Laike was conspicuously absent from breakfast. He refrained from attending Xueyu’s morning training exercises. This wasn’t in itself alarming—occasionally Xueyu’s lead disciple needed time to himself on specific exercises—however, Laike was also absent from his studies with the Heart of the Mountain, missing his daily dose of historical transcription, calligraphy, incantation, and prayer recitation. When the shadow craft boy failed to make an appearance at lunch, Xue was quick to begin searching for his errant pupil.
Laike couldn’t be found in the bounds of Luanshi proper. From the northern path out of the sacred complex, the trails leading up Yunji’s face, there were a handful of places Laike enjoyed: Yelu falls, the woods past the river where the trees grew out of sheer stone, and the cliffs overlooking the Nascent Hall’s mouth, where one could see the entirety of Luanshi sect’s domain funneling into that cavern of prayer and death.
Evidence of Laike’s presence was found upon this path. Smoldering wounds leaking embers of dithering shadow decorated tree trunks along the way. Occasionally, sticks and limbs were amputated, left on the ground but in reverse, all translucent, rustling black where there should have been striated bark, woody texture. At the end of that path of concentrated destruction was Laike, sword in hand, in a clearing of trees he felled himself, standing entirely still. It was unclear if he was done or simply resting before continuing, but he didn’t seem to care when he heard someone approaching, didn’t turn to regard anyone dumb enough to intrude on his private moment.
It was a moment macerated by footsteps, heavy and plodding for how careful they were being over the boneyard of detritus. Xueyu would have walked up and down that hollow mountain to find his missing student, but he was thankful for the tell. He’d been far too concerned with the well-being of that shadow boy to really notice any of its glaring signs—that he was walking over a massacre, that the mountain’s blood was an airy swirl of tangible absence.
The swordsman stepped into the clearing, relaxed hands dangling at his side. He tilted his chin curiously at the posture his star pupil held. The wind was a ragged sigh rustling through his short hair, frightened and seeking safety behind that broad-shouldered fighter.
“Laike, what have you been doing all morning?” Xue queried on approach. “You’ve skipped a lot of your obligations today. This is not an acceptable way to behave.”
“Draw your sword.” Laike’s voice was a crackle of interference over a human voice, a caustic demand with a warlord’s tone. He didn’t turn, didn’t wane—simply moved his head to the side to watch the world by its shadows.
“What’s wrong?” Xue’s voice was closer, louder. “Are you okay?” No sword was drawn.
“Draw your sword,” Laike repeated. His voice cut the world in two; the wind dared not speak between them. “If my Master is concerned because I missed my lessons, I would be humbled by my Master’s grace if he would honor me with private instruction.”
“You need to eat something.” Still, as the words were falling out of the teacher’s mouth into the placidity of the atmosphere surrounding them, there was a sharp sound, nails on chalkboard sharp, the silver cry of a sharpened edge.
“The others,” the student demanded of his teacher, ignoring his concern. “Draw the others. Don’t you dare fight me like I’m a fucking child.”
“Watch your tone, Laike,” Xueyu warned, raising the lonely blade at the boy he looked upon like a son.
Laike, with his gaze flashing the color of amber held before an open flame, turned sharply and held his sword aloft. He was all dark lashes, red rimmed eyes alight with the anger he was keeping caged in his death rattle chest. “Shut me up yourself, Xue’er.”
Xueyu’s grip faltered. Concern was no longer the emotion that stood dominant on his face, it was fear. Xue looked across the clearing to Laike like the boy was a personification of the dark—he was a specter of rage and for what reason? Was it something he’d done? If so: what?
There was no way for Xueyu to know for certain that he would not walk away from there. There was no one to stop him from leaning in, leaping forward, from sending himself—practiced and quick—at that shadow of innocence turned feral, weapon glinting daylight in the tree-filtered sun.
Laike stood his ground until Xueyu was directly upon him. Only then did the child fall back, straight back, snatching his mentor by the collar and dropping them both through the shadow of the trees.
If every shadow was a door in one world,
every bar of light was a door in the world beneath.
Laike, used to the feeling of falling both up and down at once, simply kept hold of Xueyu as they fell between worlds for what must have, to the gladiator, felt like hours. He kept Xue captive by a fist full of fabric, then took him by the throat, then by the back of his neck, twisting around the older man until he had his knee in his back, facilitated by the disorienting trip through seventy five doors straight down.
When they finally stopped, Xue slammed into the ground with the velocity of a fall from great height, Laike perched upon his spine to make sure he took the hit.
“Draw the others!” Laike seethed. He drug his teacher to his feet then shoved him away, circling his compromised elder like a wolf round an ailing stag. “Draw them!”
Blood spilled freely from Xueyu’s nose, pooling on the ground he was yanked up from. The man, dizzy from his sickening trip through the under-over world, couldn’t maintain being upright. He immediately fell to his knees despite the command and vomited up the contents of his stomach. Both of his palms were committed to the fouled dirt, fingers spread from too much stress; his forehead was slick with sweat, red from not enough air.
“He doesn’t even have the one anymore.” A voice broke through the riled up boy’s commands, calm and smooth, a warm glow of velvet in his mineshaft night. “Don’t you think that’s enough, Laike? You’re going to kill him.”
From the treeline stepped Chen of the Immemorial Incandescence, moving past the predator to bend on one knee before the prey. The traveling disciple smoothed back his former teacher’s hair, unwound and offered a length of his own robe to Xueyu to clean himself. Xueyu was, however, still struggling for breath.
Laike froze upon seeing his elder, anger and color draining from his system until he was pale. At the mere sight of the other student, gone for what felt like so, so long, Laike returned to his senses, no longer convinced that every word out of Xueyu’s mouth was a withering I told you so. The boy, suddenly ashamed of his abject rage, fell away from the present world once more only to reappear immediately at Xue’s side with his Master’s sword in hand.
“Why are you here?” the almost-killer asked, unsure of whether Chen was present or if skipping two meals was really enough to cause hallucinations.
“I heard you’re going to be debuting in the arena. I wanted to see your first fight.” Chen glanced up to Laike, then turned his gaze back down to Xue. “Are you alright, Master Xueyu?”
The older man simply nodded, settling down on his heels after another round of vomiting that faded into a bout of dry heaving.
Dropping to his knees at Xueyu’s side, Laike bowed his head and offered the man his sword back with two hands.
“I’m sorry, Shifu,” the boy said. “I isolated myself because I was upset and unable to control my temper. I was angry about events I witnessed earlier in the day. Please punish me for my insolence, my disrespect, my disregard for your health and safety, and for putting the leadership of Luanshi Sect in danger.”
“We will work out your punishment later.” The swordmaster’s voice was hoarse, throat raw from the acidity of his stomach. He took the sword from Laike’s hands and clumsily slipped it back into its sheath. After a moment, Xueyu stood, unsteady. “Will you see him back to the complex, Chen? I don’t want him destroying anymore of Yunji’s trees.”
“Yes, Master Xueyu.” The returned boy dipped his head in deference, watching the way the shadow of the older man moved as he hastily retreated back to the safety of the compound.
When the sound of Xueyu’s stumbling faded into the returned arias of mechanical bird chime, Chen’s eyes of infinite light returned to Laike. “Are you okay?”
Still on his knees, Laike didn’t look up. He pressed his lips together. Was he okay? He didn’t really know. He’d been lied to, betrayed, forsaken—Gods, how would he go back to his dormitory and face Yuhui’s letters on his wall? Those fucking letters that wooed him with their pretty words. He felt sick.
“I’ll be okay,” Laike said quietly. He folded his hands in his lap. “How long have you been watching.”
“I heard your voices and came over to say hello on my way to Luanshi. You sounded like you were settling something between you and him, so I stood by for a moment.” Chen reached out to lay a reassuring hand atop Laike’s own. He didn’t press for details, just aimed to let the disciple know that he was there for him in the kindness of a friendly touch. His skin was always warm, like he spent all his time laying in the afternoon sun.
“You never wrote.” Again, his voice was quiet but, this time, the younger disciple looked up sharply. He didn’t flinch from Chen’s touch. “You said you would write. Why didn’t you write.”
“I did write. I sent you letters as often as I could. I told you about all the things I saw, about how I missed you and hoped you were doing well and training hard.” Outside of the narrowing of his gaze, Chen’s face remained unchanged. “Did you not get any of them? I thought you just didn’t want to write back.”
Laike’s gaze hardened. He suddenly felt less fervent in his apologies to their teacher, more justified in his actions. Disappointment creased his brow and the corners of his mouth fell despite his attempts to keep his face stoic. He shook his head no.
“I’m sorry.” Chen’s frown was a quickly passing cloud in an otherwise clear sky. “Maybe one day they’ll arrive for you, but in the meantime, you can have my words through my voice, right? Here, I’ll sum up the most important part of everything I’ve ever written: I’m so excited to see you again, Laike.”
Laike’s eyes fluttered shut as he bowed his head. He had a ghost in his throat that sounded like laughter but it was difficult to hear for how tightly he pressed his lips together.
“It’s been so long I almost forgot how bright your eyes are, how you cut through any dark I can gather with a single look.” Laike placed his free hand atop Chen’s, looking demurely at their criss-crossed hands, shy under scrutiny. “I missed you, Chen. I missed you terribly.”