but many of the disciples harbored nightmarish memories of their time in the Trial. They didn’t want to spend a second longer near that cloud than they had to.
Nor, at the moment, did Whitehall. His heart itched with impatience, as he longed to go explore the tomb. There was every possibility that he could find a method to disperse the sword-Remnant, and if he did…
The Sword Sage had come from beyond Sacred Valley. Only the most favored of the Heaven’s Glory elders knew that truth, as many believed there were no settlements outside the valley. It was almost true; he’d seen the land beyond from a distance, and it was a barbaric world of slaughter and violence. Better if people stayed here, to meditate on the sacred arts in peace.
But this visitor from outside could be the key to Whitehall’s greatest problem. During his stay in the Heaven’s Glory School, the Sword Sage had demonstrated not only his proficiency with weapons, but his skill as a refiner. He’d brought out herbs and ingredients that Elder Whitehall had never seen before, from an Infant Songroot to the bones of a thousand-year-old sacred beast. With materials of that quality, Whitehall was sure that he could restore his body. He was close already, even with the pathetic sacred herbs he’d been able to scavenge from the clans.
Whitehall had attempted to buy what he wanted from the Sage, as had many of the other Heaven’s Glory elders. The visitor had laughed and insulted them to their faces, saying they did not deserve such treasures.
That was why the elders had collectively decided to kill him and take his wealth for their own. He was a lone expert, after all, not backed by any significant power. Whitehall had only hoped that they would wait for him to return from the Wei clan, but obviously the others had rushed ahead without him and bungled everything. This presented him with a unique opportunity. If he could dispel the Remnant and loot the man’s treasures on his own, then he wouldn’t have to settle for a small cut. Even if he couldn’t undo this curse on his body, his powers as a refiner and as a sacred artist would leap forward. It would be a heaven-sent opportunity either way.
He only lacked time, and now here he was waiting for disciples. What a waste. He’d already stood here for three hours, and if the two children were especially slow, he could be here for three more before the sun set.
As for the third disciple candidate, Whitehall wouldn’t even bother waiting. If the Unsouled hadn’t turned back for his clan, then the boy didn’t know what was good for him. He could die on the steps, and it would be no less than he deserved for embarrassing Whitehall in public.
A more substantial shadow loomed in the clouds, and Whitehall raised an eyebrow. Perhaps he had underestimated the boys. The tall one, Kazan Ma Deret, actually had a bit of talent. If he’d managed to climb the stairs this quickly, Whitehall might even consider taking him on as a personal disciple.
The figure that lurched from the stairs and collapsed, panting, on the cliffs was certainly tall. His hair was too dark for the Kazan boy, and though his robes were white, they were not the Heaven’s Glory robes that Deret had started with. And he was carrying a bulky brown pack that Whitehall didn’t recognize.
He lifted his face, and Whitehall saw that his jaw was clenched with apparent anger, his eyes sharp as spears. From his face, you’d think him rebellious and defiant.
The Unsouled.
Wei Shi Lindon crawled to his knees, kowtowing before him. “This one…greets…honored Elder Whitehall,” Lindon said between breaths. “This one tried his hardest, and hopes he has not shamed the Heaven’s Glory School too much with his tardiness.”
Judging by the sun, they still had at least two hours until sunset. The goal of reaching the top by sundown was not an easy one; only one in five disciples who survived the Trial of Glorious Ascension were allowed to select from the Lesser Treasure Hall. As a boy, Whitehall himself had not made it, and he had used that failure to push himself in the following years.
Had he been outdone by an Unsouled?
The boy’s clothes were shredded and caked with dirt, as though he’d crawled on his belly the whole way up. Scratches covered his knees and hands, and it looked as though part of his face would swell up. He was crusted in layers of sweat, as though he’d wrung every drop of effort from his body for hours. He certainly looked like someone who had passed the Trial.
But he remembered the final demonstration of the Seven-Year Festival, how Lindon had “beaten” his Iron opponent by conjuring Remnants out of nowhere. This wasn’t a proud potential disciple of Heaven’s Glory, but a scheming child whose spirit was trapped in a body that had grown without him. A twisted mirror of Whitehall himself.
Whitehall walked over and kicked Lindon in the shoulder, tossing the boy up and making him shout with pain. “Did you have a winged Remnant carry you up? Hm? Do you have a construct that protected you? Are you a genius scriptor? Because the heavens will crumble and the earth will sink into the sea before I believe you climbed up here on your own strength.”
Wei Shi Lindon looked up at him with hurt in his eyes, but rather than looking pitiable, he looked like he was angry enough to pick a fight. But there was no hint of anger in his words. “Forgiveness, honored elder, but the honored elder himself was very specific that we should climb the steps by any means at our disposal. If the honored elder did not mean it, I would be willing to return to the bottom and climb back up, only I don’t believe there is still time…”
Whitehall slowly glanced over his shoulder. Several disciples, in their red sashes, had gathered to watch this scene. They had paused their end-of-day training to see who’d made it up the Trial of Glorious Ascension.
With no witnesses, he would have tossed Wei Shi Lindon off the side of Mount Samara himself. No one would believe the Unsouled had a chance to make it in the first place, and they would all assume he’d died on the way up.
Besides, the stairs were scripted to prevent anyone who started climbing them from leaving. People could enter the Trial late, but even Whitehall himself couldn’t move off the trail once he’d begun.
Whitehall hurled a small wooden piece at Lindon’s head hard enough that it would probably leave a bruise. The Unsouled flinched and raised a hand to his scalp. The token was polished orus wood, bearing the mark of the Heaven’s Glory Schooclass="underline" three crossed swords on top of a blazing sun, with clouds surrounding it all.
“Take that to the Lesser Treasure Hall and give it to the elder there,” Whitehall said, restraining his anger. He had more important things to be about; this Foundation-stage cripple wasn’t worth his time. “Tell him you’re not worth anything too valuable.”
Lindon returned to his knees and kowtowed one more time, pressing his forehead to the ground. “Gratitude, honored elder. This one is grateful for your generosity.”
“Go!” Whitehall shouted, and the Jade madra powering his voice sent pebbles scattering and a flock of birds fleeing from the top of a distant tree.
The boy scrambled away, token in hand, leaving Elder Whitehall to seethe alone.
Chapter 14
Lindon’s plan had worked better than he expected. He’d ridden the carriage almost all the way up the mountain before dismounting, telling the Copper disciple that he had to walk the final distance for the sake of his pride. As soon as the carriage wound out of sight, he had walked around the slopes to the Trial of Glorious Ascension, which he had only experienced for about a hundred yards.