Work Text:
First (move)
A sword is 4 chi long, keen of edges and sharp of point. Wielded with skill, capable of slicing flesh and silk, piercing soul and armour.
Surety of action in a sweep, purity of purpose with each stroke. The scholar is complete only with brush and sword, holding equally deep affection for both, yet cannot walk the path.
She was born during a blizzard, or so she was told. In reality, it was merely a day snowier than usual, the Jiangqi waterways made difficult by driving winds and swirling snowdrift.
Qiubai, the name given, because her father hated the snow. ‘Ruined business’, he said.
The faintest memories, perhaps more imagining and hope than recollection, of a warm embrace and kind ruby eyes. Red and black hair, her colours as childhood days faded into years of gruelling training in the ‘family business’, so to speak. Still, even describing her skill back then as functional with a blade would have been an insult to the weapons she wielded.
Qiubai knew from a young age that her father was the leader of a gang of river bandits, but then again, they were all the family she knew.
Perhaps that was why she ran when the Grandmaster came leading an army. His martial arts smashed fortifications and sank boats, sheared steel and shattered bone with his bare fists as easily as one would crush dry reeds and smash rotten wood.
Was it hatred or fear that drove her to escape from the Yan government’s forces at the time? If you asked her now, Qiubai would merely shake her head and gently deflect. ‘It doesn’t matter now’, or perhaps the excuse that she was too young to truly know.
At the same time, she would remember hearing the shouts and screams of the only family she knew. Echoes of the twisted growling of her father, telling her to stay put and not draw weapons, even if she wanted to, hands grasping ineffectually as a sword was pulled out of her grip.
‘The border warriors were men and women of honour’, he had said in passing. It was the last time she had seen her father alive. His was also the first dead body she ever saw, careening in through the thin wooden door trailing blood and splinters in its flight, chest caved in so deeply she could see the bone-white of ribs piercing though his clothes.
It was the first time she had seen the Grandmaster in person, Qi armour boiling around him, palm still glowing with the deathblow, one hand still calmly placed behind his back. Even now, decades and tens of thousands of li later, she’d still call the Grandmaster’s movements the pinnacle of martial perfection, the apex of kung fu.
So she ran, snatching whatever weapon was nearest at hand, ignoring the surprised “Wait!” shouted behind her.
Firsts are not easily forgotten, and the first hatred is the nearest and dearest. Hate enough to keep warm in the cold nights, hate enough to fill an empty belly, hate enough to endure bone-deep exhaustion. Hate enough to carry the weight of a sword far too large for her at her back, hands filled with scavenged weapons that were her only steadfast companions.
Her first sword was two-and-a-half chi long, barely worth the name, yet she carved her way towards her eighteenth winter with it, each life etched into the blade, each soul engraved a stroke on the handle.
By her fourteenth winter, even if the blade ran slick with blood such that it overflowed to the hilt, her hand holding it never lost its grip once.
The first kill was almost a non-entity, a Liberi man moving to take advantage of easy prey, or so it seemed.
Be it her weapons or her body, she saw both as one and the same then. A hidden knife quickdrawn – stabbed, pulled and twisted to separate the forearm bones of a covetous limb before the sword flashed forth to disembowel, whirling rags and flashing steel thrusting through the neck from behind, a pained scream turned into a gurgling death rattle and spurting arterial red.
Qiubai had paused, hands trembling for an instant before she wrenched the sword out, scattered droplets an arc marking its path to point at his erstwhile compatriots, tip wavering far too much for her own comfort.
“There’s steel yet unstained, friends.” She couldn’t remember if her voice had quivered back then.
‘The hand holding the blade must be firm yet gentle’, she recited silently, even as her off-hand was hidden behind her profile to hide its shaking.
Whatever she did, it had worked, the two other men slinking away, hands empty.
Blood flicked to the dusty ground, before the blade was cleaned and the body looted, a show of force if nothing else. Slim pickings. A few low-value silvers, a knife that was better served as a fishing sinker than a tool, a black mantle that was only slightly less threadbare than her own.
It was a better haul than she expected.
The first time Qiubai ran into one of her father’s ex-crew she almost drew the short sword again, as recognition flashed in their eyes. She was thankful her hand only gripped the hilt.
No shout for the guards, no enticements for her to stay the night in shelter. Just a sharp knife and whetstone, a handful of silver, and a bag of mantou buns with directions for the next town that needed a sharp sword.
“You’ve grown, little Bai-er. I hope you can settle down, but it seems that blood runs true. May your sword seek justice, Bai-er.” Kindly eyes in a wizened face, temples greying.
It was the first time she’d ever heard that word applied to her. Perhaps she would try and find out what it meant to her.
Justice.
Second (strike)
Once body and sword are as one, will and action one and the same, the sword is able to take the first step.
Alongside benevolence and maleficence, the sword is faithful to promise, disdainful of one’s body, rising to meet great dangers. In the face of life and death, there is only shame in not striving to the utmost.
By her eighteenth winter, Qiubai had travelled all the eastern waterways serving as a boat guard, lakeside villages now full of familiar greetings. ‘A flower of the Eastern Rivers’ some admirers had recently taken to calling her, only to be rebuffed with a snort and a shake of her head. It was inconvenient, was what it was.
It was an uncomfortable blossoming, having to get used to wider stances, a much longer reach. A different centre of gravity, slight but definitely noticeable. She had gone through six swords in four years – only one of them due to use. The first short sword she wielded was gone, broken in the eye-socket of a charging thunderbeast only two months ago.
She missed that shitty piece of steel.
She’d had what was left reforged into a tool knife; the steel only good enough for that. It carried an edge and could be thrown in a pinch, that was all that mattered. It rested just above her left hip in a sash a kindly trader had added onto her payment, strong red silk a highlight against simple grey robes.
Qiubai herself was aimless. Had been, really, for the last six years. A burning ember keeping her moving, but for what? She ate, swung her sword, trained, and slept. The life of a wandering swordswoman wasn’t as advertised in the tales. She still wanted to test her mettle against the man that killed her father, but beyond that? The sword was her only constant companion.
Perhaps it was strange, that while she knew that there were many beyond her skill, she didn’t fear meeting them. Watchful waiting and constant vigilance, until her sword was drawn and her blood sang. From there, there was only motion and exhilaration.
There was beauty in economy of motion. The stalking fangbeast, the swooping wingbeasts, tall grass swaying in the wind. Her enemies and Yan itself were her teachers, bruises and scars the marks of a lesson not learnt well enough.
She didn’t know what possessed her to draw her sword and interpose herself between the old scholar and a gang of thugs, but move she did, steel clashing against steel. One against six, down to four within the first three techniques, a net of flashing silver not enough to stop the stab from behind her.
A resigned bark of laughter as she prepared to take at least two down with her dying breath, a cut received in exchange for a killing blow, knife drawn as her new sword stuck against bone.
She needn’t had bothered as a second sword joined her, parry, draw, cut, push, thrust, and three corpses fell to the ground.
“Young lady, the assistance is greatly appreciated, but you let yourself be injured needlessly for my sake. I find myself in your debt, and a Hanlin scholar must repay such things.” A martial artist’s greeting, the sword cleaned and sheathed with a flourish. “Please, let me treat your wound. I am of some small skill in the healing Arts, and it’s the least I can do as repayment."
“Please.” The greeting returned; pressure placed on the deep cut on her flank.
“Are your lodgings far from here? Otherwise the room I have rented is just across the street.”
She noted the greying scholar’s topknot and headpiece, a portable writing set opposite his sword, a jade pendant hanging from his belt. How stereotypical.
“Further than your rooms, and I know your innkeeper.” Qiubai started towards the scholar’s inn, feeling a faint wash of diagnostic Arts as she moved.
“Not as deep as it could be. This Jiang Jun-Chou is pleased to be of service.”
“Qiubai, of the Eastern Rivers.” A terse response as the adrenaline began to wear off, lancing pain with each step. “Auntie Foo!”
“Aiyah! Child, come in, come in, to the back room with you!” Waving hands hurried the two of them in as the old auntie bustled off for boiling water and clean cloth. “Jiang daren, you must help Qiubai, please!”
“I was intending to.” An acupuncture set and a modern-looking emergency medkit were produced from his travelling pouch, a set of surgical gloves donned. “Please excuse any impropriety.”
Qiubai huffed a sharp laugh she shucked one side of her robes, pulling her chest bindings aside to expose the weeping wound. Much to her surprise, a focus was placed at one end before a healing Art was incanted, the bleeding stopping as it passed along the cut.
Cleaned, disinfected and sutured, with a prescription written for antibiotics and some blood-boosting herbs. All better treatment than she had received in years.
“You said this was repayment but this is far too much. I don’t suppose you require a guard in your travels?” Qiubai could only offer her services as a guard, having only her clothes and weapons, and enough silver for necessities.
“No, my darling wife is guard enough, and I am expecting a scolding for needing another’s aid.”
“I have only my sword to offer, I’m afraid. Please accept, otherwise I won’t be comfortable.”
A sigh, a chuckle. “Oh, how to be young again. For now, consider this request of mine. Please in your travels, dedicate your sword to combating the evils that you can see.”
She lay awake that night, pondering that request.
Indeed, to strive to remove evil, perhaps that was the limit of what her sword could do. She rolled out of bed, and by the light of a full moon held a long, neatly-wrapped sword in her lap.
A purpose she had found, now she needed a destination. Gazing at the pinnacle was far from enough. By moonlight she unwrapped the long sword she had carried all these years once more, but this time not for maintenance.
She unsheathed the sword and held it at the ready for the first time.
A black steel blade, three and eight-tenths chi long, of aggressive taper and edge profile. Sharp enough to part silk, durable enough to hew stone. An elegant, filigreed guard swept down over a leather-wrapped hilt that was just a touch too wide for her hand.
Still too heavy to wield with ease, but that would change. It was a long way to Yumen, after all.
Third (return)
At the initial completion, the sword is better served remaining sheathed, hiding sharpness and concealing the intent to cut.
Thus, the sword must present with subtleness, initiate with sharpness, able to strike after an enemy’s blow but reach the target first. To travel the path and approach grand completion, all under Heaven must become your sword, from stone, to branch, to flame, to wind.
Qiubai had been disarmed, her legs swept from under her, and now she glared up at the Grandmaster from the dust of the sparring arena. He held her sword at rest, tip just visible from behind his left shoulder, a hand held upright in front of him as if chanting a sutra.
“Well?! Aren’t you going to finish the job you started twelve years ago?”
“Finish the job? Whatever do you mean?” Honest confusion on his face, a flick of his long tail.
Truly, she didn’t even register in his eyes, did she?
“Twelve years ago, you led a group of Yan imperial soldiery to eliminate a group of river bandits near the southern capital. A little girl saw you kill her father, the leader of those bandits, and fled with a treasure sword.”
Eyed widened in recognition. “Oh. I had heard there were children missing from the final count, but my duties took me elsewhere before I could retrieve them all.”
“The man who has no enemies at all the cardinal directions, stooping to rescue children? Hah, a believable diversion, at the very least.”
The fact that mercy was a luxury belonging purely to the strong was a lesson she had learnt long ago.
“I wouldn’t dare claim that I have no enemies at all the cardinal directions.” A sigh before he presented her sword back to her. “While he was an evildoer, I did kill your father. I suppose that is why you sought me out?”
“No. Not the whole reason.” If she could take revenge for her father, so be it. It would truly mean that she was unrivalled under Heaven, to be able to travel free and unfettered. “I seek a master on the path of the sword, and who better than the Grandmaster of Yan?”
“I cannot serve as your master on the sword.” The Grandmaster held up a hand to forestall her objection. “The way of the sword is proud and lonely, and you have already long since stepped through the gate. I would be doing you a disservice if I were to serve as your master and teach you my paltry knowledge of swordplay.”
“Paltry knowledge, you say?! You, who has abandoned all weaponry but their fists, their very body, their very soul honed into a weapon that could surpass all others?!” Qiubai spat out the disbelieving accusation, hand twitching at her side as if wishing to draw her own steel, to test the Grandmaster’s words with her intent.
“I have not sat upon the zenith of swordplay, only seen the shadows cast by its radiance. Enough to know that I would need another thousand years to climb that peak, maybe more.” The admission was said with a wistful look towards the northern wastes, one that Qiubai couldn’t fully parse.
“Who then? Who would be able to achieve such mastery, that even you are left in their shadow?”
“They never gave their name. Simply… they wandered through the river of history, and cut down saints and gods as an afterthought.”
Qiubai couldn’t comprehend such a level of mastery, beyond the Grandmaster? Insane. Yet it was he that said it. There would be enough time to meditate on the higher mysteries of the blade later. For now, she needed to hone her own techniques.
“Then give me techniques and moves, broaden my horizons if nothing else. If you will not be my swordmaster, at least accept me as your apprentice on the path of kung fu.” She bowed low, hands held in a martial salute.
“That, I will be delighted to do, apprentice.” Chongyue returned her salute before raising her up. “Now, show me how far along the path you have walked, and I will see where I may polish and hone.”
Fourth (transcend)
To achieve grand completion, the sword must be abandoned. All under Heaven shall be as ephemeral dream, vainglory discarded as the pinnacle is perceived.
Once at the apex there are only two declarations: it will be cut , or it will not be cut .
Qiubai had journeyed long to reach Rhodes Island, and was greeted by Chongyue once she had onboarded. No longer the Grandmaster, merely a wandering pugilist, a short stop before travelling Jianghu once more. It was a cover story that wouldn’t even fool the blind.
The landship was a welcome respite, she admitted. Clear air on the top decks, pleasant gardens, immaculately furnished training rooms and simulators, and to her surprise, a fine selection of sparring partners. Both belonging to a school and not, it was refreshing to see martial arts not of Yan and their differences, each experience something to dissect, seeing shadows of the Grandmaster in each one.
A few times even, she had volunteered for direct command under Rhodes Island’s chief tactical officer, the Doctor. Suffice to say, the experience was enlightening. Commands seemed to be prescient, the action and reaction of each enemy taken into account and countered, the pinnacle of moving second but striking first.
Qiubai had even spent some time in the Archives, a mousy logistics Operator pointing her to the declassified operations section. Arranged by country and time, a long alphanumeric string identifying each one as she ran a finger over dusty optical storage cases. None of them were commanded by the Doctor she found out, having spent half a day fruitlessly.
Chongyue had found her in the training rooms, slicing through simulated enemies to vent frustration. “You should go to the source, Qiubai.”
“I didn’t think that the field marshal of Rhodes Island would be so easily accessible.”
“Surprisingly so, even. He is well learned in martial arts as well, and I would recommend discussing the sword with him for his insights.” A tilt of Chongyue’s head, as if remembering something before he continued. “Though, I would recommend against calling him field marshal. He doesn’t like the term.”
A strange preference she thought, but not one concerning. At any rate, meeting with the Doctor was surprisingly easy, and she found herself standing in front of his desk within a few days.
“Doctor, the Grandmaster said that I should come to you for pointers on the way of the sword. I find myself curious as to why.” She drew her blade with a sword-flower, sheathing it at the end of the movement, ending with a martial-artist’s salute to a senior. “Your frame is not one that would scream grandmastery, but your movements on the battlefield speak of nothing but immaculate command. I would hear your words, and your meditations upon the blade, if you would.”
Qiubai watched the Doctor pause in his movements, before flourishes and micro-movements of his hands shut down the scrambled hard-light panels she could see, and a flash of fingers pressed into a sword-charm brought up a wireframe of a sword, four chi long and of elegant taper, with traditional guard and accoutrements.
“Please, sit. Then tell me what you know about the ideal sword.”
“My sword is a sword of Justice, Doctor.”