The Ghost Of You

Chapter 8

The second time he fell, Mu Qing was ready. Reflexes let him twist in the air. The design of his palace saved him, aided him, giving him the chance to land gracefully, saber in hand, on a balcony, instead of splattering onto the streets of the Heavenly Capital.

Like a cat, he landed on his feet. Even with his spiritual power limited, centuries of cultivation training stopped the worst of the damage.

He was barely given a moment to rest, before Feng Xin dragged himself up, and hurled another punch at the plex of his chest. Mu Qing dodged sideways, spinning around, gouging his blade in between his sixth and seventh rib. His saber cut through flesh with ease.

It was more important than anything to keep Feng Xin near him. Range would only give him an advantage, an opportunity to rain down arrows.

Feng Xin fell forwards, bracing himself against the balcony wall. Wood cracked where he fell. Blood ran down his side. It might've made Mu Qing pity him, if he hadn't known he was strong enough to endure it.

"Fucking—"

Mu Qing did not pause, thrusting his saber forwards. Feng Xin moved to block him, taking the brunt of the blow in his forearm. Armor kept him from losing a hand.

That had given him enough time to study Mu Qing's patterns. His next strike was blocked by a wall of ice, the half second before his saber could make contact. The force of it threw him back, and sent him slamming into the floor.

Spiritual power came slower, locked away within the cursed shackle. Healing that had once been near immediate lingered, slowly making its way up his shattered vertebrae. For too long he lay still, panting like a wild animal, unable to bring himself to stand.

It was a shameful state for a martial god to be in.

For a moment, Feng Xin was still. Then, very carefully, he stepped forwards, keeping his eyes pinned on Mu Qing. Mu Qing did not look at him. He did not want to give him the pleasure of an easy defeat, of seeing him broken and groveling on the floor.

He walked to Mu Qing's side, kneeled there, and paused. If it was shock that caused him to still, or something worse, Mu Qing did not know. Hesitating was his mistake. Someone better suited to the task would not have waited to bury the blade of a sword in him. It was that one, brief moment that let the last bits of bone rejoin, and allowed ruptured arteries to knit back together.

Mu Qing pushed through the pain, peeled himself off the brick, and lunged at Feng Xin. It was enough to send them both through the barrier, as wood splintered and gave in.

They fell back, landing hard on another roof. Mu Qing straddled Feng Xin, raising up his saber, before slamming its hilt against his chest. That had made Feng Xin cry out, and swing at him. He bucked his hips upwards and sent Mu Qing tumbling off.

The slant of the roof made for less-than-optimal terrain. It was what caused Mu Qing to —very shamefully— roll across several feet of tile before regaining his footing. It scraped into his skin, and tore up his robes. Feng Xin had not been better off.

In the streets below, a small crowd of officials had come rushing out of the Palace of Divine Might. A stark reminder of the summons Mu Qing had ignored, in favor of fighting. He could not see them clearly. They did not help him.

As he pulled himself up to stand, Feng Xin glanced between him, and the roofs of the palaces below. Mu Qing was not quick enough to stop him. He leapt or, more accurately, threw himself down to the roof of one of the deputy palaces. He landed well, on the crest of the roof. Even from below, shooting would give him an advantage.

Mu Qing did not wait. He ran, and jumped after him. Nothing about it was graceful or well planned. He went as well as he could, barely managing to land on both feet. There was the all too familiar crunch of what must have been bone. A piece of his tibia stabbed into muscle and peroneal artery. His vision blurred, and swam. Mu Qing crumpled to the ground.