Seyun sat with his back propped against the western granite spur as the white dust settled over the split bronze drum. He felt his Early Jade breath fold back into his narrow central spirit vein trunk and vanish into ordinary, bone-deep tiredness. In every training legend whispered in the lower tea-houses, splitting a heaven-grade array was supposed to trigger an immediate ascension. The sky was supposed to rain sweet dew, the fighter’s shattered staff was supposed to reforge itself into a jade dragon, his out-of-joint shoulder was supposed to snap back into place with golden light. He was supposed to step effortlessly into the next realm. Meanwhile, his defeated enemy coughed blood and died at his feet.
Nothing of the kind happened on the northern ridge of the Hollow Summit.
No new realm arrived to make the coming retreat down the mountain easy. Seyun was still Early Jade. And right now he was an Early Jade fighter whose internal reserve was fully empty, whose left shoulder hung out-of-joint in his torn coat sleeve, whose left return channels burned like raw sunburn from wrist to shoulder muscle, whose right forearm was bound in a wooden splint, and whose stitched left calf throbbed with every beat of his heart.
