“Please don’t die, Senior Brother. I will feel really stupid if you die,” Shi Qingxia yells as she frantically tries to find a safe place.
It is not an easy thing to do. While nominally a fight between three people, the clash between the Fleshcrafter and the two new arrivals, who must surely be visitors from the other side, is more akin to a battle between armies. The Fleshcrafter has already raised hundreds of creatures to fight the many puppets that rise from the shadows, and that’s still not enough.
Mud dearly wishes he could bear witness to it all. Alas, he has hit his limit. Maybe not physically, but certainly spiritually. Even the simple act of raising his head to look at anything but the ground is beyond him right now, and asking Shi Qingxia to move to a better vantage point would be ill-timed. A single wrong step of hers would end in their death.
It is not so bad, Mud tells himself. Even if he cannot see the fight, he can sense the clash of their Qi. He hopes Shi Qinxia is able to appreciate it as well. Just sensing the way those three manipulate their energies opens his eyes to new possibilities. Truly, this is a blessed opportunity. Whether they manage to escape or not, it is enough for Mud that he has been able to bear witness to this in some way.
There is no way this could be enough.
Twice on the same day, he has been bested by people more blessed than he. Now, he is being protected by someone younger and weaker than he is. How can he say this is fine when he feels ashamed from the bottom of his heart? Is this all he amounts to? Relying on the kindness of strangers to draw his next breath? Depending on the whims of Heaven to see a new dawn?
From the bottom of his heart, he hates this.
Mud’s soul screams as he wills his body to move. His physical wounds are mostly healed, but his clashes with Bright Sword and the Fleshcrafter have left his soul very weak. Even so, he does not stop. Stand. He needs to stand.
His soul pleads with him. It cries and begs him to stop. Mud knows it speaks with sense. However, there is no room for sense in this. To live on with this shame would be unthinkable.
That is probably true. He is too frail now. Too weak. All chipped and covered in cracks. All that he is. All that he has built. It teeters on the edge. To force himself now would cause him unspeakable harm. If he stands, he will break like clay.
If he stays down, he will die.
Not literally, of course. Nothing quite so grand. Mud is never grand, just consistent. If he stays down right now, that will be all he is. For the rest of his life, he will become that sort of pathetic existence.
If that is what awaits him after this, after all he has done, all he has endured…
Mud would rather die.
Ever since the incident in the Dead Plains, his life has become deeply infuriating.
The madman Xun Huwen, he can somewhat understand. As much as it pains him to admit it, that one is clearly a cut above the rest, even by the standards of the Sacred Lands. Besides, as infuriating as he had been, he never truly offended him.
A mere child took his creations from him as though he had been learning their arts since he could crawl! Someone who was not even in the Earth Realm was able to fight him off his body! Unthinkable! Inconceivable! He is dead now, but the Fleshcrafter will have a difficult time ever forgetting the humiliation.
Then there is the abomination.
A creation of the other side whose path was imposed on him by someone else. Such a twisted creature dared to stand in his way and fight him as though they were equals. That cannot stand. Killing him is his right and his duty. The Heavens agree, or else why would they put him in his path?
So why can’t he kill him?!
Why do people keep interrupting him?!
“Meddlesome fools!” he roars at the shadows. “What are you even doing here?! The treaty should not allow your presence in these lands!”
“Do you hear that, brother?” One of the shadows asks. “He has the gall to bring up the treaty when he’s the one doing whatever he wants in this country!”
“I heard it, brother. Quite shameless of him.”
“The Dead Ones always are.”
It is genuinely hard to tell if there are two of them or if it is just one person talking to himself. It is always that way with shadows. Though they had shown themselves when the fight began, he can no longer see them or sense their position.
All he can see is those damn puppets of theirs.
“I do not need to explain my designs to you!”
He summons the flesh on the floor to create more works of art. It is almost a waste to put them against puppets. They are nothing more than contraptions of wood and metal without a speck of beauty to be found in any of their mechanisms. They attack in predictable ways with blades and fire and a tedious amount of hidden projectiles, but his creations can adapt to all of that.
When one is cut down, two rise. When one is pierced, their flesh melts and is remade. Only the flames are an issue. He makes sure to target those first. Creatures as small as worms work their way inside those puppets and wreak havoc in their artless husks.
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More puppets appear. More flesh is needed. He digs into his stores and lets them loose. It is hard to believe the room has space for everyone. The Fleshcrafter is fairly sure it didn’t when the fight began. The Storm Dragon must be giving them more space in recognition of their abilities.
If so, he will not misuse this opportunity. His creatures grow. Their lethality increases.
His vision sways. It lasts but a moment. Insignificant in the grand scheme of things, yet a reminder that he is not operating at full capacity. He should call on his Dao to finish things quickly, but turning this into a battle of Dao when he knows so little about his opponents would be ill-advised. He needs to force their hand first.
A shattering sound rings throughout the room.
All fighting ceases at once, and every single head turns. It is not a conscious choice on anyone’s part. The significance of the moment forces their attention. Even if they do not fully comprehend what is happening, they know they must look.
On the floors. One the walls. Even on the ceiling. No seeds have been planted, but the flowers bloom all the same, scattering their pink petals to the winds.
He stands in the center of it all.
“I see…” the abomination says. His soul brims with power that he shouldn’t have. “Blooming requires pride… A prideless flower is no flower at all.”
He finds him too beautiful to behold.
“Impossible!” The Fleshcrafter screams, raging at the unfairness of it all. “I just felt you shatter! Everything that you are should be gone!”
Abomination he might be, but that does not mean the basic rules do not apply to him. He had felt the poor state of his soul during their battle. The shattering just now should have been his twisted soul breaking like glass!
“You are right. I did shatter,” the abomination replies. “It was necessary. I shattered, and so I was born.”
“T-that’s not… You can’t just… It’s not right!”
The Fleshcrafter stutters as he tries to put the heresy before him into words. One cannot just toss everything one has built on a whim! That’s not how anything works!
One of the shadows laughs at him.
“Why so surprised, Dead One? If a mechanism works, it is kept. If it doesn’t, it is repaired. If you cannot repair it, you throw it out. Don’t pretend you don’t do similar things when you play with corpses.”
“Do not pretend the scale of the things being compared is the same!” He hisses at the puppets. “Do you think I’d ever toss aside everything I have built?!”
“Ah, you’re a coward then. Fitting.”
The Fleshcrafter recoils as if struck.
“Coward? I am a coward? For daring to value what I have cultivated?”
He knows the shadow is merely trying to get a rise out of him. Despite his words, not even a shadow would break themselves like that. Still, the accusation galls him.
That is why he nearly misses the blade about to pierce his throat.
One of the puppets snuck through his shadow, taking advantage of his distraction to get close. He glowers at it before smacking it aside. Spikes grow from every surface of his body, piercing the toy over a hundred times.
The abomination comes next.
It is, the Fleshcrafter notices, the first time the abomination has initiated any attack. No doubt, he has realized his arts will not work on him. However, changing styles will not serve him. With but a thought, the Fleshcrafter raises two walls of flesh to trap him in place.
He reels back from a blow he does not recall taking.
“What?” His hand goes to his mouth and finds blood there. Somehow, he is standing several feet back. ”How?”
“Interesting,” the abomination says, looking at his fist with curiosity. He looks at the puppets. “I understand that I have you to thank for my continued existence. However, it would please this Mud if you would refrain from further action.”
The Fleshcrafter’s face ripples violently.
“Mind your words. If someone did not know any better, they would think you are saying you can defeat me on your own.”
“That is exactly what this Mud is saying, yes,” the abomination replies.
One of the shadows laughs.
“Did you hear that, brother? I like it! However, we’re not so kind that we’ll give up our prey! If you think you can win, try to take it from us!”
“I will endeavor to do that then.”
“You artless swines!”
The flesh rises as he commands it to attack. Hundreds of creations are fashioned in an instant. He will not let these people make a fool out of him!
He destroys puppets by the dozens, but it doesn’t feel like he’s making a dent in their forces. Worse still, the movements of the puppets grow sharper. The shadows are getting used to his creations, and he does not have enough flesh to overwhelm them. He has already used too much for the army outside.
Then there’s the abomination.
That skill of his… this base trickery… It has changed somehow. He cannot defend from it.
Why is this happening?
“No!” He roars! “Stay back, you dogs!”
He will not fall! Not here! Not in this insignificant palace to these insignificant people. More creatures. More beautiful. More! He needs more!
A single door just a few feet away. He can make it.
It is like a brand burned into his skin. He tells himself it was the only path forward, but that doesn’t lessen the humiliation.
He needs to rebuild his stock. It shouldn’t take long. There are two armies here. Once this spatial realm fades, he should be able to absorb them all. That should be enough to destroy those three.
A smirk appears on his face at the thought of what he will do once he’s out of this place.
It dies almost immediately.
A lie. A ghost. A trick. It has to be. There is no way.
And yet, no matter how many times he blinks, the sight before does not change. His robes might be nearly in tatters, and he carries a woman on his back, but that is undeniably Qing Jin before him.
“How are you alive?!”
“That would be your fault,” Qing Jin tells him. “You focused too much on my physical body and not enough on my soul. A cultivator of your caliber should have known better.”
“You expect me to believe a child like you was able to master his soul to that degree!” He laughs and covers his face. “Impossible! This whole day is impossible!”
Yes, there is no way this can be happening. He’s tired, is all.
“A bad dream. It’s nothing but a bad dream,” the Fleshcrafter says.
“What is your real purpose here?” Qing Jin asks him. “When your creatures were fighting our army, you were not in complete control of them. Otherwise, leading them astray by using me as bait wouldn’t have been so easy. Is it because you were busy searching for something in the palace? Or because you already found it and were trying to think how to act without the Storm Dragon stopping you?”
“Enough!” He says, calling upon the flesh he has left. “I will not be taunted by a ghost. You were a fool to show yourself before me!”
Rather than looking scared, Qing Jin looks at him with an emotion he cannot decipher.
“Do you really not understand? Why you found me so easily the first time? Why you appear before me again?”
“I understand the Heavens are giving me a chance to fix my mistake.”
“The Storm Dragon is the only one who stands above the Heavens here,” Qing Jin says. “He guided your steps where it suited his purposes. Now, he no longer has a need for you.”
The Fleshcrafter finally understands what the thing in Qing Jin’s eyes is.
His flesh leaps forth, latching onto the child and seeping into his skin. However, Qing Jin’s expression does not change. Instead, the rage on the Fleshcrafter gives way to confusion.
“What?” He cannot move his flesh inside the child’s body. “What is this?”
“Did you think you could toy with a dragon’s flesh in your state?” Qing Jin asks him. “Either way, you should have never attempted it.”
The Fleshcrafter’s vision blurs.
He falls on one knee. He opens his mouth but has no voice left.
Blood flows from his mouth.
“I had a feeling you’d try the same thing again, so I poisoned myself,” Qing Jin says, holding up an azure needle. “To me, this poison is an old friend. To you, it is death. I hope it is all you imagined it to be.”
The Fleshcrafter is not listening anymore. Thᴇ link to the origɪn of this information rᴇsts ɪn n0velfire.net