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Ever since he could hold a sword in his hand, Nie Mingjue couldn’t recall a time when he hadn’t awoken at the crack of dawn to train with his saber.
A warrior’s greatest duty, apart from defending his people, was to cultivate his body and mind through qi. The mind was cultivated with arduous physical training, a marker of one’s mental constitution. Their ability to remain focused on the battlefield and under harsh conditions exhibited their discipline and virtue. Since Nie clan leaders wielded demonic sabers, they required a honing of their mental faculties greater than that of a typical cultivator, one that drove each clan leader to insanity the moment their qi became unbalanced.
The pact formed in early adolescence in a ritual, and as the connection between the clan leader and his demon became stronger, it also grew more volatile, until the demon’s power overrode the clan leader’s own.
This was the reality Nie Mingjue faced since he was a young child. Recounted to him by the royal scholars, it was his destiny, his fate to die for the Qinghe Nie and serve as a harbinger of justice and power until then. For Nie Mingjue, training was not just a matter of virtuosic suggestion, but necessity, something he must do in order to keep his mind from wandering into the dangerous dregs of unrest and qi deviation.
But he also found saber training to be a time when he could focus on himself and nothing else. Running through the movements, swinging his saber high over his head, leveling it with his face – it put him in-tune with his body and his demonic weapon. With sweat streaming down his temples, the back of his neck, his breath bursting out of his mouth in fleeing, foggy clouds, silence and mental clarity settled over him. It was rare that he and Baxia lived in such harmony with each other. The blade constantly badgered him to kill, to rage, to spill the blood of anyone and everything that disobeyed him. And still, in the silence and serenity of those mornings… it had been lonely at times.
It wasn’t until the sun was already a quarter of the way across the sky that a servant would interrupt him with a meek voice, and ask for his attention. Once, that servant had been…
On the rare occasions Mingjue sparred with someone else – usually Nie Zonghui or Lan Xichen, since anyone else was too far behind him in skill and afraid of his power – sparring was a conversation. One that revealed the state of his sparring partner: their hesitations, fears, cultivation power and physical weaknesses.
So this morning, as footsteps shuffled across the stones on the opposite side of the courtyard, it was the first time Mingjue had had a regular training partner.
The air was crisp, the sun low in the sky. It was late autumn, and soon snow would start falling in the mountains of Qinghe. Mingjue would have to train in the saber hall then, but for now, though cold air burned his lungs and made the sweat running down his back icy, it only bothered him for the first dian.
Meng Yao ran through his own set of forms on the other end of the stony arena: footwork he had learned from Lan Xichen in Yunmeng while running from the Wen, decisive cuts he picked up while serving as Wen Ruohan’s aide in Qishan. His movements were elastic and coiling, whipping with unpredictable strikes that seemed not to correspond with his steps, making an over-extending kick or slice cross a great distance more sudden than any opponent would expect.
Sometimes, Mingjue became distracted and watched Meng Yao in his training routine. He had never had someone to distract him before, waking up this early to train alone. Whenever Meng Yao noticed him staring, he stopped to inquire with a knowing grin what it was the clan leader was looking at, and Mingjue’s pulse throbbed in his ears as he resumed his own footwork.
On other days, Meng Yao would suddenly freeze up, clutching one arm. He’d drop Hensheng to the ground. Mingjue rushed over to ask what was wrong but, gritting his teeth, Meng Yao waved him off. “Just a gift from my father,” he would say.
Other times, he bore the pain silently.
Today, in a swift motion, Meng Yao unsheathed Hensheng from his waist.
Mingjue’s body stiffened at the dark aura around him.
The blade was dirty. It was involved in taking the lives of countless soldiers; some of whom had been Nie, which Nie Mingjue had personally witnessed. The men Meng Yao killed in Qishan could never be repaid in blood, but now that Meng Yao was back in the Unclean Realm, saved from the wolves of Jinlintai, they had agreed to put their respective betrayals behind them.
Nie Mingjue had killed Jin soldiers to protect Jin Guangyao, and Meng Yao had renounced his name. Now, he lived out his life here, not as Mingjue’s vice general, but as an exile again, this time from Lanling rather than Qinghe.
As Mingjue struck Baxia downward, toward the earth, in strong, decisive cross-steps that orbited a phantom opponent – compared to Meng Yao’s quick and nimble array of strikes, alternating between whipping slashes with Hensheng, high kicks, and erratic arm strikes – Mingjue could not help but glance, both in admiration and discontent. The flexible properties of Meng Yao’s sword made it deadly and vaporous, unable to catch with normal blocking or evasion techniques. Thankfully, Mingjue had never been on the receiving end of that weapon. Even while in Scorching Sun Palace, after insulting Meng Yao for his loyalty to Wen Ruohan, Meng Yao had avoided using it on him, opting for kicks instead. Its whipping motions were unpredictable and devastating.
Meng Yao had gotten the upper hand over many powerful cultivators with Hensheng. As such, he wasn’t allowed to leave the Unclean Realm without an escort, much to the smaller man’s chagrin. He hadn’t asked for Mingjue’s permission to train with him in the mornings though; it was something he just decided upon one day. During his time as vice general, he of course memorized Nie Mingjue’s daily routine and possessed that memory still. Meng Yao simply arrived one morning, not even a full ke after Nie Mingjue, and joined him.
They would share meals after training, talking as they once did. Occasionally, a topic would come up that would cause tension, or awkward silence as the tension mounded, but the agreement had been to avoid discussing anything that might cause a fight. So they either left the room or changed the subject without pursuing the matter further.
“Clan Leader Nie.”
Mingjue lifted his head from the phantom enemy he struck on the ground. He visualized the blood spilling from their abdomen, something he had actually done many times.
“Will you face me?” Meng Yao asked.
The corner of Mingjue’s lip twerked up wryly, showing off a dimple. He reassumed a passive stance. “Meng Yao, I thought we agreed not to fight each other anymore.”
“This is not a fight, Da-ge. This is sparring. You should know that.”
Nie Mingjue never knew how to feel about Meng Yao switching so fluidly between his formal and less formal titles. Despite his reluctance to agree to Meng Yao’s request, the other’s expression, devoid of its usual viper-like softness or coy attitude, was strangely blank.
He had no real reason to refuse, even if he feared what emotions their spar might create. Mingjue nodded, and they acknowledged each other with the traditional martial bow, swords clenched in right fists, left palm on top.
The moment Mingjue stepped back and took up his stance, the air between them shifted. There was an electricity as Mingjue faced Meng Yao, whose face had gone from blank to wiped clean, a baleful shadow. The hand clutching Hensheng tapped Meng Yao’s waist unassumingly, the only sign of an active stance in his outturned, forward-placed left foot and lowered center of gravity. Mingjue responded by readying his back foot to spring forward, and steeled himself for the exchange to come.
When Mingjue and Xichen sparred, they always found a comfortable, amiable rhythm. Not to say it never got heated. Sometimes, they got carried away in the spins and turns, trying to match each other’s pace. But it was always done with a firm gentleness that begetted trust, rather than hostility. How would the exchange go with Meng Yao?
Taking the initiative, despite knowing it would put him at a disadvantage, Mingjue stepped forward. Meng Yao swiped at Mingjue’s lowered face with a right-leg kick. Anticipating this, Mingjue jerked back, but Meng Yao was already behind him, his other leg shooting out against Nie Mingjue’s. It didn’t connect, as Mingjue swung Baxia behind him at Meng Yao.
The other hopped back a few steps, taking space between them, his eyes widening at the saber’s proximity to his head.
Mingjue stayed where he was, on the defensive.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
Meng Yao cut him off with a swing of Hensheng. It was hard to grasp where the blade would land, given its soft qualities, but at the last second Mingjue took a guess and swiped Baxia over his right shoulder: he’d guessed correctly.
A small nick remained in his leather armor where the blade had connected. If he’d been any slower, Hensheng could have taken off his ear.
“Meng Yao, we don’t need to—”
But Meng Yao was already trying to catch him off-balance, ducking at Nie Mingjue’s legs, spinning on both hands, to take his legs out from under him.
Mingjue’s stance was secure, though. Having had many smaller opponents who thought him too lumbering to be quick to counterattack, when the other’s shin connected with his ankle, Meng Yao’s momentary wave of triumph melted into horror when he realized Nie Mingjue had allowed him to knock his foot aside, while actually remaining fully balanced on the other leg, so he could bring Baxia over his head.
Before Baxia hit the ground, however, Mingjue was forced to use it to deflect Hensheng rising up to meet his face.
Meng Yao got to his feet, narrowly dodging swing after swing of Baxia as Mingjue advanced, controlling the space between them. When Meng Yao managed to get a swing of Hensheng in, Mingjue was expecting it. He sent the blade’s soft edge ricocheting with a metallic wobbling twaaang, flinging Meng Yao’s arm dangerously away with it – he wouldn’t be able to counter Mingjue in time.
Meng Yao’s movements had been so fast that Mingjue was out of breath as he dropped Baxia one last time, aiming to stop short at Meng Yao’s neck.
He bellowed, “Got you!”
Except Meng Yao was not there at all. Dumbfounded, Mingjue blinked, trying to find him. He thought perhaps his eyes had failed him at the last second in the chilly wind – when suddenly the world was toppling on its side. He saw only the square-tiled rooftops of the courtyard, the blurry clouds signaling the oncoming winter, and then – Meng Yao panting, on top of him.
Meng Yao was glaring. Hensheng was no longer in his hand. At Mingjue’s last swipe, the flexible blade had been flung across the courtyard to the opposite walkway on the periphery. In his hand, instead, was a dagger positioned at Nie Mingjue’s throat – responding to Baxia’s steady tip.
The sharp, curved edge of the saber was a mere cun from Meng Yao’s jugular.
Meng Yao had caught him off-balance the moment Mingjue thought he dealt the decisive blow, not expecting Meng Yao to go for another sweep. He’d believed he scared Meng Yao off from close-range attacks for good, given his indomitable strength and size. On the contrary, Meng Yao used Mingjue’s confidence and intimidation against him, baiting him with close calls that made him feel like he had a huge advantage over Meng Yao, when in actuality it allowed Meng Yao to slither through the cracks of his defenses – though it put the former Jin heir in some genuinely precarious situations.
Both panted and sweated as they stared at each other, registering what just transpired. It took a few more moments to understand the spar was over, and it was more-or-less a tie.
The prior static between them diffused, but Meng Yao’s face held the vestiges of true terror. He would have been seriously injured had he not ducked out of the way of some of Mingjue’s attacks. Conversely, Hensheng’s nature caught Mingjue off-guard. Though he was less shaken by the exchange – having survived many battles before – Mingjue was shocked and felt a bit betrayed that Meng Yao would swing that blade at him with such unrestraint.
The dagger in Meng Yao’s hand had likely been hidden in his sleeve the whole time, ready to be used in a panic. But Meng Yao moved his arm away from Mingjue’s throat, to one side, and dropped it. His expression was now one of apprehension and regret. Mingjue lowered Baxia as well.
“Clan Leader Nie, I…”
He looked about to apologize.
Mingjue said instead, “You did well—I don’t think anyone’s put me on the ground in ages.”
Meng Yao pouted, as if believing him to be insincere, but Mingjue was anything but. When it came to training and sparring with someone – someone he loved, especially – he would never give compliments unearned.
“Clan Leader…” Meng Yao said, then changed his mind. “Nie Mingjue. I am sorry, it was my fault we got so carried away. Please, I don’t want this to affect our relationship going forward.”
On the contrary, Mingjue was feeling the opposite.
He had a training partner. More than that, Meng Yao had shown him what he could do, and what he truly thought: He was still afraid of Nie Mingjue, but with how strong and skilled Meng Yao had grown in the years since he’d lived in Qinghe… it was a gift, getting to spar like this with him for the very first time, as equals.
In time, perhaps Meng Yao would trust him enough to have sparring sessions with him daily, and their banter would become as fluid, gentle, and strong as it was between him and Xichen – or something completely unique.
For now, Meng Yao was reluctant to move off of him.
So Mingjue placed a light hand on his thigh, letting his fingers squeeze slightly. He said, “You can’t change how this will affect us going forward. And neither can I… I want to be able to have bouts like this with you in the future, Meng Yao.”
Stunned for a moment, Mingjue worried he’d said or done the wrong thing. Until Meng Yao’s face relaxed.
He smiled, both his dimples showing, and the tenderness just barely squinching his eyes.