Date: 60th Mortal Wheel in the Eye of the White Tiger, Brightwater Rat Year, Second Decan Yi

  “If a man drinks from our cellars without leave, let him return what was taken. Cup for cup, ounce for ounce. Not in silver, but in blood.”

  The flagstones of the outer courtyard had been swept clean. Even the peach blossoms had been gathered and burned, as if their silken petals might have softened the edge of what was to come.

  At the center of the yard stood the basin: black iron, wide-mouthed and waiting. Beside it, a tall, slender vessel of green glass etched with graduated lines in silver leaf. A wine measure.

  The eldest son of the Gao family stood barefoot on the cool stone, watching as the condemned man was brought forward.

  Two servants held the thief steady steady, his tunic stripped to the waist, arms bound behind his back. He did not struggle. His eyes were sunken, but dry. Resignation had long since replaced the urge to plead.

  From the shadowed arcade, Gao Ligang, patriarch, gave a nod. The master of blood-rites stepped forward, a lesser cousin skilled in medicine. No sooner had he drawn his blade than a line of red bloomed on the servants chest under his heart. It welled immediately, bleeding freely.

  The eldest son, thirteen years of age, took the wine measure in both hands and held it under the man as he bent forward.

  One-half cup.

  He poured it into the basin.

  One.

  The sound it made was quiet. Blood was softer and thicker than wine or water. He could feel its warmth through the glass. When the next measure filled, the servant’s head lolled.

  One and one-half.

  By the third, his breath came in shallow gasps. The flow was not slowing.

  Two.

  The eldest son’s hands did not shake. But his grip tightened with each pour, knuckles whitening. He looked to the basin as if it contained an answer to his unease. The blood pooled there reflected nothing, and when the final measure was poured, Gao Ligang spoke again.

  “Let it be known,” he said, “that the House of Gao is just. That we weigh what is taken, and that we return the measure. Wine for blood, blood for wine.”

  The patriarch turned away then, as did many others. The cousin who performed blood-rites had vanished as soon as his blade was clean. Blood was still flowing from the servant’s breast, and he fell to his knees when there was no one to hold him upright. The eldest son tried to help him stem the flow, but the man died anyway. All the boy succeeded in doing was getting blood on his hands. They were dyed red to the wrists.

  What had fallen to the stones of the courtyard was left for the other servants to clean, a reminder of the just and fair nature of the Gao family.

  ***

  Date: 60th Mortal Wheel in the Eye of the White Tiger, Dark Metal Rooster Year, Ox Month, First Decan Gui (Nine Years Later)

  A single drop of wine trembled at the rim of Gao Fushuai’s silver pitcher, shimmering like a ruby caught in sunlight. It clung stubbornly, refusing to fall, and he lost a moment watching it, as if expecting the droplet to tell a story he could not.

  Red wine was uncommon. An import from across the sea, kept in the cellars for special occasions.

  The grand hall of the Gao estate had never looked so magnificent, except perhaps the night before, or the night before that. Lanterns hung like the dreams of fireflies, casting pools of warm, golden light that chased the shadows into hiding. Servants rushed urgently about, arranging polished dishes piled high with roasted meats, colorful vegetables, and delicate sweets that filled the air with tempting fragrances. Soon, they would have to disappear, cast out like the shadows, unworthy of being in the presence of a legendary cultivator.

  The famous Xiao Sheng had been visiting all the favored families of Ashen City over the last two weeks, and the Gao household had performed this dance every night since he arrived in the region and Fushuai’s father, Gao Ligang, had determined that the old monster was looking for a disciple.

  Fushuai continued to stare at the pitcher in his hands. He was the eldest son, but tonight he might as well have been another servant. Worthy to pour wine for the family and their honored guest, but not to present himself as a prospective disciple.

  Nearby, his siblings gathered in a proud circle, their voices loud and confident. Chen brandished his sword, boasting of techniques Fushuai had never been allowed to learn. Meili laughed softly, as lovely as the promise of her name, pretending she did not believe her elder brother was an arrogant fool.

  “Watch yourself, Gao Bai Tu.” Gao Lei bumped him as he went by, and Fushuai stiffened at the insult. The third son liked to compare him to a little rabbit one of their sisters had kept as a girl. Anger coiled hot and quick in his belly, and he let it go just as quickly. Years ago, he could have easily demonstrated for his younger brother which of them was more like a soft-furred pet. Not anymore. And shaming Lei wouldn’t have made him happy anyway.

  The stubborn drop of wine finally fell, and he caught it with his slipper, which was dark enough to hide the stain.

  It would save him from having to mop the floor again.

  Gao Lei distracted the others with a display of his favorite qi technique, a crackling web of lightning sparked between his hands. None of them glanced toward Fushuai, and he was grateful for their disregard. Life was easier when they allowed him to fade into the background where he belonged.

  He only wished for the evening to pass swiftly and without incident.

  Even when they heard the front gates open outside the hall and the remaining servants scurried out of sight, he remained still. Tonight was the night, then. It made no difference to him. Still, his heart tightened as he moved into the shadow of one of the alabaster columns that upheld the hall. Though there was no chance he would be chosen, this might be the only opportunity he ever had to look upon a master as venerated as Xiao Sheng, who in this age was more a myth than a man.

  His siblings, all seven of them, took their places before the hall doors. This was a matter of some contention, but Chen managed to keep his sword sheathed, and Lei’s lightning went silent before the doors cracked open and their parents led the elder cultivator through.

  “Most Honored Grand Elder,” their father said, lowering his head, “it is the eternal fortune of our humble lineage to receive you. On behalf of the Gao Clan, I bid you welcome to the ancestral seat, where every stone will remember its debt to your name.”

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  Fushuai’s father was classically handsome, tall and lean, with jet black hair swept back into a tail and eyebrows that could have cut glass. As a child, it had often been remarked that Fushuai looked like his father. No one said that anymore. Gao Ligang gestured to his children, and they bowed in unison, uttering greetings and thanks that were more of the same.

  Fushuai peered around the column, seeking a better look at the man who was the center of all this fanfare. Xiao Sheng was not as tall as his father, nor as thin. He looked more like a middle-aged merchant or baker than the “Living Blade,” as he had been called in stories. There was a bit of fat under his chin, and his robes were practical and dusty from travel. He had a few tarnished rings on one hand.

  Gao Lifen, their mother, bowed less deeply than her children, though still with utmost respect. “We will celebrate this day for years to come, Master Xiao. We have done our best to prepare for the possibility of your arrival, though I must confess that we were somewhat at a loss as to how to do so. If you would forgive my boldness, may I ask why you have chosen to grace us with your presence?”

  There had been more than one heated argument regarding this question and whether it should be asked directly. The other families had refused to gossip about their experiences, and it had taken careful bribes to get their servants to talk. The truth seemed obvious to all of them, but as far as the Gao family knew, it had never been stated openly.

  Xiao Sheng had retained a pleasant but uninterested expression under their unrelenting compliments and welcomes. Now his gaze swept slowly across the ornate decorations, the nervous faces, and the lavish banquet waiting nearby. He paused briefly, his eyes unreadable, before responding.

  "I see you have prepared a meal."

  “Yes, Grand Elder,” Ligang said, his eyebrows rising like twin swords before a duel. “Please, join us.”

  At the heart of the room stood a long table crafted from a single piece of rare ebony wood. Its surface shone like a quiet lake, reflecting porcelain dishes and silver utensils arranged in perfect symmetry.

  The feast itself was lavish beyond reason. There were roasted meats glazed in honey and spices, skins crackling and golden. Delicate steamed dumplings shaped like blossoms rested in fragrant bamboo baskets, their aromas drifting gently through the spacious chamber. Whole fish sat proudly atop wide platters garnished with their scales. Bowls filled with steaming rice, glistening noodles tossed with fresh vegetables, and trays heaped high with ripe fruits rounded out the display.

  Xiao Sheng took a place of honor at the table's head, his expression calm but appreciative as he considered the feast before him. Ligang and Lifen sat on either side, careful to maintain a proper distance, while Fushuai’s siblings had been assigned seats in the order of their birth to prevent a potentially embarrassing scuffle for position.

  Fushuai slipped forward to perform his duty, remaining unobtrusive as he served.

  The meal began with a formal toast. Ligang rose, lifting a slender jade cup toward their guest.

  "To the honored Master Xiao," he declared. "May the heavens continue to favor your righteous path, and may your wisdom shine upon all who serve you."

  The master in question showed no sign of having heard him, beginning to serve himself before Fushuai could.

  A ripple of awkward laughter moved along the table. Gao Meili leaned forward, her smile rehearsed.

  "Master, it is said your comprehension of the Spiritual Sword Path is unmatched in this generation. Perhaps you might one day honor our humble family with a demonstration?"

  Their parents froze, and Lifen cast her daughter a look as cold as the dead heart of the Silent Mountain. Her request was sheer impertinence, as it had never been discussed.

  Xiao Sheng dipped his head slightly, plucking a dumpling from the nearest basket with his chopsticks. He popped it into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, his expression one of simple, genuine pleasure.

  The siblings exchanged nervous glances. Gao Lei, remembering his lines, barked a laugh and raised his own cup.

  "Surely a master of your standing must find little worth among us, yet we dare to hope you might find some amusement in our skills.”

  Xiao Sheng swallowed another mouthful, then reached for a slice of honey-glazed pork. His eyes never lingered on any of them for long. Fushuai stepped away from the long table. As the elder had served himself, the others would follow his example. He needed only to monitor their cups.

  The family continued to try to engage their guest, but every question and compliment was met with the same disinterest. It quickly became clear that Xiao Sheng had not come to listen to praise, nor to waste words. His only interest lay in the feast itself.

  He sampled everything: the fragrant duck, the tender fish, the savory soups. At times, he closed his eyes briefly, as though committing the flavors to memory. Here and there, he uttered a small praise to those who had prepared the meal, though notably, not to the Gao family themselves.

  Fushuai could not help but feel admiration for the master’s disregard of the flattery swirling around him. The food was good, and so the master enjoyed it. Is that what true power meant, to be free of all pretense?

  The evening wore on, and with each passing moment, the tension around the table grew thicker, the smiles of the Gao family tighter and more strained, while Xiao Sheng ate peacefully, untouched by all their careful words.

  One by one, the siblings set down their chopsticks, their plates scarcely touched. Their attention was fixed wholly on Xiao Sheng, whose enthusiasm showed no sign of slowing.

  He continued to eat with the seriousness of a scholar studying ancient scrolls, and each bite he took seemed to bring him genuine delight. When he finished a bowl of sweet lotus soup, he murmured, "Exquisite," with such heartfelt appreciation that their mother’s pale cheeks colored like a blooming rose.

  Refusing to accept defeat, Gao Ligang ventured another question.

  "Master Xiao, you have surely seen many wondrous realms in your travels. Is it true you visited the Jade Turtle of Sacred Valley when you were still a disciple of the Endless River Sect?”

  "This pastry," Xiao said after a thorough chew. "The sweetness is gentle, not overwhelming. The flavor lingers kindly on the tongue."

  A silence fell, broken only by the faint clink of his chopsticks against porcelain.

  Gao Chen cleared his throat.

  "Surely the other families of the Ashen City were eager to host you, Grand Elder. What impression did their heirs leave upon you?"

  Xiao Sheng lifted a piece of braised fish, letting the ghostly light of the lanters catch on its shimmering skin. He bit it slowly, swallowed, and nodded with grave satisfaction.

  "The marinade is well-balanced," he said. "Ginger, plum, and a trace of something rare... perhaps winter lotus root?"

  Fushuai stifled a laugh, refilling the cup of his brother. Though they were not eating, the same lack of appetite did not apply to wine, and he had already gone through a second pitcher. He could not help but take some pleasure in their discomfort. They all looked down on him for his lack of advancement, and for his failure to take to violence like a fish to water, which they saw as a weakness of spirit.

  It was a petty feeling, he knew, but witnessing how little the elder cultivator seemed to think of them brought some small satisfaction. Fushuai had always believed there was more to life than fighting, and Xiao Sheng at least appeared to agree.

  Perhaps he should take up cooking.

  Fushuai could almost hear his siblings grinding their teeth behind polite smiles. With nods and glances from their parents, they continued to try, but it was clear that no matter how cleverly they asked or how flattering their words, Xiao Sheng would speak only of the food and his contentment, at least until the meal was over.

  At last, the elder set down his chopsticks and leaned back in his chair. His plate was empty, as were several others stacked neatly at his side. The man had the appetite of an ox. He wiped his mouth once more, then, without a word, brought his hands together in a single crisp clap.

  The sound echoed through the hall, the lanterns swinging as if in a breeze.

  The family was frozen once more, unsure whether they were being summoned to action, dismissed, or judged.

  It was Gao Ligang who recovered first. He rose smoothly to his feet, pressing his hands together in a formal salute.

  "Master Xiao," he said, his tone carrying none of the tension he must have been feeling, "it would be the greatest honor of our house if you would permit my children to demonstrate their humble skills for you. A light entertainment while the meal settles."

  The old monster who looked like a commoner gave a small, pleasant smile and dipped his head in acknowledgment.

  Gao Ligang turned sharply to his children, who had already begun rising from their seats, as taut as bowstrings. Fushuai cleared the table as the rest of the family moved to the back of the grand hall, where cushions ringed a square arena inset in the marble floor.

  So there would be a show after all.