This Venerable Demon is Grossly Unqualified

Wang Li was a covetous man. He did not deny the truth of his soul. That way, lay demons of the heart. The blind masses denounced the man who would covet that which was above his station. Power, wealth, women, he wanted it all. They called such hunger base, envious, unfilial.

The blind masses were blind for a reason. They could not see it, but the kernel of their morality was born of the weakness at the root of their soul. The laws they wrought existed to restrain their betters, to yoke the strong for the benefit of the weak. Was it any wonder that the corrupt so easily bent such laws to their own purposes?.

He had seen the fate of the weak. His law abiding father had died destitute. His loyal mother had starved without him, unable to stand on her own two feet. He had thought the sects could see the truth. They claimed to be meritocracies, bastions of true virtue untainted by the world around them. They claimed that service in the name of the sect would be rewarded. They lied. Their disciples were little more than glorified servants. They would sweat and bleed not for their own advancement, but for the prosperity of the sect. They would waste their days performing manual labor for the mere right to exist within the bounds of the dragon vein the sect had claimed as their own, a thousand men conspiring to claim a treasure none of them could defend alone. They would kill and die against the enemies of the empire for the meanest scraps of spirit stones, even the loot of their rightful kills claimed by the rapacious war machine of the empire.

And then the nephew of an elder would come of age. And none would dare to suggest that they needed to ‘pay their dues’ as a disciple of common birth did. After all, they were clearly more talented than those common disciples, a future pillar of the sect. Was not their rapid growth clear evidence of their bright future? What did it matter, that a hundred spirit stones had fueled it?

And so, he had left. After he had taken what he was owed, for his years of service. He did not regret it. Regrets were for men who no longer moved forward.

Now, Wang Li stood alone on the Gold Road. But his spirit rejoiced, for outcast and hunted, he was free at last. There would be no respite for him, by his own strength alone would he carve out a future in this cruel world. For in strife, the worthy will rise. And he was nothing, if not worthy.

And so he walked down the empty road, and on his shoulder rested a weapon worthy of a free man. A weapon worthy of a covetous man. A weapon worthy of the core formation cultivator he would soon become.

The night was long, and the qi was thin. Once, according to legend, the Gold Road had followed the course of a dragon vein. True or false, that was in the time of the empire that was, before it had collapsed; long before Qin Longwei had brought forth order from the madness the land had descended into. Now, the vein was no more, exhausted by generations of greed. What thin wisps of qi flowing along the road were a riotous combination of aspects born from the passage of travelers. He recognized hints of blood and weapon qi, and traces of the commerce of the cities, but the great majority of it was far beyond his ability to identify.

It made for brutal and inefficient cultivation, cycling this thin chaotic miasma, but he persevered. That which strained his dantian tempered his spirit.

He was so close, but a half step away from core formation. He had enough true qi, and as a true spear cultivator, he didn't need to rely on an external treasure to provide him the power to finish his breakthrough. His own spear intent would do that. All that was left was to temper himself further, to crush the mountain and boil the sea within him, to sharpen further the intent that would be the instrument of his ascension.

He walked and cycled for hours, the passing time as meaningless as the progress he was making. Mortal caravans approached him, saw the robes and closed eyes, and wisely kept their distance. Then, he felt something in the distance. Something sharp, real. No, not something, someone.

It was always a delicate matter, gauging the power of a strange cultivator. It was easy enough to place a man’s cultivation when he cycled it, or brought its full measure to bear. He cycled his own, letting the weight of his peak foundation establishment power echo into the world. The stranger slowed his run, matching their pace to his own, as they approached. Good, it was always disappointing to find qi wasted upon the craven.

His first impression was that the other cultivator was tired. His robes were tattered things, worn thin by hard use, properly modest only because of the number of layers he wore. He was an older man, with a stern face. His hair was jet black still, tied back in a simple tail, but his short cropped beard was shot with hints of gray. It was his posture though, that spoke of exhaustion. His shoulders were not bowed, but they were not proud, ready to bear the weight of the world, as his own were. Wang Li would know, only recently had he truly learned what it meant for a man to be free.

More promisingly, were the many scars he bore, crisscrossing his hands. His left ear was missing a small notch, and with a cultivator's keen vision, one could see the silver ghost of a line crossing his throat, the mark of a grievous injury survived.

An old, worn down, dog he might be, but he clearly still had some fight in him.

He could feel the qi seeping from his meridians, drawn forth by the vigor of his run. Even without intent or technique, it was sharp and bloody stuff. He stood at least in core formation, for him to exert himself so heedlessly, a foundation establishment cultivator would husband their strength, without the unflagging vitality provided by a core. But the early stages of core formation, certainly. Only the very weakest of core formation cultivators could not fly under their own power.

Or, perhaps he was running to temper his body? Another mark against him, no martial cultivator of a major sect would have left the very earliest stages of bodily cultivation until so late into their development. Wang Li’s own bodily cultivation exceeded his spiritual, having already achieved his first fleshly reformation. A potent advantage that allowed him to fight far beyond his realm.

Either way, he felt confident in his guess. A mediocre talent, who achieved core formation late in a difficult and bloody life. Beyond his realm, but not beyond his skill. All in all, a suitable candidate for him to temper himself against.

"Senior. Exchange pointers with me.” Wang Li commanded.

The cultivator in the road regarded him with a cautious expression.

"That's one way to greet someone."

Wang Li sighed. Another standing on ceremony, tainting what should be simple and pure. Very well, if he wanted politeness, Wang Li would give him politeness.

"Wang Li, former inner disciple of the Heaven-Piercing Spear, greets fellow daoist."

"Good evening, Wang Li. This one is going by the name of Fang Tao, of no sect he would deign to mention."

What a curious response. He insists on greetings, then all but admits to concealing his name and origins. Possibilities flitted through Wang Li's mind. A demon perhaps, or one who had left their sect like him, but was bound by shame. He found that he did not care.

"Take up your sword. I would take the measure of your spirit."

"Why?"

"Because you stand before me. Because your demeanor irks me. Because in strife, the worthy rise."

He sighed. Wang Li's fingers tightened. His flippancy made mockery of the sacred.

"I'm not getting out of this am I?"

"No." Wang Li said calmly. "You are not."

"Fine." Slowly, he drew his sword, gave it a few testing swings, as a man might when unfamiliar with a weapon. Disappointing. "Just remember, you asked for this."

He would remember. He feared nothing. A righteous cultivator would not kill in a duel. And a demon should be slaughtered, even if it would cost his life.

Wang Li leveled his spear at his opponent, and danced forward, closing the distance between them.

Fang Tao's sword rose slowly into a strange low guard. Cautiously, Wang Li let his charge play out, throwing a quick thrust at his opponent's chest.

With an unexpected burst of speed, his sword rose up in an artless parry. Wang Li could see it now, two moves. Flow with the parry, spin round, feint high and dip the point at the last moment. Then the two weapons connected, and the future he saw vanished.

The flat of the sword met the haft of his spear with a resounding crack. The sheer force of the blow left his hands numb. His spear flew upwards, and then rose higher still, almost lifting him off his feet. Wang Li leapt back, scrambling to create distance before his foe could counterattack. It took a fraction of a second for him to recover his posture, but that was a veritable eternity in a battle of experts. And yet, his opponent didn’t even bother to capitalize on the advantage, content to wait for Wang Li’s next move.

He dared to look down upon him? He would learn better.

Where the hell was this raw power coming from? Bodily cultivation? A variant of the perfect block technique? Had he simply underestimated his opponent’s realm? His technique was crude, but the sheer force of that strike meant Wang Li couldn’t afford any but the most optimal blocks. No matter, he’d triumphed with worse.

Gathering up his qi, he charged again. Short exchanges favored his spear.

Again, the crude parry rose to meet him, edge angling for his haft, as if he aimed to destroy Wang Li’s weapon. Foolish. The spear in his hands had once belonged to Qin Longwei, the Dragon Emperor himself, before he ascended beyond it and passed on it to Elder Zang. Even a nascent soul cultivator would struggle to destroy it.

This time, he was prepared. At the last moment, he abandoned the thrust, sending his spear to the side. The parry connected, and Wang Li spun with the overwhelming force.

The haft of the spear swung high, and struck the fool across his face.

Wang Li didn't allow his opponent the luxury of recovery. He chased, as his foe retreated, spear braced tight to his chest, sending out short, tightly controlled thrusts, baiting that monstrous parry.

He would show this fool that one clever trick did not make a swordsman, if he took such a wild swing again, Wang Li would run him through. Fang Tao defended passably, struggling to predict where the blows would land, but blocking each strike in the end, his guard unyielding as the earth.

But defense didn't win battles, it only bought you another moment.

“Ceaseless, I Advance.” Wang Li murmured, cycling his qi in time with the declaration. Again and again he struck, driving his opponent back. And with each blow, he felt power growing in his limbs, as the technique converted physical momentum into temporary power.

Once, twice, seven times he struck. Sparks flew as their weapons clashed. Not a single drop of blood was shed, but the noose was closing all the same.

Finally, Fang Tao realized the trap, and suddenly charged forwards in a reckless assault, sword raised high to threaten a mutual kill. Wang Li danced to the side. It wasn’t an advance, but it wasn’t a retreat either. The Ceaseless Advance wavered, but did not break.

It was time to end this. Fang Tao’s techniques were interesting, he felt he’d only scratched the surface of them, but for all his scars, he was no warrior. His spear intent surged, the masterwork in his hand recognizing the skill of its wielder, and answering in kind. He would show them all that one did not become heir to a dragon’s legacy by accident of birth. Such glory could not be given, only taken.

At the tip of his spear, a queer light shone, neither white, nor colored. His spear intent was nothing so simple as an overwhelming sharp pressure.

“Kingfisher’s Hunt.”

One final time, he charged, and thrust. And creation screamed as it was folded in upon itself, as what was one was made three.

A sword flashed, and what was three was made two.

And then there was stillness.

Fang Tao yet stood, propped up as much by the spear as his legs. Blood seeped from twin holes in his chest, he’d blocked the strike aimed for his throat, but missed the other two. Wang Li’s spear rested in one of Fang Tao’s lungs, and a parallel wound bloomed wetly in the other.

Wang Li smiled. Deep, but not fatal. The win was his.

As he opened his mouth to announce his victory, Wang Li tasted blood.

Sword intent had gathered around Fang Tao. Not merely around his blade, but all around him. It hung in the air, thick enough to tint the moonlight steel-gray, sharp enough Wang Li’s lungs filled with blood as he breathed in.

Wang Li leapt back, ripping his spear free. The instincts that had guided him through decades of danger screamed at him, that now was not the time to go for the kill. He rallied his own intent, forcibly twisting its offensive nature to protect him.

A sword flashed. Once, twice, three times.

Wang Li blocked, his own space-bending spear intent rushing forward. The three strikes disappeared, consumed by his intent.

Then they struck home anyway. Thin slices opened up across the entirety of Wang Li’s body. He could see it, enlightenment gripping him through the pain. Fang Tao had diffused the force of his strikes across the entire scope of his intent. All around him, leaves fell and shrubs toppled, as the power of those three blows was evenly distributed across every surface around him.

He might as well have blocked a gust of wind, for all the good it did.

His blood drenched his robes as his ribboned flesh weeped freely. His wounds would close in minutes, but they would be long, painful, days in healing. He dropped to his knees, acknowledging his defeat.

Fang Tao put his sword away, its steel-gray blade still bone-dry. Then he slowly approached, standing above his defeated opponent. Wang Li’s pride burned, even as his mind turned over that last technique.

“Thank you, I found that surprisingly enlightening. You wouldn’t happen to be coming from the direction of Xianyang would you?” Fang Tao asked.

“I…” Wang Li choked out between gasps. “L-lived there for fifteen years.”

“Excellent!” Fang Tao said jauntily, the wounds on his chest already slowly closing. Up close, Wang Li could see they were even shallower than expected. What monstrous durability. Had he completed some monstrously powerful fleshly reformation? Or was his opponent a nascent soul, holding back the whole time?

“I happen to be in the market for an elemental treasure of a particular esoteric aspect suitable for someone in the first or early second stage.” He continued blithely. “Where might I inquire about purchasing such a thing in Xianyang?”

Wang Li racked his mind. If he proved of use, he might yet walk out of here with some of the contents of his storage ring.

“The Sleeping Fortune brokers keep lists of those looking to sell such items. If anyone is selling one, or has before, they would be able to introduce you for a small fee. The Xianyang branches of the sects all trade in the elements of their schools, but it would take a lot of money to get them to part with a treasure appropriate for them after they acquired it. You would have more luck purchasing it before it ended up in their hands.”

“Interesting. Good to know.” Fang Tao said, staring down at him. Wang Li began to sweat. Hopefully, he would not demand the entirety of his storage ring. As the challenged party, without a wager set, such a demand would be within the bounds of honor, if only barely.

“Any benefits I gained aside, starting a fight with a man who has expressed no interest in such a thing is quite rude.” Fang Tao continued. “Doubly so when he has offered you no provocation save existing.”

“A man should not cultivate if he would shy from battle.” Wang Li grit out through the pain.

“People should cultivate for whatever reason they choose, so long as they do not harm innocents in its pursuit.” Fang Tao said in a sanctimonious tone. “Whether they master the sword, or beat one into a plow and farm rice, is no concern of yours.”

“Get bent. My challenge was righteous. I did not bow to the heavens. I did not bow to the Heaven-Piercing Spear. I will not bow to you.”

“Well, you’ve got that part right. You’re not gonna be bowing for a while. I do hope you’ll think twice about asking for a duel, instead of demanding one, in the future.”

Fang Tao lifted a leg. Slowly, with exaggerated emphasis he twisted his hips, chambering the leg for a kick. Belatedly, Wang Li realized what was about to happen, and cycled his cultivation. He rallied his qi, forcing it through overworked pathways to accumulate around his vitals. His core, where the blow would land. His head, which would suffer whiplash. His right hand, because he would die before he surrendered his spear.

He didn’t see the blow land. He didn’t feel the blow land. All he saw was the world vanish beneath him, the landscape vanishing into a blur as he flew through the air like a bird. The trees looked so small from here. His last thought, as his consciousness fled from his overwhelming injuries, was that there was no way that man was merely in core formation.