Do they have nothing else to do?
Grisla and Han looked over at the group equally watching them. They hung in a close clump that almost looked as if—with the weather as it is—they were clinging together for warmth. The jovial disdain they had for Grisla was palpable. It certainly wasn’t the first time he was approached in numbers, nor, as he guessed with his horrible fate, will it be the last. This time it felt different to him, strange. With Han’s nervous shuffling at his side he figured there must be something up.
Nobody was leaving until the duo approached them, as everyone knew. It was dark, he was cold, and none of that will be addressed unless he got home. So, he started first.
He was close enough Grisla could make out who’s who—some of them he had seen before at the practice field, others he wasn’t familiar with. However there lay one face among them that was most prominent—and he made it known—as he stood a step ahead, and a pose to match. “What’s up, Untalented?” Casual, arrogant, and ineffably vain. Those three descriptions Grisla matched many people in the clan, but only one stood head and shoulders above all.
Xinrei of the Grittus clan, Grittus family. He smiled. “Hmm? No greeting?”
Grisla, stoic and grey, snapped out of his soup to break into a smile. He and Han threw up plastered smiles as they bowed. “Greetings, Chosen Xinrei.” Chosen. A title reserved for the most distinguished and talented members of a clan or sect. Meaning that their future relied on them. It needn’t to be said of the strings they can pull—no, yank within their respective homes.
“Elder Brother Xinrei,” Unlike Elder Jinshi, Grisla took a slow rise from his bow, “it has been a while. How have you been?”
Xinrei sneered. “Spare me the artificiality Grisla. We both know where we stand with each other.”
“My business isn’t with you, trash. Run along to daddy. He needs his medicine, after all.”
Grisla’s breathing ran hard, staring at Xinrei and his group for a moment; and as he did—Xinrei was not blind at all to what might’ve been brewing inside Grisla’s head. “Hmm? Do you want to make something of this? I made you a little mad?”
The two stared at one another from a distance, yet the tension made it like they were nose to nose. Ending when Han clapped his hand on Grisla’s shoulder. “Brother Grisla’s had a rough day. I think he needs to go rest up, lest he pull something he will definitely…” He shook his shoulder for good measure, “regret.”
Grisla shoved his bubbling rage down from whence it came, and, seeing an olive branch, took it most generously, “Ah, yes. It is very late after all, it won’t do us any good to be tired for tomorrows training, right?”
“Some more than others,” Xinrei replied.
He moved with caution towards the group. By now, Xinrei had his eyes closed as Grisla approached. Grisla didn’t need to feel out or look for their progress in cultivation—they radiated it. Forgetting Xinrei, each one of the groupies behind him were like four Han’s combined. Teenagers still, but the iron muscle they forged shaped their figures into now became a shadow of the marital artist they will become, in time.
Sharing qualities of Xinrei, but instead they ate from smaller portions of their vanity. To only Grisla’s dismay though they had the grounds for it. A few of them sat at the eight and ninth cycles of Juva Solidification, but they were the slow ones. The rest chilled his steps, the majority sat in the realm beyond that. Placing them right on the stage for an intermediate clan member: Houtian Enhancement. To enhance the mortal form.
Just before he passed the first of them, Xinrei, his heart squeezed. Xinrei… felt like he was at the second step of that realm, or the third? He could not tell. The greater the distance in advancement, the fuzzier it would be to sense out someone’s level of strength. An ant has no perception for the world beyond its blades of grass, why would it be any different for him? With a limited understanding of the Path, a limited perception, it would be like trying to say that a shark and piranha are the same from the mouth of a guppy.
And at any time, that guppy can be disposed of.
He took in at how Xinrei regarded him—after his final sentence, he hadn’t the interest to even look at him. The right of the strong—The right of a chosen in the new generation.
The last glance he had of Han was through a slit of the closing gate, in shellshocked terror at the group approaching him. For some reason, Grisla hoped it wasn’t anything serious.
It took ten minutes longer than the norm for him to trek home. The clouds finally gave way, and the drizzle of snowflakes was additional seasoning to his already ruined day. He remembered another night like this, so in kind with the previous that it took him a second to check he hadn’t stepped into a memory.
At the hill ahead, hounded with snow, a small structure jutted from. He sped up, he knew he was late and there would be hell to pay if he added an extra two hours on top of it.
If it weren’t for my idea…
He had made it. But the torches outside were lit, and the dilapidated structure leaked light from crevices here and there. On his approach, though, he knew there would be no time to think of an explanation—Gihren’s slouched form stretched the shadows over snow and trees. Grisla didn’t need a torch to know of his expression.
As expected, Gihren said, “You’re late. Very.”
“Father, please forgive me. I can explain.”
Gihren’s face trembled. “Explain what boy? That you—" He dropped to a knee in the snow under a hacking cough.
“Father! Hold on, I’ll start right away.”
There wasn’t any time to carry themselves inside, so Grisla decided to make do now to guarantee his father’s stability. Making signs with his hands, combined with a little inaudible whisper, brought an illumination to them that didn’t compete with the moon or the torches, but offered its own refuge for those close by.
He put his palms on his father, one for the heart, another for his leg. After some time of nursing, Gihren’s wheezing subsided, bit by bit. Grisla pushed what little Juva he still had to guarantee his stability. “Just a little bit longer, father.” Grisla said. Eventually, with enough time Gihren’s breathing had returned to a normal, if not a little weaker than before. Under Grisla’s guide, he held his father close as they came back inside.
Near to his bedside, Grisla was shoved off as Gihren did the rest himself. In a disdainful huff, either for himself or for the state of his son that was unknown, he brought himself to look at Grisla again. “What I was going to say was… were you diddling away time as you skip practice again?” He said.
“No… I did not skip, father.”
“Then why were you late?”
“I uh… well, got disciplined by Elder Jinshi. It took a while, but I’m returning to you from cleaning the Lower Hall.”
Gihren sighed. “How do you manage to still bring up trouble, despite… your limitations?”
It would be a lie for Grisla to say he was immune to what others thought about him. He was always thinking of it, but, like how people cope in life there’s things and people you value less and care for greatly. His father was certainly one of them, “I managed to best Rei Han for a time in our practice, so…”
Gihren blinked. “So, what?”
“I ended up angering Elder Jinshi.” He tried to sound prideful.
“Whether it was as much of a besting as you think I cannot say. But,” Gihren shook his head, “I can guess just what Brother Jinshi said. Grisla, mind yourself. We cannot afford any trouble in our midst, our life…” He looked around, “isn’t like what it was before. Brother Jinshi has meted out punishment already, so anything further from me will be pointless. A scolding will do.”
“I understand, Father.”
Gihren’s face was always strung so tight, sometimes Grisla would think a pluck’s all that’s needed to hammer down the coffin’s nail. It was hard, with father as is the only avenue left would be for him to lay down his head, accept his station and serve the clan, to whatever means they ask of him. And he did, as Grisla knew, but for the necessity of funds to drive his son’s cultivation, or lack thereof. Both were fully conscious of the fact that trying to mend his disability was no better than tossing coin to the well.
He took himself to the kitchen; fetching a supper out of the remainders of last week, combining it with the strips of new food that Gihren brought home today. If he were to speak his mind a lengthy description of potato-colored vomit would spew. A contrived smile of contentment had to be maintained, there’s no reason to look as miserable as you feel, as Grisla reasoned.
Bringing the plate over to Gihren his eyes lit up, a little, bringing an equal amount of happiness however much of a sliver it was to an aching heart. His father seethed with many regrets, and tucks hatred away like a child and candy. It would do no good to see him wither with it further. With one bowl for himself and his father they made modest bites, no matter how much their stomachs snarled. Despite their circumstances—especially Grisla, they still were members of a powerful clan of Cultivators, with rights to privileges even outsiders had to envy. Their Grittus clan ruled this region for centuries past, and from Grisla’s observation of the younger generation, a few centuries more. That being said, they still maintained propriety.
“Your mother’s skill… is really something else.” Gihren commented.
Taking a quick glance at his hands, “Ah, yes. Who knows what would’ve happened to you if I weren’t so lucky to be blessed with this at least.” Grisla said.
A martial arts washout he may be, but even a fool has a quirk. Jadewater Hands, the name his father had told him that’s what his mother called it. She never had the time to tell him—hurriedly forcing the teachings then vanishing without so much as a goodbye. He remembered she told him there were seven stages, but from what he knew, even reaching the first was a great boon and difficult too. Those with healing abilities before even finishing Juva Solidification were rare, it was obvious as to why, the amount of Juva required to repair cellular or spiritual damage was too astronomical to sustain before a certain point; an investment better thrown towards not taking injury in the first place, like killing your enemy before they could do such a thing, or having better defenses.
“Best if you don’t think on it. I’ll be fine, boy. I’ve gotten worse injuries.”
“…You haven’t gotten an injury like this one, though.”
Gihren’s distant gaze said what needed to be.
At the few minutes left awake, before departing, Grisla stood at the foot of the bed. “Father, about my mother. Don’t tuck yourself in, I have to know.” He came close to his side. “I beg you, father, just something about her.”
His father exhaled. Grisla would pester him until he gave up a breadcrumb, no matter how many dirty looks Gihren could conjure up. “What do you want to know? I’ll indulge you this once. One question.”
How could Grisla narrow it all down to just one? How cruel. But every second that passed was another second till the offer is rescinded. Grisla, was not a boy who wanted to lap up the easy pickings though and he went for broke, “Where’s mother?”
“Sleep well, child.” Gihren whispered.
“Wait! You said—”
A pressure was focused directly on him—nearly suffocating. The power of an expert that most keep on a veil, was held on his shoulders like dumbbells were strapped to. Though it was brief, only a breath.
Grisla stepped away, at the door he muttered, “Your miserable son… apologizes for his overstep.”
The door closed with a humble thud.
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