Reach Heaven Via Feng Shui Engineering, Drug Trade And Tax Evasion

They both heard the alarm at the same time.

Li Zhong put down his cup of tea, comically small in his enormous hands, and rose, appearing next to the window in a single stride. His cloak - in the style common among all body fundamentalists - billowed behind him, only held down by a single clasp around his neck, ready to be tossed aside at a moment’s notice. Beneath it, the golden skin of his bare arms and legs, bulging with muscles, threw sun glares all across the room, only eclipsed by his shining, completely bald head. His torso was covered in a thin, tight fabric, leaving nothing to the imagination. The only other decoration on his body was an image of a happy bat, holding a golden coin in its mouth, embroidered on the back of his cloak in golden thread.

Jian Wei, Elder Ever-Dancing Sunlight of the Northern Scarlet Stream sect and (some would argue) the second richest man in Glaze Ridge, remained seated, only inclining his head a fraction. This wasn’t for them to deal with.

“An alarm?” Li Zhong said, stating the obvious as usual, his voice loud enough to carry across a sect courtyard, let alone his small office, only large enough to fit a table full of paperwork and some futons. Jian Wei could hear the window glass rattle slightly every time he spoke.

They had an argument about this habit of his many times, when they drank together. Jian Wei would say it made the larger man seem unprofessional, like a mercenary, not a banker, and didn’t he leave that life behind? Li Zhong would reply that a banker was also a mercenary, just of a different sort, and besides, pitching his voice to speak quieter took effort he didn’t care to expend.

He did seem to do so when their juniors were in the room, though.

“Must be in Reflection Ridge,” Jian Wei said, not looking up from the financial plan for the telegraph network the two of them were supposed to be discussing, “Stage one. A forest spirit, you think?”

“Forest should be quiet after the rainstorm,” Li Zhong rumbled, still gazing out the window. Jian Wei knew for a fact that not even a single roof of Reflection Ridge could be seen from it, and he also knew what Li Zhong would say if he pointed it out.

Finally, Li Zhong shook his head, and turned away from the window. “They should have it handled. That Shui Gui they have is pretty good.”

“It is polite to refer to fellow cultivators by their name, Zhong.”

Li Zhong scoffed, predictably. “Name? I don’t even remember your name most days, Jin Mei. I don’t care about the name, I care about the strength of their fists.”

“It’s a wonder anyone trusts you with their gold.” Jian Wei shook his head, smiling at the shared joke.

“They trust me because I am the best at hiding their money, not because I remember every wee child of theirs,” Li Zhong grumbled, sitting back down, finally ready to get back to work.

A distant thunderclap made them both turn towards the window, eyes sharp and ready, waiting for confirmation.

The second thunderclap came, and Li Zhong swore. Even from this far out, they could see the sky dimming slightly.

Jian Wei pursed his lips. He agreed, but there was little need to state it out loud. “A tribulation…” he said instead, “Refinement stage, if they only called a stage one alarm. Someone from out of town, you think?”

“Must be,” Li Zhong grunted, picked up a small golden bell off the table, and rang it once. “I haven’t heard of any formations being set up, at least. Loose cultivator, with nothing…”

He shook his head.

The poor soul.

Exactly three heartbeats after the bell rang, the door opened, and a young disciple of Li Zhong bowed to them from the entrance, her hair tied in a conservative top knot. Unlike the man himself, she was wearing classic cultivator robes, though with sleeves cut above her elbows and the hem above her knees. Embroidering of a bat on the front of her robes mirrored that of her elder.

“Send Zhao to the postal office, Lin Mei,” Li Zhong said, “someone is going through a tribulation. He has the best eyes and ears of all of you - perhaps he could help.”

“Send word to my sect as well,” Jian Wei said, “If they survive, we would be hosting a feast to celebrate, and they would need an invitation.”

Li Zhong raised an eyebrow at that. Lin Mei bowed, and left quickly.

“Already looking to recruit?” Li Zhong said.

“Just getting ahead of the others. We are a growing sect, and we need members.” He smiled. “A loose cultivator who survives their tribulation must be a good talent, unlikely as that may be.”

“I figured your son would already be there, Wei,” Li Zhong said.

“I do not have a son.” Jian Wei pursed his lips. Even after many years, this had not stopped rankling. “I have a nephew, as you well know. And while he will be there, I doubt he will consider what is best for our sect.”

“He might as well be your son, for how much you dote on him,” Li Zhong grumbled, “you’ll ruin him, you know? That young boy needs discipline.”

Jian Wei shot him a warning glare. Friends they may be, but there were limits.

Li Zhong raised his hands defensively. “All I am saying is that people talk. When will you teach him how to run the sect?”

“They can talk until their tongues fall out,” Jian Wei said, “it is not their place to tell me how to deal with my disciple and my nephew.”

As if he didn’t know people talked. He had been having the same argument in his own head for well over several years.

“He is young. He will grow out of it,” Jian Wei said quieter, more for his own sake than his friend’s, “I have no plans of expiring until then, and the sect will still be here, when he will be ready to learn.”

They went back to their papers. There was work to be done - the poor soul would sink or swim on their own power.

Jian Shizhe snarled as he stalked the streets of Reflection Ridge.

He was going to find Wang Yonghao, and he was going to slaughter him.

Three years of preparation and planning, finding the largest shambler in the alley, luring it towards the place he needed without scaring it off, buying and setting up the trap formations, waiting for the perfect night to subdue it…

And then that imbecile, that pig in human form swung his sword, and all of it was obliterated in an instant.

All because he couldn’t open his eyes and see the damn formation.

And then he had the gall to not even apologize properly for what he did? To simply walk away?

But even after all that, he would have swallowed the humiliation. After what happened last year, Jian Wei all but ordered him to keep the peace while disciples from the Flowing Scarlet River were in town, and he did his best. He stomped down on his soul and let the bastard go.

Two days later, just this morning, he happened to run into Wang Yonghao again, and - calmly - asked if they could settle the issue like true cultivators, trade some pointers about their sword technique and both walk away with their honor. In return for his grace, he got a single word tossed over the shoulder about being busy.

Jian Wei ordered him to keep the peace. But Jian Wei did not understand, not since his brother - and Jian Shizhe’s father - died and he laid down his sword like a coward, collaring them all to the Flowing Scarlet River sect.

So rare, to have two cultivators in the same family, brothers in training. Rarer still, for one of them to have a child who could cultivate as well. So precious.

And yet…

The glass arts of their sect were made for those of a metal constitution, and the Heavens had cursed him with wood. He was never going to be able to inherit these sacred techniques, never going to perfect them further.

His father’s legacy? Not fit for his shoulders.

An outcast from birth.

So he threw himself into training with ten times the ferocity. If he could not learn the spiritual energy techniques, then he would perfect everything else. A strong spiritual shield and a lightning-fast sword was all that a proper cultivator should need - reliance on techniques was, in itself, a weakness.

Other disciples laughed at him. A wood-constitution cultivator hoping to revitalize a sect of metal techniques? What a joke. Cultivators from the Flowing Scarlet River laughed at him - at their entire sect, as if being the main branch gave them a right to treat them all like trash.

Those worthless worms understood nothing. They forgot what cultivation was for, debauched themselves from dawn to dusk all the while daring to insult him. And so he wore the clothing from the olden times, when cultivators knew the score. And then he made them understand. At this point, even building foundation cultivators had to admit his skill with the sword, whenever they had time to spar.

Respect came from power. If he had power, he would have respect. The jokes didn’t stop, of course, but by now, only a rare few dared to say them to his face.

Rui Bao dared, but there was little he could do about that man. But Wang Yonghao… This trash, he could deal with.

He needed that shambler - their sect had a minor manual on beast rearing, rarely practiced though it may be - and if he could not train in the techniques to control glass, then at least he could do that much, show the might of their sect to the rest of the world. But if he couldn’t get the shambler… He’d be satisfied with some revenge.

As he came around a corner, thoughts of rage and vengeance swirling in his mind, he heard the alarm, and saw the lightning strike down from the sky. The sight of it rooted him down to the ground.

For a moment, he considered not going.

He could turn away, claim he saw and heard nothing. Nobody would know. He could find Wang Yonghao, and get his vengeance, before the cowardly wretch fled the town entirely. Nobody would even say anything - coming to watch, let alone help, was not, could not be an expectation, for cultivators transcended the tribulation on their own power.

Shame flooded his soul for even thinking this.

Nobody would understand.

Cultivators rose up and toppled the Heavens. What would he be, if he wasn’t willing to help?

He couldn’t have his father’s legacy. He couldn’t make his uncle open his eyes to the humiliation the main sect imposed on them. Some days, he even doubted he could get anyone else to do so.

But he was a cultivator, damn it, not a snarling beast of the forests. He knew what mattered.

He sprinted towards the lightning.

Hui Yin stumbled out of a tavern, polishing up his third spit of meat for the morning. His head still pounded after last night - another traveling immortal musician challenged him to a game of demonic music, and as usual it all devolved into drinking a couple hours in, with them both playing together, and even swapping instruments for a bit - though his memory was still hazy. His hurdy-gurdy, at least, seemed fine, if somewhat out of tune - getting it repaired all the way out here would have been a bitch and a half.

At least the customers must have had plenty of fun, since the innkeeper didn’t toss them out on the street until morning, and his gold pouch felt plenty full.

He swallowed his breakfast and tossed the empty spits into the pile of firewood next to one of the houses he passed. He didn’t much like returning to towns he had been in before, but he might have to make an exception for Reflection Ridge. All those solar lenses weren’t just for show - he hadn’t tasted meat this juicy in ages. He wiped his hands on a bit of cloth he carried - always good to have one, to wipe the chairs in the seediest taverns, if nothing else - and started working on his instrument, turning knobs to bring it back into tune.

Sudden blare of an alarm cut into his ears like a knife, and he winced. Couldn’t the demon beasts wait until the suns were high in the skies before trying to eat someone?

He glanced up at the closest sun. Alright, so perhaps it already was mid-day, but this changed nothing. He briefly wondered if Curls might have gotten herself in trouble - that beautiful snake knew how to stay out of sight, but on occasion a cultivator would still come across her, and misunderstand things.

A lightning strike from the skies tore through that line of thinking, and he whistled in surprise, blinking to get rid of the afterimage, and having just enough time to pluck his ears before the thunder clap. A tribulation! Now that was always a good show. Perhaps he’d even get some inspiration and write a new song. He headed towards it, though with no real hurry. The post office wasn’t far enough to rush.

When he saw a black void open up and heard the chittering of rats, it took him a moment to realize what he was seeing. An embarrassingly long one, since he knew no less than five songs about it.

“A zodiac? Holy shit,” he whispered, and sprinted off towards the edge of town, where Curls was hiding.

He wasn’t about to let an opportunity like this lie by the wayside.

Trigger the alarm. Get the index. Lock the cabinets. Grab the tribulation bag.

Chen Changjie let his body work through the motions, his mind elsewhere. He served as the postmaster of Reflection Ridge for thirty years - this wasn’t his first tribulation, and he hoped it wouldn’t be the last.

He hoped that every time, and so far, every time he had been right.

He had seen many tribulations. Most of them, cultivators trying to break into the building foundation stage, but there was their fair share of broken vows, heavenly techniques striking back at their users, and uncovered treasures the Heavens could not suffer to see. Once, he even saw a tribulation descend on a demon beast from the forest, though it died with little fanfare.

He did his best to help every time.

His wife told him he was crazy - he could have made the cultivator at his postal office do the job. He was a mortal, she said, and could die in an instant if things went wrong.

He didn’t argue, but how could he stay out of it? He saw the cultivators defend the town dozens of times, save his life and that of others. If he wasn’t even brave enough to stay there and coordinate, provide information, then why did he even become a postmaster?

Tribulations differed greatly. Some were fairly easy, nothing more than a challenge of skill and will. Others were… bad.

He hated those that made the cultivator suffer before they died the most. A loose cultivator, with little preparation… For her sake, he hoped this would be an easy one.

It took him less than a minute to lock everything up and make sure the other people within the room would stay safe. By the time he finished, Junming came up from the depths of the post office - no doubt woken up by the alarm - carrying that large lantern of theirs, and together they left through the doors, to face the lightning.

He had seen many tribulations, and many cultivators. In the fables, cultivators always grinned in the face of death - but that was not how he saw it. Most were simply… focused, showing neither bravery or fear, mind working overtime to keep up with the Heavens. Some cried. Some seemed to welcome death, and disappointed when it did not come. Some laughed, consumed by a strike of hysteria.

And some…well.

When he came up on the hill, Junming following after, he saw this Qian Shanyi ranting into the storm, looking for all the world like an actress from one of the plays, though her sharp sword told a different story. In her eyes, madness flowed in rivers.

“Would you help?” he asked Junming quietly, setting the tribulation bag down on the ground - full of basic first aid supplies, pills, some spare weapons, and a dozen other things. He tried not to wonder how many cultivators died before the empire mandated them in every post office, having technically passed through the tribulation yet succumbing to their wounds shortly thereafter, with nobody competent around to help.

“Don’t know,” Junming warbled, their outer coverings left at the bottom of the hill. They put their lantern down on the ground, and were assembling the tripod for the Tribulation Index with practiced speed. “Don’t know this tribulation.”

Chen Changjie looked up, and saw a dark void, something moving around and chittering. For all his experience, he didn’t know it either, never having memorized the entire book. There was little point - two dozen most common tribulation forms were responsible for well over ninety-eight percent of tribulations.

His heart sank. Unknown meant rare, and those were always the bad ones.

He flipped the Tribulation Index open, and started going through it, checking descriptions, keeping his fingers from trembling with sheer force of will. Panic never helped things, even if his ignorance might kill someone today.

“Page one hundred and fifty six, honorable postmaster,” Qian Shanyi interrupted his thinking, pitching her voice to be heard across the hill, “but there is no need to search on my account.”

He glanced up at the mad woman. Her eyes didn’t leave the void above for even a moment - she must have heard him flipping the pages. For all her ranting, she seemed composed, ready for what was to come.

He flipped to the page she said, and his heart sank further as he realized she was correct.

One of the worst ones, then.

He breathed in, then out, and rose to his feet. If she knew this tribulation, then perhaps the odds were not quite as bad as the index suggested.

He placed the Tribulation Index on the tripod Junming prepared - cultivators like them were the ones who would need the information inside, after all - and sprinted down the hill, where others were already gathering, those willing to assist standing closer. His job was to organize them together - make sure none would interfere if they were not qualified to handle the danger, and select those best suited to help.

All the history books said that to cultivate was to rebel against the Heavens. They said that cultivators saved lives, and brought safety and happiness to millions.

He could not cultivate. But if he could help the cultivators do so, then wasn’t that just as good?