Chapter 11: The Decision

The young warrior’s voice faltered then and there. Watching Qian Ye slowly pick up his clothes and put them on before walking toward the door, he barely managed to squeeze out a sentence: “Don’t…act recklessly! My…my young master has something to say to you.”

Before his words finished fading, the man dashed away like he was fleeing from a disaster and vanished back into the court yard.

By the entrance, Qian Ye straightened his clothing and stepped outside. There he found a gathering of about ten individuals surrounding a tall, youthful figure at the center; after having reviewed similar data previously, he instantly recognized the leader to be none other than Song Zian, the second heir of the esteemed Song family faction. The Song branch associated via the maternal line to Yin Qiqi’s household had, indeed, aligned itself under Song Zian. He stood among the Song family’s rising generation— one of their top three warriors—undisputed as the strongest of his batch by unanimous consensus.

The tall Song Zian gave Qian Ye a cursory inspection before retreating into his typical silence. In his eyes, speaking an unnecessary word more with a subordinate of a sibling was beneath him.

One of Zian’s retainers stepped forward and spoke out brashly, “You’re the guest samurai belonging to Master Seven, no? My Lord Second Heir requires use of the training chamber. Stand aside! Compensation for your inconvenience will be delivered promptly later according to your wishes.”

Yet, at that moment, Qian Ye had already settled his ire; his mind was like a tranquil lake, calm and clear. Scanning over the group, his eye lingered and found the retreating servant hiding timidly at their back in typical servant clothes—an official clearly attempting to disappear amidst the clammer.

Qian Ye raised his hand and pointed without haste at that very official. “Come forth.”

Fearing otherwise would invite even greater disfavor, and compelled to respond despite his nerves, the nervous servant stammered: “Sir An! You see how matters press on our Lord’s second heir for a reason—preparations for the examination, right? You can make do by relocating elsewhere, can’t you? Surely after training nonstop most of the day now, you understand patience bears success…”

His face remaining perfectly expressionless, Qian Ye cut right in. His words fell like frost: “Is my allocated time fully up yet?”

Caught red-handed, the overseer glistened with the sweat on his wide brow, stammering out a timid reply: “Well, not really yet…”

Song Zian’s vocal assistant grew incensed at the sight and snapped out impatiently from the sidelines: “Listen, kid! Lord Second Heir seeks your response!”

Seeming deaf even to such a shout as well as unnoticeably unimpressed by the now soured expression darkening Song Zian’s face, Qian Ye persisted on staring at the overseer. With his tone unfathomably smooth, Qian Ye pressed calmly onward: “If no time’s lapsed yet, then why’s someone opening my training-room door?”

Barely composing himself, the servant offered weakly: “Ah, merely acting from anticipation…too eager in their concern, nothing else…”

“Call over the elder on routine shift to attend. Now,” Qian Ye intoned without change, steady and neutral as ever.

“Elder!” the official choked, his fear erupting as though the word were rain pouring over a parched earth—in torrents.

“I clearly remember there is an elder duty on rotation daily—I wish to speak with my appointed guardian.”

Despite already slouching instinctively to the will of his superior, the overseer attempted, with the force of ingratiating grin, to deflect further, “Such minor disturbance doesn’t require invoking our guardians of rank?”

“Whether this qualifies is clearly your station’s determination, but tell me—are you requesting my presence to fetch our elder for questioning yourself or must I see the act of informing through personally?”

One of Songzian’s guards, having finally grown incensed to breaking bounds, strode forward, positioning himself between the two like thunder rolling upon a dry plain. “Little punk! Is that gratitude and courtesy you’ve thrown away? Think we’ve given too much respect already!”

Yet despite the flare of indignation coursing visibly up Qian Ye’s arm—one so sharp the colorless white hand gripping an invisible sword had turned stark pale with pressure; one where tendons throbbed faintly, struggling against a primal instinctive reaction of defense that only discipline and composure overmaster—Qian Ye closed off all that inward battle behind calm resolve.

Lifting his focus toward Zian instead as a matter of deliberate poise, Qian Ye spoke once more but quieter, chillingly neutral: “Could it really be that the famed second son of your House refuses to meet face-to-eye with an elder now?”

Only then did a hint of furrow tug his noble brow, compelling Song Zian to summon his impetuous guard back at once as he addressed with a tempered, deliberate calm: “You are Master One of Master Seven’s housekeeping team; let’s not play the games of shadows and posturing here. This training-room matters to me—I offer, instead, to listen—name your terms now, and if nothing excessive, my words stand as binding.”

This concession from Song Zian startled even his own company as well as surprising Qian Ye somewhat; however, little of the scene unfolded by Qyan did Song realize that the act, tantamount in the eyes of many as caving, merely arose from compulsion born within Zian himself.

What Song Zian did not anticipate was that such a humble servant beneath Songning’s retinue could display so sharp a hand and such unassailable presence—not shrinking in fear like expected nor indulged in argument, but rather holding to his will with steely insistence on elder arbitration, entirely sidestepping every opportunity Zian sought for conflict or escalation in favor of decorous authority. Hence his grand move meant to corner his opponent crumbled fruitlessly into nothing even before its execution was set.

This reversal left Zian in an unexpectedly thorny fix. The facts remained inadmissible; whether the guardian-in-shift were biased toward himself mattered very little, yet escalating the entire affair could very easily snowball into formal repreminding regardless—be it personal disciplinary action against his subordinates or worse, formal punitive investigation launched for breach of protocol if not outright harassment—certain doom indeed waiting should the matter reach high circles.

For if the overseer would fall regardless—even if Song Zian and his men remained blameless—how could Songning himself not later find cause, in recompense for harm caused his humble aide, against some dismissed relative?

Yet what consequence for his own future, in such precedent—was such the signal that loyalty to Song Zian would cost their future standing rather than offer upward climb?

At the tense crosshairs stood Qian Ye—pausing in hesitation, musing quietly.

He likewise couldn’t foresee their forceful arrival tapering into hesitant compromise. Why was Song Zian offering concessions this early despite their evident intent?

But surrender was out of the question—their ambush clearly meant sabotage. The matter could not simply rest.

But when silence stretched the moment unbearably to its peak, footsteps echoing down the corridor shattered the standoff.

“Brother, what good leisure you find these days!”

All turned abruptly to locate none others than Song Ninging striding purposefully from one edge of the courtyard entrance, accompanied by a group strapping and disciplined retainers close on heel. Among them towered a figure, colossal and looming like an immovable rock cast into place—an absolute force whose shadow loomed as large on presence as his height; with a gaze and countenance carved by the very edge of swords upon flesh, and aura so saturated in violence, as though it were something one could reach, almost tangibly touch—an embodiment of martial dread that seemed barely contained beneath the bounds of formal dress and decor.

Upon laying eyes on their arrival as a whole, the trembling steward could barely restrain his despairing groans.

Song Zien’s expression momentarily flared with alarm in response—having to issue greetings instinctively while swiftly repeating the earlier conciliatory promise already laid upon Qian Ye so as to claim initiative.

As Songuning advanced close enough towards Qian Ye, an immediate shift rippled through his demeanor: the trail of blood still smudged near Qian Ye’s lips, though nearly gone now, had not yet escaped the observant eye—he recognized instantly that it wasn’t ordinary injury. The calm shattered, giving place momentarily as wrath swelled into his gaze—a predator eye narrowing on target.

Yet, meeting Song Zien face now, he masked quickly the tempest with the veil of courteous grace. “What a rarity, to observe such merriment, my dear Lord Song Zien. A negligible squabble, I’m sure—a simple trade would resolve any unease: grant my younger guardian another additional double of current scheduled time you request and thus seal this matter amicably. Yours the chamber henceforward.”

Zian’s lips drew a firm line then. To borrow and extend a Heavenly Training Chamber meant a strict conversion of earned privileges accumulated solely on merit—measured and earned through noble service toward the clan. At present, his original bid would require an additional full two extra allotted usage days in exchange—four total, effectively costing him half their standard service cycle quota—a full six moons’ accumulated credits, assuming direct involvement and recognition for official clan responsibilities.

Still decisive at heart despite all calculations, Song Zien understood in this scenario, his most beneficial course laid immediately calming all turbulence. With Songuning’s unspoken agreement to forgo punishment against his servant over this affair, he returned with firm assurance: “Then brother, as you see fit, so shall the arrangement seal.”

He turned next toward the steward: “Reallocate four days from my allocated quota, transferring it at once to Lord Songuning’s name.”

“As command will!” With such a narrow escape on his conscience, the steward fled promptly, hastening like fire upon his heels to complete the task as swiftly possible.

Once dealt with, Song Zian shifted again, now softening with disarming warmth, “Gratitude is due, little brother. I had just come from Glowing Expanse not that long ago, where a handful of rare trinkets of the wilds captured my admiration—will grant you some of their finest soon enough.”

Grateful yet indifferent smiles playing his mouth, Ning merely dipped his chin, offering no reply further than necessary. Without further delay or fanfare, he took Qian Ye’s hand instead, guiding him outward.

Arriving at their awaiting vehicle’s perimeter, Songunning murmured low enough that the surrounding walls themselves would strain to grasp meaning: “Reveal to me, point them out. Who wounded thee?”

The elder samurai nodded, signaling softly in answer toward that youth who once forcibly flung open the training doors with brute disregard.

Understanding registered upon Songinning instantly, before he turned with composed precision:

“Songge!” His trusted retainer advanced in a swift bound.

In similarly soft yet firm tones, the man reported: “Name of this man, Yuan Feng. Aristocratic background, rank Seven War-Ensign, holds command over a squad at Lord Two’s security detachment currently, does not fall within ranks of our guest warrior force this round of training cycle.”

A shadow of fury, swift yet dark enough, flashed briefly over Songunning.

“Intrigue him into misfortune before his Grand Trial arrives, Songge. No need to spare that blade once it’s loosed.”

The other man nodded briefly, voice low-toned again: “His elder kin serves your Lord’s House—sister is second Lord Songzian’s current concubinage ward.”

The young master replied, unperturbed and dispassionate: “Shall they choose to babble and wail too loudly at that woman’s mourning—gift their companionship into same soil. Later I will send several music girls on behalf of appeasement to your Master.”

Songge acknowledged, “Understood.”

At the periphery of these murmured sentences had gathered the main escort force, arriving finally beside the parked armada in waiting vehicles, engines idling restlessly, eager.

Drawing near was the mighty giant who had first drawn all the air toward himself simply with existence alone—he reached, then casually swung open the front passenger seat where Song Ninging stood and paused only briefly to allow entrance for his Young master—a sign he held great privilege if given right to cohabitate same space as such noble.

One heavy-legged movement within the frame of the open car already caused the entire weight-suspended frame of the machine to jostle ever so faintly. Settling in, and without turning his gaze fully from where it had fixed ahead throughout arrival at scene and into this new movement, his low, gravelly tone broke the hush: “Master… we depart so soon? Spare those upstart whelps?”

“We withdraw, for now,” the Young master answered without even breaking pace—without turning.

“That’s my order now: An Renyi’s wounded and we must rush back for treatment.”

With no further speech exchanged, the large vehicle hummed into full-life.

Only then did Qian Ye finally grasp that this towering brute belonged indeed to Song Ning’s second private retainer cadre—Ga Junyi—recognized also as the most potent force outside the main Song Heir’s named champions in Song Ning’s personal service.

The man’s appearance screamed battle hardened. Every feature carried the markings of war and years spent on the bloodied frontlines, his hands likely crusted in the echoes of untold kills—easily seen now not from the bloodied blade often mentioned, but simply from how his very presence hung like the afterstorm.

Grinning fiercely while he rumbled out, gaunt laughter escaping him like broken thunder:

“Aye understood, Seven Young Sovereign. Trust in what’s already certain, rest assured, we’ll settle our score on our own chosen time—with honor mete upon challenge when battle calls.”

And that, in truth, proved the primary reason Songunning chose restraint above confrontation, for the disruption Qian Ye suffered might cost him heavily: a single misstep in the flow of force-energy churning unchecked might irreversibly ruin his very lifeblood path. One single interruption during that crucial moment of focus—could, at worst cost—cripple all further cultivation advancement. Worse case—ruin a gifted warrior altogether before true blossoming.

Hence, any prolonged entangled quarrel with an opponent of Zien’s level would delay treatment at worst; and if the worst indeed came, the delay could be lethal indeed.

The car surged alive beneath their motion, engine roars filling ears.

As if having planned this exact next exchange, the young noble passed him now a sealed cylindrical dose.

“Consume it at once—it will halt any progression,” he advised, voice carrying the urgency of command but wrapped in subtle concern.

Accepting and lifting the clear glass-like casing into the light allowed identification at a glance:

Marked precisely on casing—three-digit: Type C Restoration Serum.

The liquid shimmer within pulsed in soft waves of iridescent blue—the finest among serums for those moments following energy backlash surges from one’s very center.

Purchased at no modest rate, the Type C represented highest-grade formula. Even seasoned generals of battle rarely used these save life-and-limb crisis situations. This could hardly be any lesser a possession—certainly Songungning’s own personal life reserve.

Yet Qian shook off the concern lightly, returned the dose toward the giver.

“Unnecessary. My energy has mostly balanced—rest and healing suffices for me.”

Do not underestimate the severity!” came Songunning’s voice, edged with a rare sharpness usually reserved to battlefield commands.

“This is no trivial bruise. Misunderstood or misdirected energy flow can cripple cultivation foundations. Accept it!”

With quiet insistence still, Qian extended his palm again, unharmed in energy flow.

“Check if you must. I assure, no harm remains.”

Nodding in final agreement, his elder placed gentle palm over Qian’s, releasing carefully a subtle probing stream of energy. The internal flow returned harmonized and robust—a balanced tide moving freely.

Save for light new damage nestled among some core internal structures, Qian remained wholly as he was—no worse for the event at hand.

In truth, fortune did favor Qian: during those crucial final instants, instead having channeled the ancient Song scrolls—hence rendering the backlash energy’s volatility akin merely to a forty-five cycle tide wave of the War Tactique’s Flow.

His physical constitution—though still a step behind achieving a solid ninth threshold—held firm and resilient.

Hence by normal healing rates, his wound would fully mend in time for rising with the morning glow—a full and undemanding night’s reprieve awaited.

The retreat back to “Yunshent Hall” did not entirely calm the mind of the noble guardian.

Thus even having returned, Song Ninging insisted upon one full cycle of regenerative suspension—locking his friend for precisely three full lunar-hour rotations into the full-immersion cell of the body therapy tank.

Upon awakening hours and breaths from then, Qian Ye discovered every injury already erased like dust in the wind. He remained merely at brink of nine-tier ascent—unshakable truth he knew all along—but an ascent certain as the horizon’s edge once morning returned. Not a concern worth dwelling over much.

Donning fresh robes, stepping outside the purification chamber, he located now—seated across courtyard garden stones, lost somewhere beneath the last dying embrace of the setting sun—the figure still lost in thought: Songunning held a teacup with the grace of a man lost in distant warfronts and ancient echoes of duty.

The steam of earlier had ceased climbing long ago; leaves of fallen jade floated silently across still surface as if mourning something unknown. He hadn’t stirred or noticed—so lost was he in that endless sea.

Footsteps disturbed his thoughts then, and instinct pulled the last of lukewarm liquid between his lips, the bitter aftertaste lost in the act of his mind’s return from exile.

As Qian Ye entered the space beside him, Songunning’s head rose slightly. “Awoken? How do you feel?”

“Fully recovered.”

Song Ninging stood. He tested Qian again with gentle touch—feeling for the pulse of energy once again, only allowing a smile to truly return once confirming all within was steady and strong as always.

But as if peeling back invisible armor, the samurai studied his master’s features, then asked directly without further preamble—”Do you have troubles that press your soul with shadow?”

“Instinctively rejected with a slight but firm wave”—only to second guess himself at meeting Qian’s knowing, perched gaze—”Is it that visible, huh?”

Smiling lightly at such a response, the youth’s lips parted once again with mirth—”The way the fallen leaves float, they’ve already danced into your palm, I fear—perhaps you practice the technique that allows a thousand descending maple leaves all to vanish down the throat, hmm?”

Song Ninning blinked in initial confusion but the understanding swiftly bloomed thereafter. Looking back on himself—remembering now his silent sips from the cooling tea, and perhaps the briefest moment of abstraction when a dry leaf drifted upon the brim and found a brief landing place upon his very fingertip. Then came resignation laced with mirthful chagrin. Tipping the now empty vessel gently in hands, he chuckled, almost whispering—”Truly? I didn’t feel a thing until this moment… but little of importance truly.”

There was an unspoken pause, before his expression settled into a slightly deeper, more measured calm.

“The truth? It’s simply this: When you no longer chase a throne’s shadow, best trade all remaining pawns in for fair worth before walking away…or else the weak and desperate would come one after the other—kneeling not in respect, but daring to kick the ground beneath your feet.”

He did not finish the statement, nor needed to. The meaning was clear enough—Qian Ye’s gaze sharpening subtly in acknowledgment.

“You seek an alliance?” Or closer still—a surrender in all ways except words. He’d gain immense benefit by forsaking any personal ambitions in the coming test, even so.

“Precisely,” Song Ninging nodded softly before continuing:

“And listen now—should battle bring us face again against those two so called lords of mine, brotherhood no shield, feel no remorse, Qian! Forgive none, hold no regret—teach each lesson in red ink on their lives should occasion strike, blood not too costly to draw if they cross us again. Let them whisper their fickle tongues all they wish about so-called brotherly carnage, that matter leaves no mark on this heart.”

By any estimation, these two—against any true War-Leader’s test—should hope for little beyond survival’s breath. Yet it remains that numbers do not alone tell stories fully. Song Zien, a Level Ten War General, stood no less a title than that of second-rate Vampire Count among the dark-faring clans—his might was formidable. In contrast? The still-greener Song Si—recently stepped across the chasm into Warlord rank—held little significance before their joint gaze. Still—he who raised a question found his brows knitting now.

Qian Ye spoke finally, “I heard no feud between you and Song Si beyond old tensions, and even matters touching QiQi merely played to your benefit ultimately. Then this alliance—it’s done so for me?”

Smiling faintly at Qian Ye’s suspicion, Songnung shook his head, “Of course not—for no cause so sentimental—but truly and purely—for what such choice will empower me to accomplish. That alone.”

The noble stood up at that point, waving off further questioning with quiet authority—reaching even for his exit from view itself as he moved: “I attend to affairs beyond these walls now. Anything that moves your thoughts—seek out Songge.”

But just as he did so—his step pausing mid-motion as Qian Ye’s voice reached him in time’s quiet breath:

“Is it certain? This disinterest—that Seat atop family leadership?”

There was stillness for a brief moment, then an understanding expression.

After thought, Songnung’s voice grew deeper in timbre: “There lies truth in Fjun Hong’s words indeed—he had rightly warned me: if such pursuit was mine in full earnest, it would demand another entire decade’s worth of careful foundation planting to stand a chance.

Yet neither Song clan’s stability nor mine own allows such generous wait, when a single decade is already stolen. Perhaps I was too ambitious to assume that throne would even be mine for the asking.”

Eyes now searching his master’s for truth, Qian Ye caught a man stripped of false pride and pretense, eyes speaking not of bitter disappointment from forsaken path, not regret, but rather a peace that only came after a clear decision was made.

Noddin quietly then and offering no further word, he silently accepted the truth between them—the choice once made by his master was not spoken in weakness, nor resignation.

Yet still he listened.

Song Ninging’s parting words faded into the twilight:

“For beyond the house banners, greater horizons lay…a hunger far more consuming than mere legacy and blood.”

Then he truly left—his path swallowed into shadows beyond garden and stone.