The days following went without a hitch. Han returned to Elder Jinshi’s field, but one of his arms was still caught up in a sling. Despite the limitation it didn’t change the results much, when Grisla and Han went at it a second time the fight may have been balanced on the scales for the former but, neither was too pleased, their dispirited blows took on the idea of it being more of a stage play rather than what they knew. Grisla conceded.

“What’s up with you?” Han said, watching Grisla pick himself out of the dirt, “you’re distracted. I mean, you usually look it, but… stop wasting my time. Whatever happened to the ‘To concede before it is my time is a tragedy’ spiel? Highly embarrassing, if I might add but it had something of charm, now you look like someone spat in your dish. Did someone spit in your dish?”

Grisla wasn’t too sure of it himself. When he got up and looked around, they were surrounded by their clan with laser-focus on their opponent. Passionate involvement in their spar. Some were equal, others less so. Regardless, nobody there had a sling on their arm. He gave Han a side-eye. “Can’t get into it. Doesn’t feel right.”

Han raised his arm, “What, this? You can’t be serious.” His face twitched for a grin, “The playing field’s more even, I get to work on my defense, and you get to… have fun having some fighting chance? Sounds like a good wager to me.”

Was it really?

In their world, it was needless to say one would sometimes be fighting at a disadvantage, or vice versa, always in a state of flux. A wiser man would take the lead and break his opponent’s shins, or he could be outplayed by the swifter one, who flips that into a way to drive his fist through the man’s head. A constant push and pull. Though it did hold fact, it wasn’t Grisla’s way, not on a practice field.

“Had I not spoken to you before it would be a dent to my pride to be taken lightly by a first cycle. Punishment’s your kick, huh?” Han then mocked, ‘Oh please Chosen Han, beat me into the dirt, broken bones and swelling.’”

Grisla rolled his eyes. “Quiet yourself and ready up.”

At the end of Elder Jinshi’s practice, Grisla pondered on that strange conundrum on the way home, with the crunch of snow as repetitive as a tempo. It made little sense for him to care, in fact, getting his own revenge in a fashionable beatdown wouldn’t be surprising—if he were someone else. Part of it, the handicap was too significant, much to Grisla’s chagrin. He didn’t tell Han of the frank difference in their technical skill with the fist art. Were he not educated by his mother in humility it would’ve been, surprising to Grisla, easy to reinjure Han. Of course, he wasn’t stupid enough to mouth that thought.

And Han did ask of what he did with the amulet, or as the amulet called itself, “The Sage’s Ornament.” Grisla wasn’t sure who had the worse knack for titles, the amulet or their Ancestor. But he showed Han that he still had it whole, taking it out from underneath his robe. Only to receive a look between judgement and eccentricity.

Han asked, “If you think you can pull it for impressing the fine maidens in the village, I’m sorry Brother Grisla but—”

“Not at all what I think of it. There’s some luck I feel with it, fortune perhaps?”

There was a long bout of Han’s retelling of the story of Rei Jian’s—The Sage’s Ornament’s, history. He was assured that there was a hole in Grisla’s sanity, or memory, or both. Grisla didn’t mock him. Had his sanity questioned too in his moment alone with the thing, and still ran it over. Han’s assuredness about the amulet confirmed his commitment to keeping his mouth shut.

He did have his reservations having a seemingly polite conversation with someone who almost killed him. Grisla couldn’t vouch for a safe confidant anywhere else in the clan, but Han was the closest he could get to a stream of information about the inner workings without exposing himself. So, he let himself rock in the ocean. He wasn’t that bad of a guy after all.

When it was all done, Han and Grisla both said noncommittal goodbyes to each other as both went in opposite directions from the gate. Grisla had an idea to try to pry something more out of the amulet, and the only place to get it would be from the village marketplace.

“Imbecile, watch where you’re walking!” A roughnecked voice said.

He felt the mistake rather than the words. Nose losing its sense of smell for a second while he recoiled. What stopped him, an immediate wall of armor, polished with care. I’m the one who got hurt, what’s his deal?

Bowing, “Mindless Grisla apologies for his lapse in attention.”

A sound of surprise, “Grisla you said?”

Unsure of where it was going, he answered: “Yes, Grisla Orlith.”

The light behind his eyes went up, the incident, forgotten. “Gihren’s boy! Good to see you, a nice coincidence.”

As Grisla inspected him, he matched the armor with his employ, another one of the clan’s guardsmen. Less fancily dressed as his counterparts at the Inner District, the spirit they carried was about the same however. Like a distinct smell. Once upon a time, Grisla didn’t mind the idea of becoming a guardsman, how about that dream now…

He clapped Grisla’s shoulder, making the boy throw an eye to his hand.

“Might I ask a request of you?” The guard said.

“Something wrong?”

Chuckling, “The thing is… it’s about your father, really. Head on down to the Pillmaker’s place. He’s raising hell. I’d stay to listen but, alas, my shift is coming up.” Jovial and loose, about his father it was a game.

“What do you mean?” Grisla said.

The guard started, past Grisla and turned his head. “Dunno’, check up on him for me. Later."

The Pillmaker’s Foundry, or Pillmaker’s, colloquially, is the stopping place for all residents and clan members of Leimuth or the clan, ran by his ancestors, passed down through to its inheritors, Elder Olimuth administered his shop like an emperor within the clan. A seventh generation Pillmaker, he had both the legacy and the skill to do so. Many a tale has come around the clan of him outright refusing to do business with certain cilents, or particular personality traits.

It wasn’t untrue—hell, Grisla from experience knew it’s a complicated process to even get a simple low-quality Soul Cleansing Pill. As the clan’s sole pill manufacturer and refiner, the clan was at the mercy of his whims. Their skills took years of study, and expensive materials had to be destroyed in the advancement of one’s education, a profession not meant for empty purses; what was the Patriarch to do if his greatest asset was overbearing? A pill maker meant everything to cultivation, and because its everything to cultivation—its everything to the clan.

In the end it always has been about the clan.

Ahead of Grisla, a crowd. Not close to the point where he couldn’t see through the slips between, but he had to approach to get an idea of the happening. Pushing through, he was forced back; with an emphasis of his getting by these mortals with some Juva powering him he clawed his way to the front. To yell out for Gihren, to yell out for his father.

Gihren, who was in the center stood ahead of two—Elder Olimuth and another guard. Both, wide-eyed and infuriated, screamed at one another almost in competition to whoever becomes the loudest. Sensible or otherwise, they made for a show that the crowd alongside them had to wallow in for entertainment.

“We’ve done right by you for years! So why!” Gihren said.

Elder Olimuth shot back, "There is no ‘why’ it’s just the way things are now!”

“It’s like that, then? Is that how you treat us Juken?”

“Father!” Grisla came close, “What’s wrong?”

The crowed turned heads or locked eyes with the newcomer. Those who recognized Grisla couldn’t help their faces to progress to an end-to-end smile. “This show’s gonna be good” was their thought. Grisla, the next actor on stage was helpless to stop more of the audience off the street from pouring in, entranced.

“Grislan? So good to see you,” Elder Olimuth raised his chin, “be a good boy and help your father home. This scene’s not good for your reputation.”

Fifteen years as a member of the clan, still can’t say it right.

Ignoring him, Grisla saw Gihren flick his eyes over to his son, frustration transparent. “Their shamelessness has gone too far! Olimuth outright refuses to do business with us now, and forever!”

Grisla’s heart dropped four floors. A Soul Cleansing Pill’s what he needs to offset the deficiencies within his core. If he didn’t, injuring himself trying to push for the second cycle would be assured. Should that happen—it would very likely result in him no longer being able to cultivate Juva or advance on the Path. His life would be over. Condemned to forever sulk as a mortal. Blood coming to a boil; he took up anger as well.

The Pillmaker rolled his eyes, “I’ve said it multiple times. My stock’s not to be sold off arbitrarily anymore! A new priority has come in and I serve my clan first, cripple. Should be grateful you managed to sip from the pond for as long as you have.”

“A crock of shit!” Gihren stepped forward, “One of us came in earlier and you sold them the same pill, reduced price, even! Do you not feel shame?”

Elder Olimuth scoffed, looking to the guard sitting as a third party, “Are you going to allow this to continue? I’ve got orders to fulfill, and,” taking a look back at Gihren, “priority goes from the top down. Whether you agree with it or not, you’re buried below it. In the end, this scene you’re causing, the stint you’re coming to me with, that frustration you feel is all pointless you dope! I’ve provided more than enough for any first cycle to break to the second, and he hasn’t even advanced a step! Useless wouldn’t even scratch it! It’s already bad enough he needs a pill to try an attempt, and now you want to blame the rest of us? Look around, Gihren! They’re not here to see us, but you! Acting foolish!”

Gihren… had nothing. Grisla couldn’t match the gazes of either of these men. Instead, finding places where he could safely look, not at the crowd, for they sneered and shook their heads in varying degrees from person to person.

It’s my fault, again. Always my fault.

He couldn’t do this anymore. Something had to be done.

“Elder Olimuth,” Grisla said, with a respectful bow. “I don’t suppose you have time to indulge a question of mine?”

Elder Olimuth, who was engaged in a passionate shouting contest with Gihren before, took the invitation as a smooth transition for more tranquil conversation. Dispassionately nodding, “Aye, what’s to talk about junior? Care to advocate for your father, I suppose?”

Grisla, shaking his head, “Nay. I haven’t the silver tongue to speak up… in such circumstances. Your negligence for our orders will be from now on, yes? Because of the changes within the clan? What changes?”

“I am not at liberty to divulge that. Not yet anyway.”

Grisla’s eyebrow raised at that point, nevertheless, he continued, “I merely want to propose a deal.”

“Grisla, hush,” Gihren intervened to save face, “we’ll find another—”

“On the contrary I find there’s no alternative. Where else within a thousand li will I be able to find a provider for the resources this Untalented could use? Nobody can answer that. It is that reason I want my deal.”

The crowd closest to the action made questionable expressions at Grisla’s request.

Elder Olimuth laughed. “It just keeps getting better and better,” he crossed his arms, “okay, I’m listening, speak Gristila.”

“Please correct me if I’m wrong, I’m under the assumption that, to fulfill the new acquisition it requires… a substantial amount of resources, resources that, if we were on the hook, would take away from finishing off an order that otherwise would be done. But we’re talking large-scale, correct? One order of a high-quality Soul Cleansing Pill would have to be delayed because it competes with the low-quality pill you hand off to us… because of charity.”

Grisla took Olimuth’s grunt as assent. “It takes labor to gather the ingredients. Liferoot, Springflower, Tree’s Tears; all of them aren’t easy to gather, and are hard to find out in the wild, aren’t they?”

“Hurry it up, the rambling’s getting old. What’s your point, Grislea?”

As he wished, Grisla shot to the point— “I will go out and gather them for you.”

Grisla knew, with anything he decided for… will always have a negative reception. Elder Olimuth couldn’t help himself, taking a long laugh that lasted longer than it takes to pour tea. The mediating guard had to hold it in for appearances, but a grin still dragged at the edges. Gihren moved, attempting to stop his son from shaming himself further, but Grisla threw a stare at his father. Not a stare of observation, of intensity, nay, just a stare. That was all it took.

“I’ll bring the materials back myself, and then when I hand them off, there would be no issue to manufacturing it.”

“You’re not an herbalist, how’ll you know what to look for?”

“It won’t be my first time handling the material.”

Elder Olimuth shook his head, “On the other hand, it will be your last, overconfident junior. The protection you take for granted won’t be there to shield you out there in the Northern Wilderness. To be honest, I had some hope that what drooled out of your mouth would change my opinion of you two, but—”

“What loss is there if I die!” Grisla said. “If I go there and come back, fine. If I go there and die, fine. Consequences are the least of my concern. I’ve been dead from the beginning, to you, to the clan, to my betters.” He gritted his teeth, “To drive my path, I must endure… no matter what, I need those pills. Elder.”

Taken aback, Elder Olimuth—for once that didn’t seem like a disrespect, grinned. “That’s some spine I haven’t seen out of a first cycle. Oh my, you’re serious about this one?” He turned to Gihren, who was absolutely lost now, “goodness, he’s like a miniature version of that wife of yours back then! A little less refined, but it’s there.”

The crowed heard him, too. Delivering whispers back and forth with excitement: A first cycle at the Juva Soldification stage, travelling out to the Northern Wilderness at this time of the year? At his level of advancement? The absurdity was too much for a laugh. There was overconfidence… and then there was deluded foolishness.

I believe that, on this island and clan we call home. I will struggle to progress, and that’s a reality I must accept. Though I will not let it hinder my ambition, to become strong, to stop men like him from treating us this way… will only be achieved through advancement! Strength! Undeniable power!

He made his bed, now was the time to lie in it. Grisla desired his freedom from this hell—by advancement… or death.