Abbot Whitebrows ached. The carriage laid a worse beating on him than any battle he had fought in the last forty years. Not that there had been many, even of the secret sort that his Temple had officially renounced centuries ago. He had won those fights too. Still ached. No matter how “iron” your “Iron Fist Technique” was, it still hurt your knuckles when you broke a fool’s jaw.
He wouldn’t usually take a carriage anywhere. He wouldn’t usually be allowed, by law, in a carriage. The law didn’t change. It was just that a remarkable number of people, ranging from provincial governors and going all the way down to street sweepers, were eager to look the other way. They sounded relieved when they learned he was going south. It saved them having to ask.
He had been making the long march, until recently on foot and by boat, from his Pure Lands Temple all the way to the furthest southern reaches of the country- Burning Flag City. Not alone, of course, twenty experienced monks were traveling with him. It was just this last step, the stretch from Red Reed Crossing to Burning Flag City, that saw him separated from them and crammed into this horse drawn torture machine.
The Abbot never wanted to come to Burning Flag City, and had said so loudly and often. He wanted nothing to do with that wretched place. He had leaned back in his chair and declaimed, in his best Abbot voice, that it would take the Heavens themselves to move him. Literal divine intervention would be required to drag him there.
He had regretted his rash words many, many times since the day the immortals invited the Martyr Venerable to take up residence. The reports of miracles- the turning rosary, the faint sounds of chanting in the temple, children spontaneously healing, had become too much to ignore. He couldn’t shake the irrational notion that he had somehow baited the heavens into punishing his rash words. Foolish, but the idea clung to his mind like a particularly inescapable leech. It seemed fated. Divinely ordained. A view that was not aided by the curious force that had directed him to this carriage.
“I still can't believe you ran over a diviner. With your dainty little feet, you literally ran over a poor, innocent diviner.” His brother, out of his beggar garb and disguised as an implausibly wealthy merchant (which he, among other things, was,) carrying a State Business exemption (which was legitimate) to ride in the carriage, grinned at him. “All those years of you boasting about your light body technique, how deftly you embodied the crane, the darting dragonfly, and you still, somehow, managed to trample a diviner so crippled by the heavens, my Beggar Sect would have retired him with a disability pension years ago.”
“That’s not a real thing. The pension I mean. And who the hell has dainty feet? YOU have dainty feet. Look at those slippers.”
“It might be, you don’t know.” His brother evaded the main point with well practiced grace.
Whitebrows gave his brother a moderately filthy look. “He threw himself in my path. Which you know. It was an extortion scheme.”
“An extortion scheme that saw you coincidentally running into my carriage? Hell of a scheme I must say. I’d recruit the poor devil, but those weird kids ran off with him.”
“Are you saying you couldn’t catch a bunch of kids? Actually, why didn’t you catch those kids?” Whitebrow silently berated himself for not asking the obvious question two weeks ago. It was hard to drag his mind away from the chaos that was waiting for him down south.
“I tried. They ran too fast.”
“Pardon?”
“They ran too fast. They must have been immortals, because they were gone by the time I turned the corner of that wine shop. Why didn’t you catch them?”
Whitebrows shook his head, unwilling to admit that, for a few seconds, he had simply been unable to process that the shabby diviner was a real person and not some kind of goblin. Then he frowned as the carriage slowed down.
“Sorry, Master, Sorry Abbot, we’ve reached the back of the queue to get into the city. It seems likely that we will be waiting a few hours. We might even be stuck out here overnight.” The coachman leaned around the side of the carriage to make his report.
“Nonsense. Can’t we go cross country to another gate? It’s all open grassland.”
“Not sure the axels would hold up, Master, and from what I can see, we are actually in one of the shorter lines. Maybe today’s admission quota has been met.”
“The hell with that! Raise the signal flag, let’s see just how short this line can be made.”
To their mutual shock, the answer was “Not a single minute shorter.” They wound up camping by the side of the road. Neither was soft, but neither enjoyed sleeping in a tent. Qiao Fu, Whitebrows’ brother, was silent the whole evening. When Whitebrows nudged him for an explanation the next morning, a bit of the coldness Qiao usually hid from the world was revealed.
“My guild is active in this city. We have members running shops, members begging, members running caravans. We have informants and cooperating assets in the army and government. And that still isn’t enough to let me, the head of the guild, jump the queue at the gate.”
That had Whitebrows silent and serious too. It didn’t get any better when they met their people already in the city.
“Brother Choi, were you injured in the siege? Do you need money for a doctor?” Abbot Whitebrows knelt in front of a black robed brother who was also kneeling, hands loosely upturned on his knees. They were in a small shrine operated by the Pure Lands Temple. It was a simple place, with the same stone walls as all the other buildings in the city, but limited to a main hall and a small room for the monk maintaining the shrine.
Dusting the statue in the main room, keeping the floors swept, knocking the dust out of the prayer mats, it wasn’t complicated work. The pastoral work was the hard bit, but they were a long way from the Pure Lands Temple, and the Temple did not proselytize. Visitors were welcome. Those who wished to join were simply sent north and told “Good luck.” This was usually accompanied by a firm meeting of the eyes, and an unsubtle hint that their long journey would end unhappily. It seemed Brother Choi could no longer fulfill that last duty. There was a bloodstained bandage wrapping his eyes.
“No need, Abbot. I am in the finest condition of my life.”
“You… your eyes…”
“I removed them, Abbot. They were no longer necessary. Indeed, they harmed me.”
Abbot Whitebrows was very still. His shaved head gleamed in the sunlight coming in through the doors. The lamps in the temple were unlit. It seemed that the oil in them hadn’t been filled in days.
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“I do not understand.” Those who only knew the abbot’s martial reputation would have been surprised by the gentleness in his voice. Those far more numerous people who knew of his raging orthodoxy would have been shocked by the lack of judgement. Brother Choi smiled softly, heart still as an old well.
“I beheld righteousness. I watched the god of this city manifest above the city walls. I used my light body art to climb to a roof overlooking the walls, and watched the battle that followed the coming of the God, where the Holy Couple battled heretics and traitors out over the steppes. The course of that battle was too fast and too far to capture the details, but there were three moments. Three crucial moments. I observed the valiant posture of the Guardian Faerie, and saw the truth of the purifying flame. I saw the Emissary of Heaven’s Mercy strike down evil with his staff, and understood righteousness rooted in compassion. And above all, I saw their backs. They put their backs to the city, and faced enemies that outnumbered them at least five to one, each, and this after fighting two pitched battles without rest. I understood courage, and the worthy sacrifice. Battling with the determination to live, and the resolve to die for the people.”
Brother Choi gestured helplessly with his hand. Abbot Whitebrow understood. Cheap words. Tawdry. The sort of thing that was used to lure in new recruits. Those who had seen real violence, and Choi certainly had, knew better. But it was “Ten Steps” Choi who was saying it. Whitebrows frowned. He had heard the story about the God appearing, and the unprecedented actions of the so-called Holy Couple, but hearing wasn’t the same as seeing. Brother Choi seemed to know what the Abbot was thinking, and stood, gesturing towards the door to the street.
“Abbot, might I trouble you for a staff or walking stick?”
“Here.”
Choi felt the well worn shaft in his hands. It was likely the abbot’s personal staff, but none of the monks of the Pure Lands Temple minded such trivialities. It was a stick. Nobody cared who it “belonged” to, so long as it was used well.
“This is what I have recalled. I call them the four stances- ready, chop, sweep, thrust.” Brother Choi stood straight, holding the staff in both hands. Whitebrow’s eyes went wide. The staff raised steadily and chopped. There was no complicated movement, it was no different than a child’s strike, but it had the Abbot’s heart hammering in his chest. By the time the final move was completed and Choi returned to his guard position, Whitebrow’s had turned pale. His shaved head shone with perspiration.
“I see. I might have cut out my own eyes too.”
“Abbot understands. I beheld righteousness and the truth. I beheld virtue. True virtue. Why should I behold lies? Why burden my soul more than it already is?”
“Do you believe you can transmit your four stances?”
“What is there to transmit? The question is, are there those with the hearts to learn? The movements are nothing. What resides within them is everything.”
There was no silence on the streets of Burning Flag City. No quiet moments for the two monks to reflect in. It wasn’t a problem. They were trained to make their own quiet, on the inside.
“My Pure Lands Temple lacks much, but we don’t lack those with a heart for righteousness. It won’t be offered to every brother, nor will every brother be told about it. Only those who have proven themselves ready to learn. However, Brother Choi, I must have your oath that you will not die until you have transmitted it to five brothers.”
“Gladly, but you have nothing to fear, Abbot. I could do without with my eyes, but not with my life. This holy city is the home of the Martyr Venerable, and the resting place of the Holy Couple when they grace the southlands. All three stand for righteousness, sacrifice, and a determination to confront the enemies of the people. ‘I shall not suffer a heretic to live.’ That is the city motto now, and what is a Yuu but a heretic? I’m too old to take a useful number of enemies down with me, should I venture onto the battlefield. But I can teach what I have learned. I can be an example.”
Abbot Whitebrows nodded, his eyes far away. “Yes. Yes, I see that now. I had the vision of the Pure Lands Temple becoming a pillar of righteous strength in this country, a force for justice, suppressing the mighty without regard to status or authority. We had strong bodies, and strong hearts, but lacked supremely powerful methods. Our strength, like our righteousness, must be absolute. This is the final piece. The heavens have blessed you, Brother Choi, but I think they have blessed our Temple even more.”
Whitebrow’s brother was also in touch with one of his people, though their meeting room was an alleyway behind a block of common houses.
“Clean alleys you’ve got. Can’t say I expected that.” Qiao smiled gormlessly from under the rough headscarf of his beggar disguise.
“Oh, it’s thanks to the siege. City Lord got dead set on hygiene once the siege started. Said smelling stinking crap was bad for morale. Of course, now that we all have Gourmet, you have folks eyeing trash heaps, waiting for the dirt under ‘em to ripen. Some days you have to laugh, eh Chief?”
His official title was Guild Master, and in formal settings, immense reverence was required. In the field, more expedient measures were necessary. Qiao nodded along with his local Hall Master, and waited for him to finish his report.
“The whole city, and I do mean the whole city, is part of this new cult of the Martyr Venerable. The only minor mercy is that it’s a city god, so we don’t have some crazy person jumping up to claim they speak for him. Probably just a matter of time, though. The two heavenly immortals are, depending on who you are talking to, either just above, on par, or just below the City God in status. That’s likely to change if they stay away, but I can’t imagine they will be less than revered in the city for centuries.”
“Thousands of years, even. Their absence will make them more revered, not less.” Qiao sighed. He wished he was seeing something to contradict his Hall Manager’s assessment. Unfortunately, Hall Managers were selected on the basis of proven competence. So far, he hadn’t been wrong about a single thing. They would have to see if they couldn’t steer the growth of the cult. Maybe insert one of their people as its leader. That was tricky, though. Very tricky. Frequently went wrong, almost always caused a huge disaster, and did always invite imperial investigation at alarmingly high levels. Of course, the few times it went right remained some of their most successful operations, ever.
“Some of the brothers and sisters and I watched the battle, you know. Well, the bit with the god fighting the wolf. Heh. I say wolf. It was more like an old monk beating a dog.”
“Oh?”
“Yep. It really did just look like an old monk beating a dog with a stick, but, Hell, it’s the first manifestation of a City God since who knows when, so everything it does is significant, right? So we drew it.”
“Eh? The city god?”
The hall master grinned, proudly displaying his surviving teeth, followed by proudly displaying eight pages. Each page was a series of drawings, starting with a monk wearing a basket helmet doing something painful to a dog via a broken broom handle. Each picture below the first was drawn from a slightly different angle, or showing a different stage of the move.
Becoming the Guild Master of the Beggars Guild was, arguably, harder than becoming Emperor. The emperor didn’t have to be a grand master martial artist on top of being a visionary and capable leader.
“How accurate are these pictures?”
“Best as me and six others could make ‘em.”
“Including where the dog is being struck, and the notes on how it reacted?”
“Yep.”
Eight moves. Each simple, but each contained the possibility of many, many powerful variations within. It was… almost an introduction to a martial art, not the martial art itself. The longer Qiao looked at the pictures, the more fascinating they became.
“Seal a copy in the Hall’s records as Guildmaster’s eyes only, and forward another sealed copy to headquarters. Sealed, mind you.”
“Yes, Chief! I’ll let the others know not to spread it around. And… one more thing you ought to know.”
“Oh?”
The Hall Master pulled open his robes and showed a fresh tattoo, a rosary with nine beads.
“You see anyone with a tattoo anything at all like this, they are in the cult. Not some organized cult but The Cult.”
“You got it to blend in?”
The Hallmaster met his eyes steadily. “I watched a god stand up for me. I watched an actual, tangible god, wearing clothes too filthy for even our Dirty Clothes Faction, use a broken bit of broom handle to save my life, the life of all our brothers and sisters, our families, our city, hell, maybe even the whole country. A beggar god stood up and defended me. Chief, you tell me. Do I believe?"