Chapter Text
"What is your name?" the man asks. His voice is even, but warm. Its so unlike what everyone around him uses daily, the boy almost forgets to answer.
"..family name Wúqíng (无情). Given name Mǎo (昴)." Mǎo answers hastily, too hastily. His voice quivering, unsure. He almost trips over his words. Anyone would, if a stranger showed up on your rented room's windowsill, in the middle of a night.
"Ah?" The stranger looks baffled. Like someone has just told him the sun will tomorrow rise from the west. Mǎo cocks his head at the strange man's confusion. Its his name. Yes, not conventional, almost bizarre, but its still his name. Is the man mocking the name for being weird? Even though Mǎo does not care for his family or their honor, that would still feel... wrong.
"I'm not mocking you little friend! Please do not take it as such! This elder is just.. surprised? At the coincidence. Yes." The stranger nods, seemingly to himself, a slight smile gracing a handsome face. He looks to be maybe in his 30s, at worst. Why is he using such an odd term to address himself, the boy wonders. More so in front of a 9-year old.
A soft wind blows through the window, rustling fabric and blowing stray hairs around the man sitting on the windowsill. Mǎo takes a few moments to take in his visitor, now that the suddenness of the situation starts to bleed away.
As he noted, thirties at worst, no older. But with cultivators, sometimes looks can be deceiving. Would asking for the other male's age be seen as rude? Does it matter how old this night time intruder is?
The man has wild, unruly curly hair cascading down his back, making him seem larger than he is. His hair is an odd, uneven shade of mahogany, reminiscent of tree bark or a finely crafted piece of furniture. At a closer look, this isn't someone one would see as "sturdy", more willowy. A scholar. But even then, or maybe because of that, he looks stunning. The longer Mǎo stares, the less he is sure he's looking at a human, that's how ethereal the other man looks. Like a celestial maiden taking human shape, perhaps. There's even a gauzy, see-through piece of almost weightless fabric hanging off the man's arms, like those paintings of celestial maiden's at the sect library. The fabric a muted shade of lavender accented perfectly with his robes, a mixture of greys and purples, washed out in color.
What strikes Mao the most, is the realization that the man isn't wearing any shoes. Instead most of his feet are covered by an odd, almost sock-like piece of fabric. The boy has to take a few breaths to tear his eyes away from the stranger's feet, with bare toes laid against the inn's rough stucko wall, black nails glistening in candlelight.
To distract from the man's absolutely bizarre choice of.. footwear? Mao moves his eyes to stare at the man's hands, only to find a very similar situation. Most of the hand covered in a glove, but with fingers un-bound by fabric. Only a small silver ring on each middlefinger holding the fabric of the glove tight.
It reminds Mao of buddhist priests, but only vaguely. No priest he has seen has ever been barefoot!
"Um.. Eld- ...Gentleman, I do not wish to seem rude.. But you are a cultivator, aren't you?" Mǎo's speech stutters immediately at the term, deciding to use something that feels less weird halfway through the word, earning a surprised raise of an eyebrow from the visitor. He only suspects the man to be a cultivator. That's the only logical reason for anyone to barge into Mao's room like this, even though most who have tried to contact the boy never got this far.
"Technically, I suppose that is true. This elder does not enjoy most of the aspects of a cultivator's life, but if pressed this one could be called a cultivator. If asked however, much rather than a cultivator, this one would prefer an artesan. Or a scholar. Even teacher." The man's smile doesn't reach his eyes at the mentions of cultivators, but warms noticeably when he gets to the other titles. (The enforcing of Elder does not go unnoticed by Mǎo, so he chooses to follow the man's unspoken preference)
"Are y- uhh is the elder here to.. Will- Why is the elder here, in my room, at this hour..?" Mǎo hasn't felt fear in years. Mao might be 9. He might be small and look frail, but he has been scarred by a life most would look at with immense pity. A family that does not care, a sect that does not care, a world that does not care. But even then, any nine year old will find this situation at least alarming, so he wants more details, a reason.
The question causes the man still sitting on the window sill like a painting, to look surprised.
"This one doubts you aren't smart enough not to understand your situation at least a bit, even if you are a child. You do understand many wish to acquire your body for cultivation, correct?" The man points at Mǎo, with a well cared for nail painted in a dark color, hard to see in the dim room, who nods, solemnly. He does know. Oh how he knows.
Many have tried to fight the Myriad Swords sect over the disciple in the past year or so. The second the sect realized what the Wúqíng family sent to their amidts and the news was leaked, Mǎo's life had turned from running errands, to a chaotic mess. A chaotic, terrifying mess. Hopping from inn to inn, city to city, trying to avoid whoever tried to abduct the boy next.
The Myriad Swords, being righteous cultivators, had sought help from other righteous sects almost immediately, but receiving very little back. Most had not even answered the queries, some had sent in half-hearted replies, some even asked for the boy to be sent to them so they could "help" him "grow as a cultivator". A blatant lie dressed up as sympathy.
The Wúqíng family had all but cut all contact with the sect the second the boy was off their hands in a honorable and legal manner. When the sect had finally gotten their hands on one of the family elders, the reply was curt and short. "You accepted him as a disciple. He's your problem now."
Mǎo had heard later that the sect member sent to speak to the family had screamed at the elder in rage, asking why the family didn't just sell the boy to the highest bidder or kill him themselves, if it was such a burden. Why push their problem onto a sect, now tearing itself apart because nobody could agree on what to do with the "Problem".
The sect member was punished severely when he returned with the news (and more when the rumor mill of the shouting had reached the sect later).
Pure yin body, with a split qi-reserve that was battling to hold any yang energy in it due to the over-abundant yin, had the Myriad Swords sect's Pill Refining House master said.
Mǎo had been explained to by the house master, in a very clinical way, that the usual situation would be that a cultivator's qi reserves could be imagined as two cups. One holding yin and one holding yang qi. Some people had a bigger cup for one, some had two very similar cups. Other rarer cases could have enormous space for qi from birth, making filling their cups hard and cultivation an arduous journey of trying to manage immense amounts of qi.
But in Mǎo's case, he had no cups. He had one cup. A large, deep one, yes, but it was holding two bladders in it. One had yin qi, the other yang qi. As a male, Mǎo used yang qi for anything cultivation related by default, thus the bladder holding it became emptier as he trained. The problems arose, because as the yang qi bladder emptied, it gave room for the yin qi bladder to absorb yin qi from his surroundings, filling the yin qi bladder. The more Mǎo trained and used his yang qi, the fuller the yin qi bladder became, leaving no space for the yang qi bladder to refill again. (The house master helpfully explained this to 8 year old Mǎo via some quite artistic drawings)
This meant that after a while, Mǎo would run out of yang qi completely, without a way to use up the yin qi, essentially running the boy dry of the force keeping him concious and alive. It did not help, that at the point of training Mǎo was at, he was now using yang qi daily naturally, so even if he stopped cultivating this instant, he would still face an eventual end to his constitution.
Nobody would mourn a cultivational failure, this was a fact in the world. The problem for the sect arose from the fact that pure yin plus huge, over spilling reserves of yin qi, was the perfect combination for a cauldron.
As the news started to ripple outwards from the righteous sects, most of who turned their back to the usage of cauldrons, it also reached the ears of those who did not care for morality. The "unrighteous" sects and the demonic sects.
The latter were more numerous in their attempts, the former more diplomatic.
Myriad Swords had spent over a year trying to decide what to do with their baggage. The sect was split into many small splinters on the issue. Some wanted to kick the boy out, honor be damned. Others wanted to use the disciple to further their own cultivation. The Pill Refining House had their own ideas, most which weren't spoken anywhere but strictly behind closed doors. Mǎo had heard the rumors from less scrupulous servants. He did not want to think about the rumours much.
So yes. Mǎo knew. He knew probably much more than most of the adults around him thought he did.
"This disciple is aware of his situation. But not of elder's intentions or reasons." Mǎo bowed his head then, hoping to at least appear respectful, from his hunched over sitting position on the bed. The man was not wearing anything that would make him seem like he was from the demonic sects, his robes seemed clean and well arranged, unlike the rags most demonic sect kidnappers seemed to favor.
"What if this elder said he had ways to treat your body's constitution so you could cultivate with no ill effects? Nay, so you could cultivate at much faster a pace than that of your average inner courtyard disciple?" The boy's head snapped up to stare at the man.
Something in this man's voice told Mǎo he wasn't lying. Partly it was because the man did not offer a cure. He offered treatment. He had also seen through the boy's disappointment at being told he would have to stop cultivating just to stay alive for a few years longer. But even then, it was mostly something in Mǎo's gut telling him that this man wasn't offering just to entice someone to a trap. It was almost if the man was.. sympathetic? Was it pity?
"If you accept this elder as your master, this elder can't promise you much, but what this elder can promise, is a quiet courtyard with safety and peace."
Before Mǎo can ask more, or even think, the door to the room is slammed open with enough force that the door makes a threatening creak as it hits the wall.
The next few minutes are a flurry of Myriad Swords sect guards, of billowing robes and unsheated swords. Men yelling and the nice shijie from the Pill Refining House asking him if he's alright. But Mǎo is staring at the window, after a man who disappeared into the night without a sound. All that is left of the visitor, is a single, enormous hydrangea bloom on a stem long enough to span Mǎo's whole forearm. The bloom itself can hide most of his face behind it if held in front of his head. Its the color of the sky right after the sun finally disappears behind the horizon at night, slightly damp from the night air, wearing a misty layer of water like a bride wears a veil.
After a year running from people he wished would just kill him already and before that, 7 years of being grown first like a servant, then like a burden, safety and peace sounds like heaven.
Elder Xiùqiú (绣球) it shall be then.
No, the boy corrects in his head.
Shifu.