Between Beast And Buddha: A Drunken Monkey's Journey to Immortality

B3 Chapter 10

Orange-crest stared through the thickening twilight at his target.Hong Bo had tracked the seven men to a building the humans called the Yamen Runners' Lodge. Apparently those who offended the officials were usually held in buildings called 'jails', but Huangsongyu, with only a few thousand inhabitants, was too small to merit dedicated facilities.

Orange-crest wanted to call it madness, to deem Huangsongyu so small, but would it not have been more mad to doubt the evidence of his eyes and ears?

The building wasn't too large. Not compared to a place like the Hall of Dawn. Two floors, shaped roughly like a finger, much longer in one dimension than the other. Stables were attached to the long side like a wart on said finger. The Assistant Magistrate himself wouldn't be there. Uncle Fu was hosting him at his manor. Not that he was much of a threat.

The monkey still found it strange that with all the importance humans placed on cultivation, the assistant magistrate was a mortal. Apparently magistrates and assistant magistrates were nearly always mortals because there were very strict limits on their tenure.

The true dangers were the runners, the local guards, and the magistrate's escorts. At least one cultivator, potentially more, none likely to be particularly strong. Apparently it was common for those who were dismissed from sects to seek employment as Yamen Runners or military officers. Since the threshold to remain with the Azure Mountain was the third stage, that meant any runners were almost certainly below the third or fourth stage of Qi Condensation. Orange-crest was trying to be clever, to consider every angle, so he allowed potential for sects with harsher standards, or advancement after leaving the sect.

Fifth stage at worst. Two or more of those could be a genuine problem. But that was very unlikely.

The mortals shouldn't be an issue. Not to him at least. Two men with full armor and military-grade weapons, and perhaps half a dozen more with clubs and staves. They might hurt the bandits, but they wouldn't do worse than distract orange-crest himself.

"The cells are likely on the first floor." Hong Bo mused quietly. "Thicker walls, no need to drag prisoners up the stairs."

"Hmm." Orange-crest appreciated Hong Bo's help, but he wanted to do this himself. He didn't have his master's cunning to rely on any longer.

They had numbers. He had power. He remembered Li Xun's lessons on tactics. Apply his strengths against their weaknesses.

"There is still time to change your mind."

"No." The monkey said simply. There wasn't. His mind had been made more than a year ago, this was simply a consequence of the shape of it. Orange-crest didn't like when people were blamed for things they didn't do. And for once he was strong enough to do something about it.

"This is going to be troublesome. One way or another."

"Probably."

Hong Bo sighed.

"Good fortune, Brother Chengse. I need to arrange some messages. I'll see you on the road. Try not to make too much of an impression."

"Sorry." Orange-crest murmured.

"What?"

"Sorry." Orange-crest repeated. "For making you get off the mountain."

Hong Bo's brow furrowed. He nodded, then left. Orange-crest rose a moment later, heading in the opposite direction. He wandered Huangsongyu like a ghost, avoiding interaction. Without his ever-smiling companions, humans avoided orange-crest like a leper.

Time passed. Orange-crest cooked his plan like a pill, burning away the impurities of hesitation until only the readiness for action remained. Orange-crest decided he would move just before midnight, when most of the humans had lain down for sleep, but not yet had time to rest.

Dark fell in earnest. The hour arrived. Orange-crest slipped into an alley, and where one figure had entered, four exited. One skulked out from either end of the alley. Two more followed the real monkey up, leaping weightlessly as he climbed, readying themselves to run the roofs.

It took qi and focus to produce clones. Having them all in position would let orange-crest move even more quickly. The Yamen Runners would have no idea what hit them.

Finally, the first clone approached the lodge. The cultivator who had accompanied the magistrate stood at the door, flaring his qi to advertise his status to the surrounding mortals. The two soldiers flanked him, spears in hand, swords at their side, crossbows strapped to their lower backs.

It struck orange-crest as a little odd. That one had seemed like the assistant magistrate's personal attendant. Shouldn't he be with his superior? And why was he constantly flaring his meager qi?

In the end, orange-crest moved forward. He'd tried to see all the angles through which this could be a trap, but his only real fear remained stronger cultivators within, keeping their qi suppressed.

Orange-crest moved his first clone to stand just at the end of the street. He positioned himself atop the nearest roof, a tiger waiting in ambush.

"Junior." The illusory monkey's voice was cold, raised to carry. "You have imprisoned men under spurious charges. Release them."

The moment he spoke, a hush fell over the street. Men immediately began to make themselves scarce, the mere suggestion a fight between cultivators might follow enough to clear the street.

"Really? Someone actually came for those fools?" The magistrate's cultivator said with a sneer. "Am I to believe that any filthy beggar with a bold tongue is a hidden master? If you are my senior, prove it and identify yourself. If you speak truly, I will escort you to the assistant magistrate."

Orange-crest seriously considered it. If he showed his strength, but did not speak his name, there was a good chance they would back down. But they wouldn't let the prisoners free immediately. Anything less than violence would give them time to call for reinforcements strong enough to capture him.

The man's sneer darkened into something nastier as the clone remained silent, taking his hesitation for fear.

"Otherwise... Impersonating a cultivator to obstruct the course of law enforcement merits no less than a heavy beating. I see no reason that sentence cannot be carried out now."

No, it was now or never.

"You should yield." The clone advised, a trace of humor returning to the monkey's voice. "Once you see that you are overmatched. I don't want to bully my juniors any more than necessary."

"Take him!" The man shouted, reaching into a sleeve.

Orange-crest's clone scampered to the side as the soldiers smoothly switched from spears to crossbows. As he'd hoped, the cultivator smelled weakness and advanced.

Orange-crest leapt. His staff fell, the Stone Monkey's considerable weight behind it, intending to take the cultivator out of the fight with a single blow. The illusion on the roof moved with him, mimicking the blow. Orange-crest felt his invisibility strain at the momentary contact, but he powered through, insisting upon the division between the monkey that touched, and the monkey that was seen. After advancing two small realms, his control over his illusions had greatly improved.

A shell of pale green light emerged the moment the blow connected, cracking like lake-ice even as it flickered into being. The cultivator fell to his knees, but the shield took the blow, albeit not without clear strain.

Orange-crest hissed. A talisman, and not a weak one. Far stronger than the cultivator who carried it. He could see it now, shining through the man's robes. That's why he kept flaring his qi, to conceal his defense.

"Seniors!" The talisman wielder shouted, spinning to face the new assailant. Orange-crest saw another talisman in his free hand, already sparking with fiery light. He threw himself to the side, his clone following, just as a gout of fire shattered the night.

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Orange-crest felt a pulse of qi emanate from the lodge. Several cultivators, discarding stealth in unison. His caution was paying dividends, it was a trap. Why? Did they expect this Road-Clearing Society to rescue its men?

A man leapt from a second floor window, shards of glass falling around him like rain, exerting his fourth stage cultivation base to slow his fall. A woman took up position by that same window, a bow in hand.

Orange-crest split from the roof-clone, sending it behind an abandoned stall as the talisman-weakling sent forth another gout of flame far stronger than he should be able to produce. The true monkey circled around, advancing even as his clones fell back.

Bolts of steel and gouts of flame followed them, tearing up the street, but with the abundant cover of the town's buildings, his clones avoided being dispelled by a direct hit.

"Give chase!" The fourth stage cultivator shouted, brandishing a talisman of his own. Shards of ice began to form around him, looking like shields and potential projectiles both.

Just how many talismans did these men carry?

"Retreat!" One illusory monkey shouted.

"Don't let them make distance! Round them all up and we'll take down the whole gang tonight!"

"Careful!" The weakling cried. "One of them is strong!"

One of his seniors loudly scoffed at the warning.

As the one-sided fight moved further from the lodge, the real monkey skipped past the front door, where more men were emerging to reinforce the two soldiers, with the archer still covering them from above.

The lodge's first floor had no windows. Orange-crest supposed they would be potential egresses for prisoners. So the monkey decided to make one of his own.

He spread his legs, feeling the cobblestones through his slippers, the earth beneath them. Fumbling, uncertain, orange-crest reached out for his heritage. His qi circulated beneath his skin, groping and flailing at the power he'd grasped so cleanly riding upon the currents of the centipede wine.

Slowly, soberly, the fur of his right hand hardened into stone. And stone fingers closed into a fist.

Orange-crest grinned. His qi surged, as the monkey put all his strength into reinforcing his body. His fist shot forward, and a sizable section of the stone wall exploded inward.

It was easy to simply push his way through what remained of the wall, emerging into a hallway filled with the dust and rubble of his coming.

Orange-crest let his clones fan out. He couldn't see through them, couldn't use them to search the floor independently. But he didn't really need to. The wooden doors didn't put up half as much resistance as the wall had. The cries of the lodge's men filled his ears, many of them half-dressed, just rousing themselves from slumber.

Orange-crest finally released his qi, the full might of his seventh stage cultivation base washing over the first floor of the building. The air grew heavier, and the mortals stilled, the instincts of prey screaming within them.

"Don't." Orange-crest said simply.

They didn't.

The qi of the archer above pressed back against him. Third stage. Weak. Orange-crest dispatched a clone to delay her, giving it vague instructions to use fear to keep her from descending the stairs.

The he that wasn't him would figure it out.

The third door he tried led to the cells. They were not much. Bamboo bars, splitting the room in two. Thick enough a mortal would need time or tools to bypass them. Time or tools the pair of guards with clubs would not allow them.

Only Worm-Scarred Fu was restrained, a board of wood bowing his neck, his hands bound behind him. He was gagged as well, a none-too-clean-looking rag strapped around his head.

The guards were already pale when orange-crest entered. When they took in the clone at his side, the way the candlelight made apparent that they were perfectly identical, all fight left them.

"Cultivator." One breathed, the word a prayer, or curse.

"Your master made a mistake." Orange-crest explained simply. "These men did not steal that pig."

The guard who'd spoken jolted, shocked at being addressed.

"Y-Yes, honored cultivator." He said. "The keys—"

Orange-crest didn't wait. The bamboo bars bent like straw before snapping apart. He left Worm-Scarred Fu as he was. Best if he didn't talk too much before orange-crest got him alone.

"Go." Orange-crest told the prisoners. "Follow him." He gestured toward his clone.

They went. Whispers followed. Profuse thanks to the honored cultivator for rescuing them. Questions directed at their silent leader about who he was.

The real orange-crest remained behind, waiting patiently.

A bead of sweat dripped down the forehead of the silent guard. He looked a moment away from wetting himself, or simply passing out.

"You should go too." He told them. "Best not to be here, when your cultivators get back."

The men nodded an entirely unnecessary number of times before obeying. The talkative one thanked him for his mercy, carefully avoiding what he was thanking him for, lest he give the strange cultivator ideas.

It shouldn't have felt this good.

Orange-crest had never liked the domineering behavior of human cultivators. It was awful, being on the other side of it. After leaving the Azure Mountain, he'd come to understand why the Monkey King was so reclusive, only interacting with creatures other than monkeys to enforce his rules, or pass final judgement.

Because for those who did not trust him as the king's people did, there was only this. The utter submission that came with a sufficient gulf in cultivation. He hated the way humans handled it, but he could hardly see an alternative. You obeyed those stronger than you, or you died helpless. Was it so wrong that the strongest should impose their will across the wide world? Were they any worse than a more local tyrant?

Orange-crest walked the halls of the lodge, shooing away mortals. One raised a club to him, braver than he was wise. The monkey shifted, taking the blow across a shoulder instead of on his face. Then he raised a single finger, and poked the man, hard enough it would leave a fearsome bruise in the morning.

"No."

His companions fled. He followed, staggering. The first floor was soon empty.

It felt good, watching them submit. Seeing something wrong in the world, and correcting it. Assistant Magistrate He reminded orange-crest far too much of Elder Lu. He saw people, and he took them. As fodder for the war, or bait for a wanted cultivator. They were worth what use he could wring from them. He wondered if the man hoped to become a full magistrate, after his time as an assistant magistrate was done. Eradicating this bandit group would be a merit that would help him do that, wouldn't it?

Orange-crest rolled his shoulders. They were here. He could feel them, small presences shouting their significance into the night.

"Coward!" One cried. "Fight us directly!"

"Rogue or demon, you will answer for your crimes!"

If nothing else, they were brave.

Orange-crest peeked out into the hallway. A crossbow bolt whistled by him, embedding itself in the wall.

And those two mortals were braver still.

The earth shifted, roots surging up through the floor, grasping at the monkey's feet. Orange-crest hopped into the air, balancing on his staff for a moment. The roots jostled the base of his staff, but with one hand hooked under the doorframe, his position was secure enough. The monkey sent a newly formed clone into the hall, one who immediately evaporated under a hail of jagged blades of ice.

"Advance! Flush him out!"

"He can't stand against all of us!"

"Use spread attacks to disperse his illusions!"

That hallway was a death trap. His stone form might be enough to weather the assault, but why risk it?

Exits were everywhere, for those with fists to make them.

A gentle push off the top of the door carried orange-crest to the far side of the questing roots. A pair of heavy stone punches shattered the wall, and he was out before the roots slithered over to encircle his ankles.

Too easy.

Orange-crest emerged into a night that was not half so dark as it'd been when he'd entered the runner's lodge. A fire on the far side of the building cast harsh shadows over the street before him.

That was probably someone's home, wasn't it?

A single cultivator stood before orange-crest. The magistrate's man, the one who had been throwing around the flaming talismans. His shield still stood, now an unbroken orb of jade green light.

His eyes shined madly with the reflected light of the fire.

"You won't escape me." He promised. "I know your dirty tricks now, and your staff is worthless before the power of Senior He's talismans."

Orange-crest charged straight for the man. He did not deserve to be trusted with such power. Not if this was how he used it.

Another flaming talisman sparked.

Orange-crest thrust his staff into the ground, vaulting above the gout of flame. His heart beat filled his ears as the world spun round him. He'd missed this, on Mount Yuelu. It wasn't the same, sparring with red-eyes. He was too weak to truly press his brother now. He touched down behind the magistrate's man, and punched.

His fist skidded off the shield as if orange-crest had punched into solid jade, too smooth for his blow to find real purchase.

But the human cowering behind it skidded back several steps from the sheer force of the strike.

That shielding talisman was powerful. Orange-crest had little experience with talismans, only a few conversations with Li Shuwen to draw on, but he would eat another of shadow-tail's culinary abominations if the cultivator who had created that jade shield was weaker than Foundation Establishment.

He could run...

But his first strike had cracked it...

"Burn!"

Orange-crest dropped on his belly to avoid the stream of flame that would have seared away his disguise, if not his skin. At least if he didn't use the Drunken Phoenix's Breath to redirect it.

"I have you!"

Orange-crest agreed. He did have him. The monkey spun, bringing his legs forward. He kicked up at his opponent from his back, the talisman easily absorbing the force of the blow.

But it took the foolish arsonist off his feet. He landed hard, momentarily prone. The shield was a sphere, like a pearl of jade. But not a perfect one. Otherwise the talisman wielder would be rolling around helpless. When the man fell upon his back, his shield became a hemisphere.

Faster by far, orange-crest fell upon the earthbound cultivator. He let his staff slip to full extension, feeling it grow heavier as he poured qi into the weapon. The swing was slower. The cultivator's recovery was slower. Trapped between hammer and anvil, the shield cracked.

A second strike shattered it, and a casual kick took the assistant magistrate's man out of the fight.

Orange-crest patted him down, and swiped his pouch. By feel, it was filled with thin strips of paper. He would find a better use for those.

And then the monkey was running, his powerful legs making light work of the streets of Huangsongyu, seeking a route to where he'd dispatched his last surviving clone. Once he found them, he could lead them to the rendezvous with Hong Bo.

His blood sang with the thrill of victory as projectiles fell to the earth far short of his footfalls. An injustice had been thwarted. His hands clutched a pouch filled with interesting and powerful talismans. He had companions, one who trusted him, and seven who... Seven who were stuck with him for the moment.

He'd done what he wanted. Done what felt right.

But why did he keep his eyes glued to the horizon, afraid to look back at the firelit silhouette of Huangsongyu, or at the shadow it cast before him?