Zhuding rose before the sun. The sleeping silhouettes of his mother and father laid across the room, unmoving. Quickly, quietly, he got dressed, cleaned his teeth, and collected his tools. He gingerly pulled the dragon-etched blade from its hiding place under his bed. He had fashioned a crude sheath from a piece of bamboo, not wanting to be seen with something so fine. Tucking it into his waistband, he put on his boots and slipped out of his home.
No one was out this early – daylight wouldn't break for an hour, maybe more. It was a new moon, and he had to watch his step to not stumble in the near pitch black. He watched the doorways of the buildings that lined the street, searching for silhouettes. Coming to edge of the village, he grabbed a basket and climbed the steps out of the basin, relaxing slightly as the possibility of being spotted faded. Coming out of the basin, he shivered, the walls of the basin no longer protecting him from the chill night winds. He turned off of the well-worn path to the fields and began to follow the rim of the basin, making his way to the eastern side of the mountain.
The mountains to the south, part of the same range, were barely visible without any moonlight. Still, he swore he could feel them there to his right – towering, immovable, eternal. This range had been here thousands of years before he had been born and would be there longer after he died. They comforted him. It might have made another feel inconsequential, but it made his tiny world feel vast. There would always be more to see, if you could get there.
He arrived at the cliff face, his place to be alone. Hedao would have gotten here before him, of course. He didn't know how he did it – did the man even sleep?
Leaving his basket tucked upright next to a rock, he began the familiar climb down to his small ledge. The more he went up and down this route, the more he realized how dangerous it was. Best not to think about how far down that drop was – it would make his palms sweat. Death waited below, and he didn't want to slip.
Despite his morbid thoughts, he made it down without any issue. Hedao was already there on the ledge, of course. He sat cross-legged, eyes closed, in the center of the modestly sized nook. It was just enough space for one person to lie down, or perhaps for two people to sit comfortably. On the wall behind Hedao was an intricate pattern etched into the rock, angular lines and geometric curves filling up the space of a perfect circle. It mesmerized Zhuding each time he saw it, though he wondered at how he carved it so quickly; the detail was immense, yet it had appeared within the span of only a couple days.
Drawing in a deep breath, Hedao rose and turned to Zhuding. "Good morning, Zhuding. Let's get started."
Zhuding nodded his assent, and Hedao reached out, gripping his shoulder. Zhuding squeezed his eyes shut. Despite weeks of training with Hedao, he had never gotten used to this feeling, and doubted he ever would. Slowly at first, then increasingly quickly, a strange pressure came from Hedao, a current rushing over him faster and faster until it swept him up and carried him away. It carried him along at incredible speed, and he struggled to stay afloat, to avoid drowning in that strange immaterial river. But eventually, after some unclear amount of time, the current thinned and vanished, and Zhuding was left panting, kneeling on cold stone.
A snowflake landed on Zhuding's cheek. In the distance, an unfamiliar landscape stretched for miles and miles, barely visible in the twilight. He was on the summit of a faraway mountain, the place where Hedao had trained him for these past few weeks. The first few days, he had asked Hedao where this was, how they had gotten here, and how it was possible, but had only been met with evasions and chidings to focus on things that mattered. So, he had stopped asking, if not wondering.
He stood, matching Hedao. It was freezing, of course, but still unnaturally warm considering the elevation. Snow coated the tip of the mountain, yet this fairly large, flat patch of stone was completely free of it. The existence of the clearing was another question that Hedao wouldn't respond to – it seemed he was fond of leaving those types of questions unanswered.
"Ready yourself. You know the drill by now." Hedao reached into his loose robes and pulled out a cruelly pointed dagger from the sheath hidden within, assuming an offensive posture.
Zhuding pulled the dragon-etched blade from his waistband, discarding the cumbersome bamboo sheath a few feet behind him and placed his footing.
Hedao came at him hard and fast. Rapid, biting jabs, like a striking viper, forced Zhuding to duck and dodge. They weren't the vicious swipes of killing intent, however; these blows were deliberate. Controlled. They were designed to instruct, to make Zhuding learn to avoid them.
And learn he had. Over these first few weeks of training, Zhuding had exerted himself in ways he hadn't known possible. Field work keeps one fit, but even his farmer's physique hadn't been accustomed to such abuse.
Hedao kept forcing him back, Zhuding too busy blocking and dodging to make any attacks of his own. Step by step, they approached the edge of the snow-ringed stone clearing. Suddenly, Hedao released an unusually fierce set of blows. They were too quick, too strong; Zhuding couldn't hope to avoid them. He fell backwards out of the ring, landing on the snowbank just outside its perimeter.
What little warmth existed in the air evaporated as he fell out of the clearing. The wind howled, and he was pelted with snow, already beginning to be buried. As his teeth began to chatter, Hedao pulled him back into the ring. After exposure to the freezing summit winds, the brisk air inside seemed like a fireplace.
"Your balance still needs a lot of work, boy. Your stance was nearly perfect when we began, but you began to slip as I continued my attack. You must concentrate on maintaining your poise," Hedao lectured as Zhuding kneeled on the stone, gasping for air. The older man's face was stern as he studied Zhuding, but in his eyes was a hint of pride. He spoke again, voice a little warmer. "You've made much progress these few weeks. You have potential for this."
Zhuding smiled, pleased with himself, and the little pride drained out of Hedao's eyes. "Don't let it go to your head, now. You have much work to do – more than you could ever know. Now, I have the perfect exercise to correct this balance issue of yours. Judging by the light, I'd say we have just enough time to put you through it a few dozen times…."
By the time the sun began to rise, bathing the valley in golden light, Zhuding and Hedao were walking back towards the village, one of them limping and gasping, the other calmly strolling, arms behind his back. Despite his exhaustion, however, Zhuding was happy. Spending his mornings away from the fields, secretly honing his mind and body, gave him a sense of purpose he had felt was lacking. The fields were an endless treadmill, bringing him nowhere no matter how far he walked. Now, his effort finally meant something.
Nearing the rock where he had stashed his basket, he bent down to collect it. Reaching out for it, he paused. There was something wrong; he was sure that he had set it down upright, not on its side. He picked it up and looked around but saw no one, save Hedao walking a short distance ahead of him. With an uncomfortable shrug, he shouldered the basket and made his way to the fields.
The morning was in full swing as Zhuding finally arrived at the path leading down towards the fields, and his peers had long since started their day's labor. As he made his way further into the rice paddies, he passed scores of people bent over the green stalks. As he crested a small hill, approaching the section that he normally worked, he noticed a young man in fine clothes strolling towards him. He was handsome, with an expression and posture that made him seem used to leadership. He carried a sword at his side, hand resting on the hilt, which he raised as he called out to Zhuding.
"You there! Zhao family, aren't you?" He called cheerfully as he neared Zhuding, returning his hand to his hilt. Slightly taller than him, the lord's son was an imposing presence, and not just because of his height.
"Yes, young master," Zhuding bowed, uncomfortable.
The young master glanced around nonchalantly as he said, "I haven't been seeing you around as much lately, Zhuding." The use of his name made the blood run from Zhuding's face. He'd seen the lord's only son walking the fields, keeping an eye on thing, of course, but he had never known how close of attention he paid.
"Of course," he continued, "how you spend your free time is none of my business, but I would hate to see your work suffer due to a lack of… diligence." He sighed sardonically. "We all help each other here, Zhuding. Everyone must put in their every effort, or we would all starve! You understand, I would hate to have to tell your father or, heavens forbid, MY father that you weren't fulfilling your duties." His hand shifted on his sword hilt.
Zhuding drew in a quiet, shaky breath, bowed again. "Yes, of course young master. You don't have to worry about that. I'll be here."
The young master smiled, patted him on the shoulder. "Good. I have to speak with my father, now. Be good, now." He turned and began to stroll away.
Yet, as Zhuding watched him, he noticed a practiced nonchalance to his gait, a false casualness that covered up a predatory stalk. The casual glancing seemed more like a hunting gaze from behind.
Zhuding shivered as he watched the young master go and thought it best to get to work. Hours passed under the hot sun as Zhuding collected his harvest, carted it back to the village, and ventured out again, trying to meet his quota. Already exhausted from his morning training, the labor made his brow drip with sweat. The sun began to set, fields emptied of laborers as everyone had gone home to their families. Everyone, save Zhuding, who toiled to complete his quota. Under the moonlight he carried his final load back to the village.
He stared up at the sky, the spot where the wyvern had so gracefully slid behind the mountainous landscape those weeks ago. He envied that freedom. Craved it. His mind went to the disingenuous young master, patting him on the shoulder, grinning a predatory smile. The pleasure of control.
Zhuding deposited his grain, put down his basket, made his way home. He ate his dinner automatically, in silence, parents already asleep.
As he laid in bed that night, he dreamed of coursing through the air. Of having grace, power, and a mastery of the sky.