The crack of dawn always happens at times where Xinrei wasn’t in want of it; one day it’ll taste his wrath. As light spilled over him, his lids slid open as if the difference between dawn and dusk were of little meaning. He glanced at the door as he dressed. When it came to everyone else, their servants would’ve had them dressed, washed and with a sip of wine in them. But, one word to decline; another week of screaming to get it through their heads. He didn’t understand it. What kind of man, elevated by power, allows themselves to be taken care of no less than a babe? It was one of such things that stymied him. Silver glinted behind him. His spear on its display had its own arrogance, noticeable no matter how much darkness tried to cloak itself over it. It tried on every falling of the sun; to fail every time.

A casual wave of his hand, a whisper of Juva told the air to force itself against his window. From this view, the entire clan from its heart to the last edges of Grittus territory—to the Xiriford River, snaking its way to touch the next border owned by the Stoneheart clan was there to see. Mingling of villagers already awake three hours before the cultivators and the highbrow elders that were ants from here meant that he didn’t come up not a minute early.

A sudden break in the continuous pattern of buildings drew an eye. Where, a structure larger than any outside of the Upper District, as though coming up to challenge, was swarmed with scaffolding manned by the ants again.

What he remembered, or listened about from father, the first phase of construction was delayed because of a random incident—that he didn’t detail. Not that he cared. His lips did murmur something about, “More wards and repellants, it wouldn’t do for another to wander in…” Whatever that meant. Since then, the Patriarch has had the clan working on the project without rest; shifts of men tiptoeing inside their homes, and the less nimble crashing in and causing an uproar were common on the villager’s side. He sniffed.

Two years remain. From what the High Elders say, I am more than capable of sweeping through the Rosewater Exchange at my own pace. As if he needed to be told that. He levied another look at his trophy behind him. Since that day, he hasn’t found a true use for it. None in the clan around his level can strain him to try—the Chosen would give him an excellent workout, at best. He was Chosen One for a reason and Fang Lai, though he may possess an inkling of talent, was too caught up in his own frivolity to be caught dead on a training field.

The Rosewater Exchange was many things for him. And, the start of others. Curing his boredom was the first of them. Grisla—may hell take him—helped him with that if he had to admit. It didn’t stop his lips from curling at the thought.

A new crowd at the Upper District’s entrance pulled a string of his attention. Suddenly, he squinted. There was a body down there with their populated numbers full of men with spines so bent only a branch could call them kin. Their robes carried the Grittus blacks but complimented with gold lace entwined to make whatever the wearer wanted shown on their own: doves, rocs, maybe a turtle here, or a snake for the odd fellow. The designs meant nothing. It was the lace itself that signified: Elder; High Elder. What were they doing out there? At this hour? Greeting someone?

Who would be so prominent as to demand their attention? He leaned forward. The train of carriages paled in comparison to the men who guarded them—the vibrations of their aura he could pick up from here. Cultivators, yet soldiers. It wasn’t a novel idea; many cultures and countries have done so. Merely, that the quality and amount of cultivators-turned-rank-and-file was the fastest measure of a state’s power. All cultivators, in some amounts, had their arrogance and a fierce streak for independence; it’d be impossible to achieve greatness without. The demands of a state are antithetical to what’s required of a Cultivator, of ambition.

Loyalty to the establishment with their strength to back it? Only the oddities could do it. It was the simplest explanation as to why cultivator clans outnumbered these soldiers. But these oddities made themselves to be feared by right—a monolith like the One-City Kingdom comes to mind. It almost made him flash in a cold sweat, almost. Till he noticed the banners flying high weren’t the Queen’s. He mired in some confusion. There wasn’t any other power on the island who had a standing army like so, so who could it be? Where did they come from, then?

While he watched an abrupt knock came. As Xinrei’s scowl flashed out, he had a foreboding feeling that he was about to find out…

The library of the Rei family was highlighted as a large advantage over the other Grittus clan families; for one, they cared enough about literature outside of cultivation that an assortment of writing to fit the taste was always available, if the clan’s didn’t suit. Some considered that a waste of shelf space for shallow books and scrolls; what wisdom or guidance could be learned from a limpwrist noble? The excuses were endless. At one point of time the Rei had wanted to agree, until Rei Jian persuaded them otherwise. That stance was boldened after the man was killed, found over a pile of their collected knowledge with no one to answer for it. A wound that’ll never be forgotten.

And, Rei Rangwha reminds herself of that to the utmost. The hurt exacerbated with an open grudge on it. She shoved it out of mind as she opened the door. Xinrei stood there, half in shock and half not. The clockwork behind his eyes made him hesitate; she almost wanted to laugh. If this were battle, the idea would be absurd.

“What now?” Xinrei said. Flavored with his characteristic attitude. He didn’t shove it away for anyone, save his father. When she thought about it, he wasn’t nearly so bold when he was around.

She missed him. And she’ll never believe the rumors.

“The Clan Hall,” and when Xinrei’s impassive face spoke the unsaid question, she shrugged. “It’s a summoning from the Patriarch, to all of the High Elders and the Chosen.” She saw his head turn to the window.

Muttering to himself, “My feeling was correct,” Xinrei didn’t need more than a couple of seconds to finish what he’d already started. Without permission Rangwha helped herself to whatever fruit he had splayed out on his table, picking a peach out from the assortment. From nowhere, the future Patriarch put a chain over himself, that looked rather crude for someone like him from her eyes. Yet he wore it anyway. Whatever was at the end of it had already been tucked underneath his robe by the time he turned to face her.

“And? What is it about?” Xinrei’s hand made it to the spear. He didn’t remove it.

“It’s an emergency summons. We know nothing until we get there.”

“I suppose that’s right.”

She eyed that thing of his. That spear. A high gift even for a Patriarch’s son, she reckoned. The same tool Xinrei threatened her with not even a week ago. Sometimes, Xinrei looked as though he couldn’t stand looking at it—but that didn’t make sense. So, it was just what she wanted to see. Nevertheless, since Xinrei became Chosen One and wielded a weapon exclusively for himself, the Xinrei without his spear and with were of two different temperaments, nearly. One raised on plums and spirit pills, more arrogance than all the Chosen combined; and the other, whose eyes could slay an Immortal and devour Asuras in a blink. The former she knew; the latter made her shiver.

None of his generation or hers has made him draw it since his first display. It mingled with the dust for a couple of hours, got dusted off then collected some more. He treated his weapon as an old veteran’s vanity piece. Brought out only for occasions like so; ceremonially.

He begun wrapping it in a cloth. “Your brother?”

“Recovered,” Rangwha said. “Delightful coincidence, that. He was asked to do this, but there’s never a way I’ll let you two be in the same room together, unless forced.”

Xinrei grunted. A twitch of the fingers and his spear whirled at his command, freezing in place when he felt like it. “Let us be on our way then.”

Chosen One and Six passed through throngs of clansmen scurrying, at differing rates of criticality, forward and behind them in the courtyard. Most halted on a dime to offer their acknowledgements, but for those who hadn’t, curiously enough Xinrei didn’t say a word about it. To him, whether they did anything or not would still equal out to air; she didn’t know if this was his conceitedness or worry—what could make Xinrei Grittus, Chosen One and the Young Master of the clan worry?

Horses moved at hurried trot. Their riders escorting palanquins veiled and enchanted to repel Spiritual Sense; any clansman was a normal person trying to stare, if their curiosity dared. The waves separated as their titles demanded, and Elders they saw on the street offered comments about what they may think be going on, or who it was that brought such a grand entrance to their clan.

On Xinrei’s impatient lead, they picked up their pace and, like phantoms, they whisked themselves between and over the crowd at speeds matchable by the Elders. The gate outside looked like a closed artery, and the guests seized most of the space for their own, making personal space a myth. The pair took to the rooftops before a mystery stain found its way onto them. A few of the High Elders stood near to welcome them, saying that they’ll follow behind once the stir outside has been quelled.

Once inside, Xinrei and Rangwha exchanged glances. Ahead, the seats for both the High Elders and the Chosen had mostly filled in. Rei Han, sitting in Chosen Seven’s seat was a sour mule at the sight of Xinrei, but other than the few glances given their way—they were not the draw of the bystanders. A rare occurrence Xinrei could count on his fingers. His father’s—the Patriarch’s seat was devoid of its master. So was whomever sauntered up to his clan and distracted him from his training, dull and pointless as it was. Regardless, he didn’t like the unexpected.

And, knowing his father, he was involved.

Silence reigned, and yet, the unquiet which flickered on the faces of—these especially—the High Elders was as random as whichever direction a flame would go, absent of wind. Fang Lai, Chosen Two was unconcerned; when was he not? The deferred respect was all he could see as he approached, breaking off with Rangwha. With his spear laid in his lap as he sat, even the most dimwitted of their clan could see the difference in status among his peers.

Glancing around, he frowned. Father would’ve had something passed on to me by now. Why has he abstained from saying anything if this is part of his machinations? Or is it…?

His throat felt like bile thinking on it. He hasn’t forgotten there is not only one, but two true experts in the clan. A man everyone thought was dead. Someone Xinrei hasn’t seen since the coronation. He was his father’s father, of course he has some influence in all this, as to how much, only his father would know.

Unconsciously, he caressed his chain.

“You’re tagging along with Rangwha?” A voice said. “When have women ever interested you?”

The voice wasn’t worthy of his eye contact. “Whatever assumptions you have, quell them.”

“Touchy,” Fang Lai tilted his head. “Then again, that’s always been you. But it’s such a pity for you, and all the better for me…” When he noticed Xinrei’s eyebrow twitch, his languid grin melted. “I don’t know either what’s going on. My Matriarch’s been tight-lipped about it, what the woman doesn’t realize is that withholding information is good enough to the right mind. I suspect she’s been aware of their coming for a while.” The Fang’s are a strange bunch in the Grittus clan; if the Rei’s were the erudite, the Orlith’s the passionate, the Grittus’ the prideful, the Fang’s would be… the discreet.

Their family’s techniques were public, but of course if it were possible, they’d keep that holed away somewhere too. Fang Lai and his people’s preference for the subtle is what drew them to become the clan Patriarch’s right-hand. Whatever needed to be done in the shadow not he, or anyone else would be privy to their relationship. And even then, that’s telling too much. He despised Fang Lai because he saw no honor in what they did; how they managed to survive as one of the great families within the clan despite once being the weakest—they thanked the Orlith’s for that—is a testament to how far backdoor handshakes carried them.

And one day, his father’s relationship will be passed to him. Which’s another point of hatred. But he had his uses.

“The banners, do you recognize them?” He whispered, and Fang Lai’s head barely shook.

“Not a vassal of the One-City Kingdom, or a sect under one.”

“So that can only mean…”

“…Yes.” Xinrei said, knuckles white on his spear, Mainlanders.

Fang Lai’s voice was incredulous. “…Here? On the island? There’s no way.”

“There’s no other conclusion. You feel their auras, as I do.”

“They’re…” he groaned, “…monstrous.”

That doesn’t even scratch the surface of it, Xinrei thought. Men could be killed at any time, that wasn’t his concern. By what reason—what could ever—interest a power from that place, to visit their island and—their clan? Looking around, it’s evident why the Patriarch only summoned the High Elders and the Chosen, Xinrei himself knew that this incident, if it reaches the Queen it’ll stir a beast even he knows full well to fear. His father beat that one into him.

Xinrei’s eyes flitted to the throne. “In any case, after today there will be some changes around here.”

High Elder Chun appeared next to the throne, silencing the whispers. When he opened his mouth, he rambled out the ceremonial nonsense of his father’s approach, his titles, deeds and the extras nobody could care to mention besides him, afterward, Patriarch Meng—with the most expensive and gaudy clothing he could find, strolled out, as regal as the Queen herself. He didn’t need to be his son to know today he carried himself with more airs than usual, deepening his brow’s slant. If even he was affected, then…

On the throne, Patriarch Meng cleared his throat. “Thank you, my Elders,” He looked to the audience opposite of Xinrei. And the other, “And my chosen.”

“This assembly was called with haste because of great news I couldn’t wait to announce. It’s a change that’ll effect our clan’s future for the next generation,” said, and thought for a second, “and possibly for the next twenty.”

Eyeballs in both audiences bulged. Whispers flooded out.

“But before I go on,” he stood, and waved a hand to the door, “may I introduce our guests? They’ve been waiting for so long.”

Heads turned to the opening of the doors, where a group stood.

…And Xinrei’s frown hit rock bottom.