Chapter Text
In the dense, fog-blessed mountain peaks of the Taishan Range, a single summit stands above all, piercing through the clouds. Although invisible to the ordinary watcher due to the fog, on windy days, a breeze would gently reveal a fraction of the mountain, appearing to the viewer as a path to the god realm above.
The Taishan Range is shaped circularly and, by some miracle of nature, the peaks are arranged in the shape of the bagua , with eight mountains lining the perimeter and one in the middle. The single peak is called “Heaven’s Descent” or “the summit” when referred to one, but, ever since a bolt of lightning split it into two, also miraculously in the shape of taijitu , they were more commonly referred to as the Yin peak and the Yang peak.
Many say that the range is the closest to heaven, and shaped intentionally by a deity of the heavenly court. A resting spot of a fallen god, others say. Then there are the non-believers, claiming it is all a rouse to enforce the belief that gods exist—propaganda to keep them away. Nevertheless, it exists.
The range is not inhospitable—there exist very few terrible beasts that threaten travelers, and said few are hunted down annually by the members of the sect. But it is not safe either—those who pass are lost within the mist and remain forever lost, and those who enter never leave unless they are allowed to do so by the godly hand. And, within this impenetrable fortress resides a single martial clan, which has existed for centuries earlier. The only ones allowed to come and go by the unnamed deity of the range, the Yuelanfei.
The sect is secluded in the high altitudes, isolated from the political tensions, and, though they welcome travelers with open arms, not many come to feel their embrace. Their inclination to practice a life of the cultivation of body and soul reinforces the respect of the orthodox and the hatred of the unorthodox.
A village and a pavilion are built on each of the eight mountains, one shrine and one pavilion on each of the Yin and Yang peaks respectively. Sky bridges connect the sect's inhabitants, overlooking the deep canyons beneath the clouds lush with canopies of green trees and snow-white tigers—we call that the valley. The mist swirls densely in the jungle floor, saturated to the point one cannot even hope to see their own hands in front of them, and although the creatures do not attack, unknown mirages appear before one when venturing into the heart of the range.
Going clockwise, the eight peaks are called Huo, Di, Tie, Tian, Shui, Shan, Lei, and Feng, in accordance with the bagua.
Disciples of the sect adopt the last name “Yue,” forfeiting their connection with their origin to assimilate. Sect members adopt “Lan” after finishing their training to signify the sect’s complete acceptance of the bearer of the last name. “Fei” is granted to only the ones with the most merit, commonly considered elders in the other sects of the Jianghu.
Thus, the hierarchy is formed.
Sect members are further divided by their pavilion. Disciples that join the sect pledge under one of eight pavilion masters or one of several elders. Students of pavilion masters adopt the name of said pavilion, for example, Yue Shuili of the Shui Mountain. Students of elders, however, adopt the second letter of the elder’s name, for example, Yue Rui Fa under Elder Fei Di Rui.
Therein lies the beauty of the Yuelanfei sect. Order and stability provide the perfect environment to dedicate one's life to cultivation, as it is the foremost principle in the sect.
…
Beneath the clouds, deep in the valley of mist, a woman leans against the rock of a cave. Her exotic hair shines like strands of molten silver, and a baihu tiger resides next to her. It's thrice the size of the usual inhabitants of the valley jungle—a mother baihu . Baihu move in groups and the sole leader is called the mother, both in reverence but also quite literally. The breed of tigers is specific to the Taishan Range, friendly to humans but fierce in nature. Thus, the sight of not just any baihu but a mother following around a human would seem abnormal to any bystander.
The woman’s breath quickens, and she puts a hand against the wall to stabilize her swinging weight. Her hair is unkempt; dust and dirt are smeared all across the black clothes she dons, but there’s something about the woman that pulls in the gaze of any watcher. There must be a reason for her disheveled state, many would think. She must be strong, would be their next thought. And powerful women are just as beautiful as untouched ones who remain innocent and dolled up.
Finally, after a few more haggard breaths, she chokes out the black blood rising in her throat, splattering it on the rock floors. The mist swirls ominously, no longer the ethereally ancient look from above the clouds, but a threatening danger that envelops all. The mist is slowly poisoning the woman. And near the summit, it swirls so densely that unprotected, it could blind.
She wipes her arm over her mouth, furrowing her brows as if she were working furiously. A more talented eye would be able to see the qi flowing from the lower dantian through the meridians, and the mist that diffuses into her body, a black cloud that is continuously collected and purified by the circulating qi.
Finally, when she chokes out another mouthful of blood, the baihu growls in warning, and she nods, pulling herself onto its back. There is little to nothing in the cave, and the boulder that was supposed to be blocking the entrance had been shattered by her long ago. Like any other mystical beast, the baihu pulls its qi into the bottom of its paws, and then up it goes, the qi spreading out beneath each leap as if the baihu were climbing up a tree. The mist lightens up, no longer a choking, thick cloud but more of a breeze as they ascend.
The baihu bursts through the top layer and through the clouds, landing on the port built out of stakes along the edge of Mount Huo. The woman on her back has already lost consciousness, a continuous stream of blood dripping down the corner of her mouth. The cultivators manning the port burst into a frenzy of yelling, and the ones not tied to a thick steel chain nailed into the rocky slope rush to her side.
Through half-conscious, lidded eyes, she sees the bright blue sky and remembers how beautiful the sky had been on that night. And then the reality gives way to slumber, stowing away her senses in a small, comfortable room.
…
The first thing I see is a pair of the deepest blue eyes, the color of water two li down a well, or the starry night sky canvas. They peer at me exuberantly, and then when I blink again, they seem further away to make room for a complete face. I recognize that face.
“Looks like the princess is awake.” His lips move, but I can barely make out his words. The pain blitzes from the tips of my feet all the way to the edge of my skull, and the only fortunate thing I can see is that my meridian pathways are all clear and healthy.
“Fuck you, Fei Yu Lei Qing.”
He takes my hand in his, and the cold rush of his qi rushes into my pathways, circulating at a speed comparable to mine. The pain subsides slowly, yet my muscles refuse to move, straining in pain. It’s not as bad as the first time, however, and it's to my chagrin that I realize my mind has become rather accustomed to the pain. One should never be used to pain, no matter what those masochistic, ascetic clans say.
“What do you think you were doing, Fei Yin Lan? This is the second time you nearly died. You’ve been out for two whole weeks.”
I make a face and hope that it looks somewhat like I had intended. He doesn’t let me pitifully croak out a word, however, continuing with that displeased expression that makes my heart stir.
“Next time you valley cultivate, as your sect leader, I command you to wear the qi chain.”
“Fuck you,” I spit.
But his worries are not without reason. The Yuelanfei sect is unique not only in that it’s secluded, practices more than eight forms of martial arts, and is somehow semi-self-sustained which further minimizes outside contact, but their cultivation is also inherently unique.
Many martial artists, even at their peak, are average at qigong. Their rate of neigong regeneration is also further limited by human constraints. Cultivation grows the lower dantian which is the path to the other middle and upper dantian, but time is limited and limitations are established in the amount of qi that a lower dantian is able to hold. The sect, however, is an exception to this, the reason being the mist surrounding the valley.
It’s not any ordinary fog, but rather, a highly condensed pure qi that comes apparently from the heavens above. Neigong is, of course, the best for any martial artist, but everything needs to be received in moderation. The mist is so saturated and pure that it, in turn, acts as a poison to the body, and can cause the overloading of the meridians and qi deviation. It’s also for that reason that cultivating in the mist has become a form of practice for the sect members. To survive within the condensed, pure qi, the body is forced to expedite the circulation of neigong—qigong—to neutralize the qi diffusing into the meridians, continuously cleaning out the pathways to make for more efficient circulation. Furthermore, the lower dantian is also forcibly expanded to combat the foreign qi, and so, even at the risk of qi deviation, valley cultivation is also the most effective way of building a stronger foundation for martial arts.
As a result, most elites within the sect are able to circulate their qi at five times the speed of an elder in an outside sect. The difficulty of cultivation is also increased as one progresses deeper into the valley, or closer to the summit.
To prevent unnecessary deaths, sect members are compelled by the command of the sect leader to tie a qi chain around their waist when going down. Once recognizing that they’ve stepped over the line separating safety and danger, most send a portion of their qi into the chain, which conducts up to notify the one tied to the chain at the port, ultimately leading to them being pulled back up.
The issue lies in the fact that I don’t have anyone to remain as my anchor. Most that stay in the port must remain until the one in the valley finishes cultivation, and thus, the anchoring sect member is usually a disciple more often than not.
“I don’t have a disciple,” I say, echoing my thoughts.
“Then get one, Fei Yin Lan.”
“I refuse. Shizun is doing perfectly fine as my little bodyguard.”
At the mention of her name, my savior baihu brushes past the curtains blocking the entrance, dusting off her white fur and sitting docilely next to my bed. “See?”
Lei Qing rolls his eyes. “Your pathways have been exhausted, so I wouldn’t recommend any circulation, at least not at your speed.”
“Yes—” I grumble, nearly choking on the searing pain in my throat. “O’ all-knowing, wise sect leader, this humble one shall follow your words.”
“At least your upper dantian seems perfectly fine*,” He mutters, stalking out the doorframe. The curtains smack him in the face on his way out, and I suppress a giggle for fear of that abominable pain that burns every time I move my head.
Over the next few days, I lay with solemn solitude, slowly working away the afflictions upon my body in a similar manner to detoxifying the mist of pure, unbridled qi. A martial artist heals twice as fast as a civlian without opened meridians, but by that logic, a sect member of the Yuelanfei should be able to heal twice as fast as any other martial artist due to their training.
By the fifth day, I could successfully pull myself upright, only to be hit with a rush of blood and accompanying dizziness that made me collapse onto the mattress once again.
The chosen room for my recuperation looks nothing like my—or Lei Qing’s—home. If I were to guess, it would be in one of the pavilions, but I had not seen a single person, be it a servant or disciple that would mark it as a place of importance. Typically, the stronger one’s cultivation gets, the deeper into the valley their home is dug. The strong protect the weak, and the principle applies here. All disciples reside on the mountaintop, far away from the mist, whereas the ones with immunity dig their accommodations into the mountainside, facing a less concentrated portion of the mist.
Mine is a quarter way down the valley, burrowed into the side of the Yin peak.
Lei Qing visits me occasionally—we have been friends since childhood, despite how viciously I may insult him and how he taunts and jeers back at me. Still, despite that, the sect leader is not a role for show. As far as I’m concerned, the annual martial arts competition held between the pavilions is quickly arriving, and the preparations are not one to be delayed.
Additionally, the Wulin Orthodox Union consisting of most of the famous Five Families and a couple other sects is also hosting their tournament in the coming weeks. I expect that they’ll send us an invitation this year as well—perhaps they already did, and Lei Qing is truly considering it this year. The Orthodox are always tirelessly culminating their forces together to fight against the non-existent, scattered factions of the Unorthodox, after all.
Not that it matters much to me. Currently, I’m just another half-crippled patient suffering in agony.
Three days pass, and I find myself able to sit upright without fainting. In the afternoon, Pavilion Master Shui manages to bring herself to pay the pitiful me a visit. It goes something similar to this:
“You should’ve died, sparing me the effort of healing you,” She says while slowly bleeding me to death via acupuncture under the pretense of healing. I must say, it feels rather nice.
“Piss off, old hag. I hope you suffer qi deviation and your middle dantian explodes. Why in the three realms* do you have so much vitality? You’re two hundred years old, for heaven’s sake!”
When she leaves, I stop pretending to be annoyed and push myself up, feeling the creaking of my joints fading away to a dull bruise. Truly, Fei Shui Fan is not undeserving of her reputation as a worker of miracles. Her mere presence makes my heart ache with irritation.
All throughout, Shizun accompanies me faithfully as she has always done, keeping my head in position while I slumber, in case the spiking pain of my muscles moving rouses me from my sweet dreams. The baihu are mystical creatures, just as how the fenghuang and the pixiu and qilin are. It is just that there’s no other companion as sweet as them when one successfully tames their fierce nature.
When my body has healed enough to sustain physical touch and internal circulation at the lowest speed I can manage, Shizun keeps me warm by her side, and I toss the blanket to the ground content to be embraced in the soft fur of her underside.
Outside, on certain days, the breeze drifts in and out the open window bringing in the scent of the blossom forest planted on the summit, wafting into the mountain tops a hundred li away away. Other times, the mist is carried up into the room, and I wrinkle my nose and Shizun growls at it for me. The mist has a distinct smell, indescribable, and although not unpleasant I’ve grown sick of it. Perhaps I’ve spent too long training in the valley.
It started when I was four. Members of the sect are only given the honor of using “Yin” or “Yang” in their names under special circumstances. My special circumstances entailed falling down from the sky above on a day when the sky was cloudless and the mist had somehow condensed itself to the lowest point in the valley, leaving a great faction of the Taishan Range exposed. An auspicious child, they called me. The sect leader of that time caught me himself on the roof of the Yin Pavilion and cradled me carefully.
So they called me Yin Lan. Yin since I landed on the Yin peak, and I was female. Lan because on the day of my descent, I wore a crown of indigo orchids that were spotted gold and a blue swaddle with silver threads. I was almost called Yin Yue* since there also happened to be small depictions of that infernal meteorite in the sky on my swaddle, although then ended up going with Lan instead.
Sometimes, I wonder if I had been the goddess of orchids and blue in my previous life. What a pitiful life, I would then decide. Clearly, the heavenly court did not enjoy blue or orchids.
But despite being a pitiful goddess of flowers, my “divine” roots were not hidden. I could survive in the first layer of mist at four better than people five times my age. My martial arts were superb. My wisdom was unmatched, even if those around me said nothing of the sort. If Lei Qing was the prodigy of the century I was the genius of the millennium, and I never, ever, forgot to rub it in his face.
Elder Mei says I would’ve become the beauty of the millennium as well, if not for the arbitrary rite of adulthood that girls in the sect had the choice to go through. When I was fifteen, with a hot iron blade I cut off both of my breasts and fainted promptly after. They got in my way too often, and “I had no sexual aspirations,” I had told myself while crying in the dark corner of my room. Obviously, Pavilion Master Shui made sure there were no scars left, and my chest did grow slightly so that it would not be as humiliating for me to be called a “flat board.”
Might I mention that the first and last one to call me that was disemboweled by yours truly, and pulverized by the old sect leader himself while the elders watched with mild amusement. The only time the murder of another sect member was allowed.
I did not regret undergoing the rite of adulthood that much after that incident. I was, of course, the only girl who accepted losing her twin prized blobs of fat for much more pain and less inconvenience. I was, in fact, only one of five girls in the sect’s entire history, and the last had been four centuries ago, when war was rampant and the sect was weak.
After another week of recuperation, the strength had returned to my legs and I could stroll around the house with Shizun by my side. She made not for a good conversation partner, but rather, a silent companion I suppose, and all the while constantly urging me to sit down upon her back as she took me down the halls.
The place is minimalistic, with arching doorways with landscape-painted curtains, wood cabinets with ceramic vases of magnolia and cherry blossom branches, white orchids, and peonies. Sometimes, I see pots of bamboo—it’s clear that there’s someone replacing the flowers daily. White banners decorate the pale clay walls, and when Shizun takes me outside into the rock garden, I know exactly where this is.
The Yin and Yang Pavilions are unique in that they’re covered with pink blossoms, have the highest concentration of qi that simply floats in the air, and most importantly, not everyone is allowed to freely visit. Clearance is given to only the highest members—the elders, pavilion masters, respected elites.
The Yin Pavilion is marked with white banners—the Yang is marked with black. And in my far memories, I recall the times when it had been my home. The rock formations were unmistakable, and the distant sound of the waterfall crashing down into the valley—how hadn’t I noticed?
In the walled garden, the branches of the white and pink blossoms peak over the fence, their petals scattering onto the rock path.
When I was four, the entire pavilion had been mine and mine alone. The place was so big, and the tiny me found it horrifying. When I was ten, I found comfort in the bamboo forest planted in the west garden, and moved to the smaller bedroom that faced the Yang pavilion across the pass created by the divine lightning. When I turned fourteen and became a “Lan,” I left the abode built upon the mountain and moved into the structures built into the rocky slope beneath it, living closer to the mist as per the customs of the sect.
Most of the rooms dug into the mountain were a century old from my predecessors. When I turned eighteen and arrived at the bottommost room, my cultivation had already exceeded all my ancestors’ in the previous years. At twenty-two, I ended up carving myself an abode deeper beneath the others, halfway into the valley, and the mist had been saturated enough to see the fog floating about the ceiling.
Obviously, it wouldn’t be safe for me to return to my home in my current state, but knowing that I was in the Yin Pavilion gave me horrible goosebumps every time I thought about it.
The next day, the clouds swirling around the summit scatter themselves into tiny puffs, and the breeze is soft and warm, foretelling the season of blistering heat. Up in the sky, the air is colder and there are no clouds for snow or rain to fall, but the heat of summer will pain me awfully nevertheless, like it has all other years.
I push open the window, breathing in the intoxicating fragrance of the blossoms, and with a robe upon my shoulders, I make for the veranda to see the pink buds that will open in the coming weeks. I move like a shadow, the black silk standing out among the pastel trees, and when Shizun goes out to tumble in the scattered petals I let myself stand over the edge of the cliff, peering down at the valley below. It stares back up at me like the abyss, fog and mist and its peculiar, awful scent.
“You’re forbidden from it for the next week,” Lei Qing informs me suddenly, appearing behind me without so much as a word. He pulls a cloak from his shoulders onto mine, tying it neatly like a mother would a son.
“Alas, allow me to assure you I do not have a kink for near-death experiences, nor an obsession with the idea of sleeping eternally either. Although it does sound nice.” I roll my eyes, letting myself be pulled back into the pavilion.
He’s dressed in black, gold embroidered on his sleeves just like mine.
“I’m not some kid. I can take care of myself. I certainly don’t need your help,” I grumble to him when he finds a suitable room, lighting the incense burner with the scorched tip of a wood stick. His robes pool around his legs when he settles down beside me, tending to the burner until the smoke begins rising into the room.
“Right, because of course that’s why you were begging me that night a month ago.”
“Me? Begging you? Please, your family jewels are nothing extraordinary,” I spit back.
“The girls love me!” He exclaims, as if wrongly accused.
“You’re delusional.”
“Fine— a girl loves me. Let me show you.”
Before I can say no, he pushes me to the floor, one hand catching my wrist while the other hand reaches for the linen that drapes my body, unbuttoning it with the patience of a saint while his tongue is anything but. He snakes down my arm, and the trail reaches the sensitive space between my breasts. his breath is hot on my torso, from down the v-curve to my navel .
“I’m fucking cold,” I grumble, pushing at his shoulder. It doesn’t budge, and although I don’t admit, it’s because my strength refuses to answer my call.
“You are my undoing,” He mutters, breath fluttering hot as he stares up at me. His lips never leave my skin, even though he knows not to fall lower.
Regaining my bearings, I realize just how ridiculous we look and how utterly cold the air is. “I said, I’m fucking cold , you son of a bitch.”
“This son of a bitch—”
This time, I don’t let him finish, whamming a single knee into his abdomen and sending him flying out the door with a kick. If he falls into the valley? Even better.
My hands scramble to undo his hard work, messily pulling the robes back together. “My undoing, he says. What kind of cringe line is that?” I mutter to myself. The incense smells like smoke and oranges and overpowers all other scents in a way that reminds me of the irritating man I had just politely sent out, and so in a fit of impulsiveness, I kick the burner and the table along with it, sending it crashing into the clay wall behind.
I let out a string of curses and stomp out into the veranda, desperate to be rid of the surge of heat that flushes my hands pink and my cheeks warm. The touch of his lips looks and feels like a brand on my skin. None of my attempts to circulate qi has faded the sensation away, and perhaps he knows this too, for he does not return to mock the results of his work.
Two days float by, and I remain half-conscious for most of it. Yuelanfei sect members are able to circulate qi while moving, a further product of valley training, but the lotus position has always been the preferred method when circulating due to a lower risk of qi deviation. With Shizun by my side, I push out the impurities in my pathways and restore the torn muscles, rejuvenating the meridians with an influx from the lower dantian to fully return my body to its original state. The power surges through me when I finally awake from the meditation, and my heart leaps with near joy knowing there is no need for me to suffer in this forsaken pavilion any longer. Without further hesitation, I find the entrance into the cave homes near the staircase staked into the hillside. Underground, most of the walls are covered in dried bamboo poles, the steps are smoothly cut, and several flights down I arrive at the final arch blocked by black tapestry curtains, which I push aside when I enter.
My home looks the same as the time I left for cultivation a month ago, albeit dustier. Polished stone tiles beneath my feet and a layer of hard clay mounted along the walls, I smile at the familiar sight, and Shizun purs along with me, obviously tired of sleeping on straw beds while she had accompanied me in the valley. A small bamboo garden surrounding a rock pond makes up the adjacent wall, and on the other side, a kid-sized hole sits, closed shut by a wooden door. Behind the door is a small herb room which, truthfully, smells quite awful with the extraordinary amount of medicinal plants drying in satchels hanging from the ceiling. The reason I seal it closed is due to the fact that the herb room only has three walls—it’s open to the valley since the elixirs made from the herbs are more effective when exposed to qi in the long term.
In a small cabinet in the corner of the living room, I find my most prized possession: a box of dried persimmons, which I chew upon joyfully while strolling around the halls. They’re sweet, tangy, and dusted with powdered sugar that melts delightfully in my mouth.
At the end of the corridor, I enter my bedroom, and although I’m no neat freak it pleases me to see the folded blankets and organized wood table. Branches of dried willow hang from the walls, and small pouches of flower petals are tied to the thin foliage, bringing out the gentle fragrance that covers the smell of stone.
A small niche caves into the wall beside the bed, and a small platter of more dried fruits sits covered in a cloth that I toss to the side. Yes—plums, dates, peaches, apples, perhaps they’re more divine than myself. I would sell my soul for an endless supply of these delicacies.
“Just one more,” I mumble to myself while stuffing my mouth full, pulling myself up on the bed. “One—more—”
Shizun growls at me with her eyes closed, no doubt aware of my unrestrained nature, at least when it comes to these divine things. She whips her tail into my wrist—it may look thin and furry but every part of a baihu is muscle—and knocks the tart out of my hands only for it to disappear into the shadows of her mouth.
I stare at her, agape. “You—fuck—Shizun! That was my last one!”
She looks at me and snorts , turning away to stare at the doorway.
Alas, the motherly urge to skin her alive and grind her bones into an elixir.
On the wall, beside the niche is a pouch of burgundy. I pull it open, producing a pill that looks like a clump of red clay, smells like the most bitter medicine ever known to man, with a sheen of gold and the taste of the six-flavor shit if such a thing ever existed.
The Gold-Clay Orchid Pill is one of three prized pills in the sect. It's given annually to each of the sect’s warriors, one per person, and provides about eight year's worth of non-stop cultivation. As the name implies, it looks like a ball of gold and clay, and is made with ingredients from an orchid, although the flashy name does little to warn the cultivator of its god-awful taste.
Forcing my mouth open, I chew two at a time and quickly swallow, quickly coaxing the bile that rises in my throat back down. The pill’s effect can be felt immediately, a cold rush of energy like a creek down the mountain that floods into the pathways. However, just like the valley mist, the qi has to be purified and unsaturated, and only then can it be stored in the dantian.
Using my neigong like a current, I direct the pure qi into my dantian, condensing it into a ball. The neigong acts as a filter, squeezing out the toxic impurities that, without a medium, will be diffused out of the body.
The process is tedious, and no amount of training can reduce the lengthy hours spent cultivating. Most sect members who are able to endure the mist actually prefer it over pills, because the mist enters the meridians all at once and in small quantities, making it easy to purify, whereas the pill has to be condensed into a core and slowly purified due to its large quantity. A straw hat is impervious to the tiny droplets of rain but breaks under the weight of a water bucket being poured.
The only drawback is that the mist never stops, and at some point, the qigong is slowly overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of pure qi such that it slowly begins to poison the body, which is when sect members must stop their cultivation.
This type of training, however, is exclusive only to the sect. And it is not because the mist is kept under wraps, especially considering that the sect allows all travelers to visit, but because the mist is friendly only to the sect. All other martial artists only find themselves mixed into hallucinations and mirages when in the valley. They aren’t even aware of the true nature of the mist—pure qi.
The last of the core is separated and integrated into the lower dantian sometime around midnight, and half-exhausted I toss myself onto the pillow, completely ignoring the black impurities staining the sheets. Shizun purrs, licking a hot, sticky trail from jaw to forehead, and I sigh, using her fur to wipe off the mess.
How irritating.