Blueprint for Immortality: a Crafting Xianxia

Booker flinched back, escaping a split second before the monster dropped from the tree’s branches. It was a demonic shadow, wide-armed and red-faced, that dove down towards him with its claws outstretched. He lifted his right hand and thought,

Furnace!

A blazing blue light erupted from his hand and burst up into the shadow’s face. It screamed, and twisted its momentum in a way that shouldn’t have been possible mid-air, dropping to the ground.

Booker jumped back as it claws raked vengefully for his legs.

He had largely missed, acting a second too soon to catch the shadow fully in the flame. Although its coat burned with stray embers it had taken no real damage. At least he’d acted fast enough to save his own hide. But the golden window, where he struck late enough to catch the enemy out and soon enough to survive, had escaped him.

What the firelight did was reveal the nature of the beast. It was a lanky-limbed ape the size of a human, ragged and ugly-looking, with a leathery red skin on its face and hands, and pale blue fur everywhere else. Massive wounds had left its body torn with still-red scars, matted with bloodsoaked fur and barely held together by plates of black scab tissue.

But Booker could only keep the flame burning for so long. Exhaustion pulled at him from within, an empty cold feeling like the core warmth of his body was being used up.

As the flame collapsed the ape’s growl filled the forest.

It lunged, and Booker retreated as its claws swiped for his eyes, looking to grab some soft part of his face and rip it apart.

Booker raised his hand to conjure more flame but–

The ape’s pursuit stopped a few feet from the tree. Drawing backs its lips and baring the ugly yellow base of its teeth, it shrank back.

It’s guarding the flower…

And thank god, because it can probably outrun me.

He retreated back into the undergrowth, and sank down behind a tree. His heart was beating hard. Sweat dripped across his skin. But still…

I’m going to get the damn flower.

He peered out from behind the old oak tree. The ape was sitting hunched in front of the flower, gazing at it with an almost hypnotized expression as shapes swirled and form out of the mist. Slowly, it clambered back up into the tree.

Booker seized a rock from the ground, prying it up and brushing the wet mud away. He flung it into the bushes on the opposite side of the tree, trying to lure the ape’s attention towards the opposite direction. It was the simplest ploy he could think of – but it might work against a dull-minded ape.

There was no reaction.

He threw another, then a third, getting closer and closer to the tree.

The ape finally shifted. It unfurled itself from the branch, hanging by its right arm and leg as its free arm reached around. Booker squinted, trying to take in what it was doing. He barely caught on in time to duck back behind the tree as the ape reeled back and threw, flinging a large glob of… something wet… towards where his head had been.

Alright. If we’re gonna fuck around…

He crawled away from his position, keeping low to the ground until he was out of range. It didn’t take long for him to find more of the everpresent nettle vines that wove around the base of the trees, and sever a portion with his knife.

There were thick gloves on his fingers, and he felt no sting as he dug his fingers into the spine-covered flesh and peeled the outer layer back to expose a white pith. Discarding the inner core, he instead began to twist and grind the outer sheath, extracting as much of the extremely toxic white sap as he could.

This he mixed into his bag of alchemical ashes, dripping in a minute amount of water from his canteen to finish the mixture to a consistency that was good to throw. In his hands the mingled reagents had begun to bubble and simmer with internal heat from the competing reactions. It hissed like acid as he advanced towards the tree.

The ape once more detached from the branches, dropping to pound its chest and declare its territory–

Booker flung the ash-mixture across its face. As the caustic toxin hit its eyes the ape reeled back in confusion, then flung itself to the ground howling, and then lashed out, sweeping wildly back towards where Booker had been. It was a spasm of wild movement with no pause to breathe or think.

But Booker had already backed away, giving its blind fury nowhere to vent.

The ape thrashed itself in circles, shaking violently, and then took off towards the nearest river, galloping along on all fours. Its screeches and howls shook the canopy–

It won’t be long before others arrive.

Indeed, two flares had already raced into the sky and burst. One from where he’d left the old man – one from the opposite direction.

Booker drew his sword and took up a position behind a tree. The creature had found a small pond of water and was desperately trying to clean itself, clawing and scraping at its face where the stinging mixture had made contact with open wounds.

His master arrived first, rushing to the scene with his robe and hair askew. “Apprentice!” He gasped out. “There is a beast–” But he stopped as he realized Booker was safe, and already knew the situation.

“It tried to kill me, but I lured it into a nettle patch.” Booker explained, smoothing over the matter of the ghost-nectar flower with a casual explanation.

“Very good. Very good.” The old man sank to a knee behind him, and they both watched the ape from a distance. “It’s a good thing it’s not full grown…”

“That’s… not its full size?” Booker asked, his stomach sinking. Was there a chance the mother was still nearby, then?

“Oh no. Not at all. The full-grown ones are twice a man’s height and can tear down a tree with a swipe of their arms. It is… worrisome, when they come down from the mountains.”

In the background, the ape howled again. The sound reverberated through the canopy.

Soon they weren’t alone. A group of hunters galloped out of the woods, their leader riding on a deer the size of a horse with massive antlers. As he dismounted and drew his bow, the rest hurried forward with spears to form a defensive line.

“You two!” He gestured. “Stay calm and behind my men. I have a poison arrow to fell the beast, but it will take time to bring it down.” Reaching to the quiver on his hip, he took an arrow with its tip encased by a glass bulb and carefully shattered it against the vambrace plate on his arm. The point glinted darkly, covered by some oily substance.

“Do as he says. Blade up, hold yourself with courage. It will not reach us.” The old man whispered, shuffling behind the hunters.

Booker could only nod and follow.

Their leader had unslung the great bow from his back, and nocked the shot. The bow groaned with an almost musical timbre as it drew back.

In the distance the ape’s outrage had subsided to pathetic whining and mewling.

The bowstring released. The arrow shone.

Booker winced as he saw the ape’s silhouette snap about, the arrow punching through its neck. For a moment he thought it had died on the spot.

And then it screamed once more, and flung itself towards them.

The line of hunters lifted their wooden spears as it galloped full tilt across the forest. Their leader nocked another arrow and fired, piercing it through the leg and causing it stumble, but the ape continued forward, running on two arms and one leg.

There was a moment of silence in the instant before it hit the spear-line. A moment when Booker could hear the hunters gasp as their chests tightened in fear.

Then it slammed into a half-dozen spearpoints, and tore through, its sheer momentum making spears bend and shatter. Despite its size, it carried a strength no mundane human could. It swept its arms left and right, striking hunters to the forest floor but not bothering to finish them.

It had another goal.

Two hunters still had grips on their spears, and they struggled to hold it back as it pushed towards Booker. Their feet scraped and skidded on the moss.

Realizing it was coming for him, Booker reached for his sword. But after a split second’s hesitation, he grabbed hold of the firework instead, dropping to one knee to light it. There was a steel plate and a flint rod to strike together – and his fingers felt numb.

No sword blow will kill that thing…

It swept a hand down and ripped one of the hunters open across the face, causing the man to collapse to one knee and let the spear loose from his grip. Instantly it seized on the moment of weakness to whip around and drag the second spear free from its wielder’s hands, clawing his chest apart.

In that moment nobody stood between Booker and his enemy. Its yellow eyes glinted with mad hate.

It lunged for him–

– his master was trying to push him aside, but Booker refused –

– the bowman was lining up his shot, but he didn’t care who lived to see it –

And Booker lifted the firework towards its open jaws in his left hand, with his right hand positioned just behind the tube’s entrance.

Furnace.

Blue flame joined the explosion of the firework and the creature swallowed a billowing rush of fire, its lungs cooking from within as it reeled backwards, clutching its face. Eyes gone, lips burnt back to bare teeth, it stood for a moment with its head engulfed in flame…

And toppled forward, the charred ruin of its flesh exposing the skeletal structure of its snout and eyesockets. Fire still clung on, blue embers burning on the edges of its fur.

Cool air blew through the grove as the hunters recovered, propping themselves up against the trees to deal with their bruises and cuts. One – the one who’d been struck in the face – was seriously wounded. The rest had merely been knocked aside.

The bowman looked at Booker standing there. Saw the fireworks tube in his hand, and the tremble in his legs, and snorted. “Lucky shot.”

Booker sighed and slumped down onto his ass, breathing hard. He could still smell the burnt hair. He could still remember the claw coming towards his face.

— — —

Booker didn’t know how long he closed his eyes for, but when he opened them again, a disciple of the Upper Sect had arrived.

He was dressed in a golden outer robe, and his blue-black hair tumbled down his shoulders in elegant waves. His goatee was as sharply pointed as a sword, and his eyebrows curved like comets. He should have appeared laughably vain, but managed to make it look casual.

The man was knelt above the corpse of the ape, muttering silently. It took Booker a second to realize he was praying.

As he straightened up, he turned to the bowman and said, “The apes of the upper mountain have always been our enemy. But this one was the runt of its litter, rejected and attacked by its mother. You will return to this spot for three days and offer prayers to the dead, so that none of its anger and resentment lingers upon us.”

So those wounds it had…

They came from family.

Booker could relate, actually. He didn’t regret killing it but…

The animals here are nearly human. Next time, I should remember that.

Stepping past the bowman, the disciple nodded to Booker’s master, and stepped forward to address Booker directly. Booker quickly shifted himself to kneel on one knee, but the disciple only smiled and gestured for him to stand.

“No need.”

“Sorry, I’ve never met one of you before. I thought…”

“You are cautious of us, and why would you not be, when our mere displeasure can destroy a mortal life? I understand, and even think it wise. But in this case there is no need to bow.” The immortal said, a gentle smile on his face. “You slew a demonic beast without a drop of cultivation. That is most impressive.”

“I feel like I was lucky.” Booker deflected. He wondered if there were magics that let you see into a person’s mind – probably.

“Luck comes to those who remember to look for it, even when others would panic. I commend you for your calm head. However–” He opened his right hand, revealing a small dark jewel. It was completely black save for a few luminous red ribbons. “– I cannot give you this.”

A beast core. Rain’s memories chimed in. A priceless artifact for cultivating.

Which I can’t do. Booker realized.

“You would only suffer for having it, as it draws envious gazes to you. Therefore, allow me to take it and I will give you this instead.” Reaching into a pouch, he withdrew a slip of bamboo carved with his signature – Brother Heaven’s Eye. “Give this to any of my servants or disciples, and they will leap to aid you in any endeavor.”

Booker reached out and took it.

Without another word, the cultivator turned, took three steps, and leapt straight up into the air.

— — —

His master insisted on checking him for wounds. Apparently the sickness and fevers that accompanied demonic beasts were as deadly as the actual creature; Qi wasn’t just for mammals and birds and creatures of that size, but even existed at the lower level, as demonic diseases. A wound from the beast’s filthy claws could become infected, and that fever could rampage through the Lower Sect like a wildfire.

But Booker was safe. The creature hadn’t broken his skin and all he had were a few bruises from being thrown to the ground by the collision.

“Why…” He asked eventually. “Why do we live near such animals?”

“There is nowhere in the world that is safe.” His master chuckled. “Except the highest cities. And those are only as safe as their cultivators are diligent. Boy, listen to me, very carefully.” His master paused, and adjusted the glasses on his nose, so he could see clearly into Booker’s eyes.

“You’ve come to a very fortunate place. Yes, even that tattoo on your face is fortunate, and you will see the truth of that someday. That tattoo… protects you from a life where you will be asked always to fight, always, to prove your worth endlessly but without any reward. No matter where you go or what you do, life would be as simple as this: those below you would worship you, those above you would laugh at you, and those competing against you would seek to destroy you utterly.”

“But it won’t protect anyone else.” Booker said.

“Yes. Only a cultivator is so strong they can lift the world onto their shoulders. Only a cultivator can protect the ones they love. We are blessed and we are cursed, because we will never be cultivators.”

Booker sighed, rolling his tongue along his teeth as he tried to put it into words…

“I’ll be a weight on others.”

“Mortals often are. Everyone is born naked, small, and helpless. Everyone dies old and infirm, needing help to wipe their own ass.” His master replied.

“Right. Meaning somebody else has to take care of them. We take turns; sometimes we take, sometimes we give. I can’t just be weight on someone else’s back…”

“You can’t do anything else. You are a cripple.” The old man reminded him.

“Maybe they were wrong.” Booker said.

Inside his mind, Rain’s memories seemed to be crying out. Rain had repeated, over and over and over in his own mind, that they were wrong. That his ruined meridians and soiled root could be repaired. That he was not yet a true cripple, but could turn himself around. He had repeated those words in bed, his face still aching from the rough process of the tattoo.

“Maybe. Sometimes they are. You?” The man’s temper finally raised a notch. “You wasted your life up until now. Who are you to talk about morals? You crippled your own cultivation; we may all be cripples but you are uniquely a fool.”

“Do I seem like one to you?” Booker challenged. He had to maintain that he was still Rain, yes, but he also needed the old man to trust him. And so far, he’d been a diligent apprentice.

“No.” His master admitted. “You do not. Which confuses me.”

Booker sighed. He couldn’t explain why his past clashed with his present, but he could lean on the old man’s sympathy. It was even possible to tread the line and tell the truth in a very specific way: “I want a different life.”

“The man who has the life he wants… Maybe that’s what the cultivators have, that makes it all worthwhile. Maybe they’ve simply chosen to be happy with their short life of slaughter, like a lamb happy to meet the knife.” The old man leaned back in his chair, and gazed up at the ceiling. “But for us, down here? We will always want a different life, and the best cure is to remain grateful for what we have.”

Booker climbed to his feet. He liked the old man, but his reflections on life were sad. Booker was still young and still had his life before him. He still felt the possibility of a happy outcome for himself, even with his disability.

Especially since he had the magic book to help him along.

“Where are you going?” The old man asked.

“To train. You’re not doing any more work today, are you?” The old man looked down, to where he’d developed a nervous tremble in his withered right hand.

“No,” his master sighed, “I suppose I’m not.”

“Then I’m going to train.”

Stepping out into the hallway, Booker breathed a sigh of relief. Thankfully he’d been able to keep the flower hidden in his robes when he stripped for examination. Now, he hurried down the Sect hallways, returning to his room and prying up the loose floorboard.

It was an easily spotted hiding place – one his enemies already knew – but it would have to do for now. The flower could spell death for him if he was discovered; but as long as it was only here for a day or so, the risk wasn’t too bad.

— — —

Booker’s fists pounded into a rolled mat wrapped around a post. The forms and styles of this world were totally foreign. Like Booker had sensed when he fought with Spider, they weren’t truly designed as mundane martial arts.

Instead they focused on ritualized, almost dance-like movements that encouraged energy to flow through the body in certain ways. When that energy – that Qi – gathered in a striking hand or a moving foot, the power of the movement redoubled. Efficiently moving Qi to where it needed to go, then performing an attack without losing focus, was the core skill the Sect’s martial arts taught.

At a low level where that power wasn’t present to reinforce the moves, however, the martial art was totally clumsy. Every move was heavily telegraphed, because the motions to bring energy to the striking limb were obvious.

And Booker didn’t have any Qi to use.

So he practiced kickboxing instead. In his brief stint of MMA fights, before he realized how much he truly hated having his arm bent out of its socket, Booker had showed promise at striking and grappling, with a good head for controlling distances. Now his limbs were longer and he had a broad-shouldered physique that took him out of the featherweight class.

The mat thudded and thumped with his powerful hits. It felt good. Booker had trained hard, but Rain had come up in a society where the lowest acceptable level of martial practice was ‘religiously, every day’. His body simply fed power and precision into the blows in a way Booker’s never could.

I don’t feel crippled. I feel ready for anything.

His fists raised high, he hammered the mat with kicks. His balance on one leg was superb.

Rain’s body… Really has striking potential. But I might get just as far with submissions. This Sect doesn’t seem to teach any real grappling maneuvers, or how to escape them.

For two hours, Booker worked the mat. The stamina his body had towards practice felt unreal. Even after an hour, he still felt light on his feet as he shadowboxed.

He kept going after the other students filed out. The cripples were forced to use the same practice rooms as the younger disciples, but Booker was just happy to have the space to himself. The stress of being lost in a foreign world, the stress of almost dying, they bled away as he worked his way through a phantom battle.

By the time he stepped away, Booker had worked out two of the ten hours for his second ‘minor’ quest.

10 hours to earn a 1 Hour Practice Token… Does it just make my muscles develop for another hour like I was training?

He washed himself clean in a kind of bathhouse, surrounded by other disciples and the sound of bare feet padding on the wet pinewood floors. The cripples had their own section, which seemed like a pretty good deal to Booker, even if the water was only lukewarm.

And after that?

Booker headed out into the city, to see about making himself rich.

— — —

The city was busy beyond belief. It must have been miles wide, and all of that traffic was pushing through the streets without cars to keep people safe in their separate spaces. Booker found himself neck and neck with foot traffic pushing in all directions, and had to struggle to spot the actual landmarks and waysigns he needed to navigate.

When the crowd finally let up, he was in a small covered market. Overhead a canopy of silk flapped in the wind, rolling up and down like the surface of a red sea. Below, numerous shadowy stands sold herbs and medicines that made the air smell rich and fragrant.

His eyes swept over a trove of medicinal ingredients, but…

“Excuse me,” he asked a seller. “But do you have anything… stronger?”

… all of it was weak.

“Sorry sir, but everything of real power is sold to the Sect. We only have commercial license to buy and sell the weakest sorts of medicines. These things are good for pain, perhaps for stamina and refreshment during practice, but little more than that.” The old woman bowed to him. Apparently a cripple’s status was still worth that much outside the Sect.

“Oh.” That complicated things. Booker knew that making medicine was a valuable skill, and he could do it more or less perfectly. If he was able to get ahold of ingredients, he could have quickly started making his own cultivation pills, completing his quests and making money while doing it.

That was still possible… Just at a much smaller scale. Curing toothaches instead of selling magical immortality. Booker thought bitterly. Still…

“I’ll take these.” Mentally flipping through the book, he identified Greentoe Root, Balmflower, Weaver’s Nettle, and Old Oak-Eye Berries. Greentoe Root was an excellent binder for a great many medicines, and the other three were cures for pain, infected wounds, and exhaustion.

In short if you had all three, you could treat most of the common issues people had.

It was a pretty green start to an empire of medicine and wealth, but it was a start. At least Booker had to hope so as he counted out silvers. Rain had not led a rich life, and what coin the Sect paid him as monthly wages had mostly been spent on drugs.

Booker handed over seven silver liang coins, each shaped like a shovelhead and pierced with a square hole in the middle. “And can anyone sell medicine here?”

“Not at all. This is a closed market, young master. It costs one hundred liang to merely buy a license to sell here.”

Looking down to the two silver liang remaining in his hand, Booker winced.

So that’s another obstacle.

As he left the market with his medicines bundled in waxed paper for freshness, Booker looked out on the city. From his perspective, on a hill with a road curving down in a half-spiral around it, there were blue rooftops going down towards the setting sun like the steps on an enormous set of stairs. In the harbor where the stairs ended, the white of the ship’s sails floated atop a sea colored in shades of spring-and-leaf moss.

Some people would give a lot to be standing at the top of all this.

Rain was one of them.

Am I one of them? Do I want to be a cultivator?

He gazed up, at the red gates of the Sect and the imposing multilayered pagodas, running out in a ring around the mountainside. Above the heights of the Lower Sect, there was nothing but jungle, climbing upwards until swirling mist-blue clouds obscured whatever palace or paradise might be waiting beyond the green sea of the canopy. Now and again, those clouds would part and long fingers of sun would descend into the forest.

Or do I want a simple life, without having to fight for everything?

He stood there for a moment, framed in the sun and hesitant to take a step forward, because he was no longer certain where the road led.

Then he breathed in slowly, absorbing the scent of the herbs and the distant smell of roasting pork. The difficult thoughts were brushed out of his mind as he opened his senses to the city, hearing the creak of wheels and the grunting of animals below the calls of merchants shouting out midday deals. One voice said–

“But wait, there is more good sir!”

And Booker chuckled at how like home it was, in the weirdest ways–

– feeling his feet in their sandals atop the rough cobblestone of the streets –

– tasting a hint of woodsmoke in the air –

And walked forward into the city’s busy streets without a care in the world, feeling all the weight lift from his shoulders.

Deep stuff can wait. I smell pork…