rogue_5

Here at this bustling marketplace, a stall selling clay dolls proves to be very popular, drawing in an unending stream of customers. If you buy one with no further discussion, the peddler will be happy, cheerfully throwing in a grasshopper woven of straw gratis. If you try to haggle, the peddler will be unhappy, and you won't be able to buy anything. Children—the people the peddler hates the most—shout and yammer right by her ear, but unfortunately, what she sells are toys, the easiest target of said children's interest. To try and keep them away from her, she has come up with a marvelous scheme: whenever she sets up her stall, she will set aside a few new gadgets and gewgaws to amuse them. The children will be so enraptured with them, they will stop bothering her.

The result?

The children seem to have learned that 'if they bother the lady, they'll get new toys'. And so, her stall became even noisier.

The clay doll stall slowly fades away from the busy marketplace in the scroll, and in another scroll depicting ancient forests and mountains, a great bandit fort appears.

At the foot of the mountain, a carriage drawn by a burdenbeast and its escort trundles along. 'Shh—' Upon meeting an obstruction, the commander of the escort bids his men halt. The group fearfully lifts their heads as a giant shadow looms over them. Blocking their path is a burly, shaggy-bearded man, rivaling a manglerbeast in strength and stature. He has eyes like copper bells, fists the size of alms bowls, and muscles as thick as ancient tree trunks. It is clear there is no other in the land like him. Confident he is up to no good, the commander has no choice but to summon up his courage and step forward to talk with him.

'It is no sin to steal ill-gotten gains.' The burly fellow refuses to negotiate, and pulls out a fist. At first, everyone panics, but then they see him step forward. His left leg trips over a wheel, while his right leg steps upon his own trouser leg. He falls to the ground.

The burly fellow's comrades, accustomed to this farce, sigh and shake their heads as they draw their blades, stepping forward onto the road.

The bandit fort fades away, and another scroll depicting a dark prison unfurls. Within is a silent prisoner, wondering if the script that left her in this place has been published.

The prison fades away, and in another scroll, by a vast battlefield, an aged general gobbles down fistfuls of rice before an envoy.

The battlefield disappears, and in the next scroll, a stern mortician tends to a friend's corpse.

Another scroll, then yet another... Until upon a stage in some scroll or the other, an opera singer acts out the roles to be penned so as to write fitting lyrics. After recording the phrase 'In all things real is a fake, but in a fake is rarely anything real', the figure steps out of the painting.

Dull. Tiresome. Drab. This scroll too is boring. Pieces of the scroll flutter as they fall into the fire, until eventually, Dusk can tear it no further. She leans against her table in boredom. These paintings have become a multitude of lands, allowing her to experience a multitude of lives. Did these hundreds of years worth of emotion and temperaments within these lives have no effect on her? Of course not. But...

What is real? If I am the one in the painting, and the me in the painting is real, all I feel and experience is also real. However, when It awakens, I shall fade away... In the end, I am just a being in a painting. Real or fake, true or false, what sense is there in even asking?

After successive years of Catastrophe, famine loomed over the land. To combat this shortage of grain, the Yan of eld proclaimed a series of decrees, including one that banned alcohol. As such, the wretched masses lost the last bit of happiness they had to console themselves with. While the rich and elite also felt some sting, it was not impossible for a wine-loving mandarin to find a private source. For a while, wine was an extravagance, one that demanded not just coin but also influence for a few measly sips.

It is under these circumstances that an <i>Ode to Finest Wine</i> spreading across the streets came to the attention of the court. There is a line in it that goes 'For whom do spring waters surrender, brewed by mortal hands into finest wine'—This has to be talking about brewing moonshine, right? That is a crime most grave!

After some investigating, the writer of this ode is none other than a popular folk poet, and her words about the exquisite taste of moonshine have captivated the spirit of the people. No wine passes their lips, yet the poem leaves them intoxicated. With the ban having been in place for some time, who could restrain themselves after reading such alluring words?

Rumor has it that this poet is ordinarily the elusive sort, yet she has lately come to stay at a cottage at the foot of the mount. Soon, the mandarins surround that shabby, dilapidated thatched cottage. All they smell is the piercing scent of alcohol, mixed with a heady fragrance of flowers. A smell rarely found within the mortal realm, one that had all gathered salivating. They see commoners sneaking about around the cottage taking peeks. Surely they did not limit themselves to brewing and drinking this wine themselves. They must be smuggling it, too!

With a wave of a mandarin's hand, the commoners are arrested. Then, they knock upon the door. The one within is a great writer, popular with the people. It would be uncouth to treat her like a common boor.

The door opens with a creak, and everyone cranes their necks towards the cottage's interior. All they see is a cluttered pile of wine jugs, the intoxicating smell of alcohol all the stronger around it. Among the jugs, a single person can be seen. The poet in question, it seems. She takes no heed of her guests, raising her head to inspect the wine in her cup, composing a poem of praise as she does so. From her litany of words, it seems this brew is one that even the Xian would yearn for, and now it was here in the mortal realm. All present begin drooling after hearing this.

The leader of the mandarins steps forward to reproach her. 'What is that you have there in your hand?'

The poet gives a toast. 'A cup laden with spring.' The mandarin looks to where her hand is pointing. The holes in the walls of the cottage frame a mountain view, yet the view through each hole is different.

The mandarin continues his stern rebuke. 'Have you not heard of the ban on alcohol? Not only have you brewed in private, but you have also written poems that disrupt social order. Yet another crime.'

'What grain there was has been sent for disaster's relief. With flower and honey of mount—alongside some leftover rice wine—did I brew a few jugs. A flavor most distinctive.' Having spoken, the poet performed a gesture that said 'pray, partake'. Seeing a few cups on the table, the mandarins look at one another with hesitation.

'True, flowers and honey do not necessarily brew into wine. Before we accuse you of this crime, we must first prove that what you drink is liquor.' The lead mandarin raises his voice as he says this, being the first to pick up a cup. Seeing his subordinates frozen in place, he orders them to pick up cups as well. Their eyes meet, and they all know one thing: this matter stays here. If they confiscate this wine and pass it to their superiors, how will they ever have their own share?

Everyone quickly wrests open the jugs, ladling out this legendary brew. They carefully smell it, and cherish the taste. After a sip, their complexions change. This wine... it seems...

Sour, and incredibly bitter to boot.

However, the younger mandarins feared offending their boss, while the lead mandarin feared being accused of not being able to appreciate fine wine, so they forced it down their throats. Not long after, one man rubbed his belly and cried out in pain. Soon, they all knelt to the ground, pain clear across their faces. The lead mandarin points at the poet. 'D-Did you poison us?'

The poet happily raises a jug to her mouth. How could she drink such swill, let alone write an ode to it?! Nobody had the leisure to care about her, though. The cries of pain are accompanied by a desperate need for the toilet, but they see that the door has been completely surrounded by the commoners, who give a hearty laugh. 'We were going to warn the poet that the last batch she brewed had gone off, and not to drink it. Who'd have thought it'd be you lot to suffer for it! Serves you right!'

The complaints grow, and there is no way out through the crowd, who were haranguing them for their hypocrisy. Those inside hold their bellies, resisting the urge to vomit while lifting their weapons as they try to threaten the people locking them in. For a moment, the cottage is as clamorous as the market. As for the poet? Nobody had noticed her moving up to the roof, drinking some jugs that none could stomach without a care. True, fine wine is fair to a drunkard, but would one ever refuse even a poor brew?

By the Xuyu Pavilion, a creek has been harnessed into a meandering stream. The young talents of the day gather by it, drinking until drunk while exuberantly reciting poetry to one another. These gatherings inevitably devolve into farces of flattery. The poet is uninterested, sitting on her lonesome under an old tree as she appreciates the waterscape, several jugs of wine by her side. She drinks cup after cup, yet never seems to get drunk. After yet another empty jug, she has lost interest. Just as she intends to leave, she suddenly hears unusual noises and cries of alarm. She looks towards their source, and sees a great beast covered in mud, rampaging between the mountain rocks. One moment, it is treading upon the poets' verses, the other, it is muddying the waters they were watching, all while nearly knocking over some of the noodly scholars. Eventually, it tires itself out, boldly resting itself by the water.

The scholars trepidly approach it to have a better look. Someone notices it is a burdenbeast, its body bearing deep scars left by ropes lashed to it year-round, alongside many ghastly injuries. But now it has no name plate, nor reins. No doubt it is now masterless... With such a wicked temperament, could it be a warbeast that was discharged?

This meeting of a vulgar intruder would ordinarily put a damper on the graceful assembly of the intellectuals, but the poets guess at its history with gusto, and there is talk of composing a poem about this amusing incident. They spread out paper and grind their ink, carefully observing the burdenbeast in search of inspiration. They did not expect the beast to suddenly stand up and prepare to charge. In the face of its fury, the desire to compose is scared out of the scholars, and they scatter and flee. Only the solitary poet under the tree remains.

She says to the burdenbeast: 'A thousand <i>li</i> you have traveled. The creek's waters shall leave your thirst unslaked.' She opens a jug of fine wine, and invites it to drink. After a sip, the beast giddily slurps at the liquor, and soon, the jug is half-empty, and she watches the beast totter a few steps. Suddenly, sand whirls through the air. The poet looks out to see dark clouds on the horizon, the flicker of thunder faint within them. Catastrophe clouds!

She looks at the burdenbeast, its back now laden with a multitude of people. It no longer seems exhausted, nor wrathful. It strides firmly, sprinting like mad while carrying its precious cargo. It rushes forward, dodging the falling Originium crystals. It runs, running through clouds of dust and dirt, charging out of Catastrophe's reach. It keeps running, bearing the people upon its back to find a safe haven.

'It seems I am within your dream,' murmurs the poet.

The burdenbeast runs and runs and runs, towards the verdant green before it. Its steps do not slow, yet the sight before its eyes becomes vague and indistinct.

'I see. Yea, vehicles were their invention, and fair lands have they found. You need not run any longer. But, how could you possibly stop?'

The sky clears, and the sand-laden wind disappears. The green meadow is also gone, leaving both poet and burdenbeast sitting under the tree by the Xuyu Pavilion.

The burdenbeast stands once more, not looking towards the poet or any fond memory of the land. It strides, then gallops at full speed with wild abandon. Nothing can stop it. The poet stands up, with her tail a brush, wine her ink, she begins to scribe upon the mountain rocks like mad.

The tides of history may rise and fall, yet they are but an instant.

Men only speak of the new waves of later generations surging forward, far and wide, but they do not see elden waves of generations past, refusing to stop dreaming of the sea.

The poet finally seems tipsy.

O Heaven, why do you look with but one eye wide?

O Earth, why do you shake like a swing on a branch?

Oh. I suppose I am drunk once more.

The poet faces the twin moons as she lies in the center of the lake, pondering her lot. A moment ago, she was on a boat on the lake. Not wishing to drink alone, she invited Heaven to imbibe as well, yet Heaven's position up high troubled her. And so, she leapt into the lake. By lying down upon its surface, she would be 'face to face' with the heavens, and need not raise her head. With her body as a boat, she puttered about the lake, and drank deep alongside the sky. Thus, she got drunk.

Content in her cups, and with such a pleasant view, she does not wish to sober up, and knows not where the current might take her, or for how long. All she knows is that partway through her journey, some unremarkable reeds have blocked her way. The reeds wobble, pulling her up in an attempt to flip her over. It seems the wind is murmuring to her—

'The True Lung decrees—'

'She's dead drunk.'

'What shall we do, then?'

'How do we report this?'

Sigh. The reed's words too are dull.

Naturally, she tells them the truth. She is drinking with Heaven, and has no time to mind them. And so, she brushes aside the reed, and continues drifting onwards.

Yet before she has drifted much longer, she spies a great colossus slowly rise. At first, it is but a lump of iron, one that gradually grows into a Feranmut just like It. It towers as it heads to shore, covered in steel as if forged from metal.

As if it were It.

She speaks to 'It' in wonder. 'Have you awoken? Or perhaps it is I who has not?'

'Its' steely form replies to her with creaking metal.

She then asks: 'Once, you looked t'wards the distant lantern lights of men. How do you feel, now that you bear them upon your back?'

All 'It' says are some monotonous creaks.

She appreciates the lights upon 'Its' back with great interest, before letting out a quiet sigh. 'Pity. I cannot lie upon the lake like this.'

Once more she drifts onwards, watching mountains move and fields shift, while men come and go. She sees more and more Feranmuts of steel grow. Reeds rustle, while fowlbeasts skim against the water. She watches them through the haze of liquor, until she has finally seen her fill.

She sits up. As she sobers from her grand inebriation, her eyes see a city, one unfamiliar yet familiar. A century of drunkenness, and Yan is no longer Yan as it once was.

A muddled memory comes to her—

'The True Lung decrees—'

Ah. That 'reed' was a court mandarin. Her lack of concern is hardly anything to be concerned about. She unstoppers her wine gourd, and sprinkles the scant drops of wine left onto the lake. 'To those long gone.' Slinging her gourd across her back, she steps towards the city of steel.

Several youths crowd around the door to the Yumen Guard and Battalion, insistent on seeing the Grandmaster, but the watchman refuses them entry. The leader of the youngsters turns his head to see a stand recruiting for the army. 'Perfect!' He shouts in joy, and the whole lot of them rush to the stand.

The watchman sends someone to inform the recruitment stand about the youths and why they're here. After the official in charge meets with them, he also tries his best to dissuade them.

The group's leader still won't give up. 'The flier says you're looking for anyone healthy and over fourteen. Why won't you accept us?'

The soldiers have never seen anyone so determined to meet the Grandmaster before. For many years, the Grandmaster has led troops all across the nation to suppress dissent and banditry, no doubt spawning a grudge or two. If these were the children of those grudgebearers, then obviously they can't be allowed to run amok. However, the official's careful eyes notice that on the forms, they have all listed the same nearby village's Guard and Battalion as their address. How strange is that? If they are telling the truth, does that mean they're all army brats? If so, they could have just sent in a request, why come all the way here? The official of Yumen's Guard and Battalion asks them doubtfully: 'Did your parents ask you to come here? Where are they?'

He never expected that, at the mention of 'parents', the children would look to the barracks behind him as one, straighten their backs, and say: 'What's with the questions? We don't want to get in through our connections!' 'We want to enlist using our own skills! Let us join already!'

Connections? Could they... have some relation to the Grandmaster? The official guesses at their age, and observes their appearances a little closer, but still cannot be certain. He dares not ask too many questions either, so for the time being, he decides to allow them to take the test.

Out of the group, two manage to pass the preliminary examinations, while the rest say nothing more and quietly prepare to leave. Amazed at how they're actually following the rules, the official chases after them. Those who failed stop with tears in their eyes, their chests puffed out and their heads held high. At first, they refuse to speak of the Grandmaster, fearing others would assume they were trying to use his name to make things easier for them, but after some calming candied pastries, they finally begin to open up.

'If it wasn't for the Grandmaster, I would've died in that well back then. When he saw me all dripping wet, he even gave me his coat to warm me up. I... *sniff*! I'm still not strong enough... Next year, I'm definitely getting in!'

'Bandits killed my ma and pa, and locked me up in the burdenbeast sty. They forced me to serve them. When they heard the army was coming, they set fire to the house and ran away... It was the Grandmaster who pulled me out of the fire and took me to the Guard and Battalion.'

And so, the official learns that every child here had been saved by the Grandmaster, and had been fostered at the nearby Guard and Battalion. Of course this was the case. How could he possibly have misunderstood things that badly?

'Aside from the Grandmaster, Auntie Liu also treated us nicely. And Three-Legged Qin, he might be fierce, but he's actually not a bad person—'

'Three-Legged Qin? Qin Shuoliang? With the crutches?' The official is amazed to hear a familiar name. Further questioning reveals that the ones at the barracks in charge of raising these orphans are all soldiers who had been medically discharged. No doubt an opportunity the Grandmaster had prepared for his old comrades-in-arms. Hardly surprising from him.

'It's been many years since the Grandmaster last saw us. But that's a good thing, because ever since those guys in mandarin robes visited us, someone's come over with food and supplies every month. He doesn't have to use his own money to feed us anymore. We heard that the border garrisons desperately need more men, so we wanted to ask him to enlist us. But since we found the recruitment stand, we don't need to bother him with that either. He's helped so many before, so how could we possibly expect him to remember them all? All we want is to be under his command, protecting people like us.' Having spoken, the youths turn and leave.

In the boot camp, the two who passed the examination stare fervently across the room at the man who had saved their lives. Although they had only seen him a few times during their childhood, they'd heard countless tales of him as they grew up. At some point, them determined to become like him. Suddenly, the pair senses the Grandmaster looking back at them—astonished, then relieved, giving them a nod of greeting from afar.

The two youths are rooted to the ground in shock.

He really... does remember us.

On a dark and windy night, a small squad pursues bandits fleeing through the wasteland. Though they are quickly closing in on their quarry, the signal to retreat suddenly comes from behind them. Upon seeing their foe about to disappear into the darkness, the captain grits his teeth and shouts: 'Don't stop! Keep moving!'

Seeing the hesitation on his soldiers' faces, the captain flies into a rage. 'What, scared?!' He spurs his burdenbeast onwards, leaving his men no choice but to follow him.

Several days ago, the familiar Drillmaster Ling had left, and on the very same day, a new drillmaster came to replace her. 'New' only in a sense, for it was clear he was not new to the military. It is said that Yumen's army is only as strong as it is now thanks to his efforts, and the general even calls him 'Grandmaster' with respect. A few years ago, Ling had taken over his duties, which left him free to wander—'Now that he's back, doesn't that mean there's no place for Ling anymore? He literally kicked her out, didn't he?' Though none were bold enough to speak up, these thoughts had taken root in some of the soldiers' hearts. After all, none had ever met this 'Grandmaster' before. They have all been trained under Ling ever since they enlisted, and their deep respect for her gave rise to ill-will against the Grandmaster.

The bandits vanished between two high cliffs—a place ripe for an ambush. The captain's heart cries out a warning to him, but there already comes the whoosh of a loosed bowstring from above before he can call for retreat. One of his men falls to the ground. Figures flit across the cliffs, as the bandits stick out their heads to jeer at them.

The soldiers, to their credit, swiftly lift their shields to withdraw the wounded. However, the way out has been blocked by their foe. Rather than earning commendations tonight, they will be fighting for their lives. Just as the men prepare themselves to fight to the death, a painful scream is heard from the cliffs above, followed by a shout: 'They've got reinforcements! Move it!' The clamor of battle dies out, and once more, figures show up atop the cliff. It is the army of Yumen, and leading them is none other than their new drillmaster.

The squad is excused from execution only because their actions had not led to grave consequences, but there is no escaping the lash. The captain lines up with his men, all kneeling before the army, prepared to receive a whipping. That is when the Grandmaster steps forward.

The leader does not lift his head, believing he has come to personally flog them. It seems he has known of their grudges against him for a long while now, and no doubt he is here to humiliate them. He shuts his eyes tight, but no whip falls upon his back. Only when he hears the rustling of clothing does he open them to see the Grandmaster kneeling by his side, having also taken off his coat. With a clear voice, the Grandmaster speaks to the general: 'I take full responsibility for this careless planning, and failing to gain the trust of my men. Please punish me with them, General.'

The captain is shocked into speechlessness, but seeing that the general agrees as if it were just a normal request, he wonders whether this 'grandmaster' has always been this way. Considering how quickly he came to their rescue from that ambush, it is clear he foresaw them disobeying his orders, so why dispatch them to pursue the enemy in the first place? Was it... to give him a chance...?

There is no time to make his gratitude known, for the whip is already scourging their backs. Through the corner of his eye, the captain sees the Grandmaster staring quietly ahead. His hands rest atop his thighs as though he feels no pain, and he seems to harbor no anger or criticism either. Hoping for no yelps of pain to reach the Grandmaster's ears, the captain also did his best to keep a stiff upper lip.

That night, the sight of the captain kneeling before the Grandmaster's tent in apology was the talk of the entire garrison. Apparently, the Grandmaster invited the man into his tent, and as they spoke, he sent for someone to treat his wounds. The captain never told another soul what they discussed, but from then on, there was hardly a soldier in the army who was not loyal to the Grandmaster.

The young man follows the vanguard as it advances, scouting out the whereabouts of their enemy, who often raided Zhoujia Village. The Grandmaster had actually told him to stay in camp to train. After all, he had only just been dispatched to Yumen for 'experience' a few days ago. He did not know where he had plucked the courage from, but he had told the Grandmaster: 'Care to make a wager with me?' A stray boast, for Father is far away in Baizao, and was not there to lecture him... Little did he expect the Grandmaster to actually agree. Was he not as cold and distant as he thought? In the end, the Grandmaster had agreed, saying that if he managed to capture an enemy and bring them back alive, his 'experience' will be considered complete, and he could return to Baizao. He still has cases to complete and criminals to arrest, and did not wish to waste away his years out in this barren desert. Secretly, he hopes that this scouting trip would run into the enemy.

The scouting party quickly finds themselves in desperate combat with their black-hatted foes. By the time the young man snaps out of his reverie, the enemy's blade is just about to hack apart his face. He steps back over and over, doing his best to parry every blow. The vigorous slashing sends vibrations down his hands as their swords clash, and it takes all his strength to keep his weapon from flying out of his grasp. All he can hear is the din of his own battle. There is no time for him to care about friend or foe, or where arrows are being loosed from, or what orders his commander is barking out—He slips, and tumbles to the ground.

Being able to return to camp alive is fortuitous enough. The young man kneels to the ground and vomits, not caring that the Grandmaster is nearby and looking his way. From then on, the only place he can be found is the training grounds, pushing his martial arts training tenfold, no, a hundredfold harder than before—He wants to get rid of that shameful memory. The Grandmaster will occasionally stop by to watch him practice, but never gives him any direction or commentary. Perhaps he is already aware of his skill level, and is sure he'd stay for more 'experience'?

One day, the Grandmaster quietly approaches him as he trains, and asks: 'Our wager, is it still ongoing?' The young man is startled, and the Grandmaster points at his thigh. 'Your stance is off. Start over.' The young man takes a deep breath and swings his sword once more, but he dares not look in the eyes of his teacher. 'Grandmaster... You still believe I can do it?'

The Grandmaster simply says: 'Today, at the Hour of Ssu, we depart for Zhoujia Village.'

Upon hearing the name of the village, the young man's face goes pale. It was exactly on the road back from Zhoujia Village that he met with the enemy, and nearly died. Now, if he goes back there again...

'The enemy launched another attack to the village?'

'Are you scared?'

'I... I... I'm not scared at all!'