The sun hung low over Azure Spirit Peak, casting the slopes in gold. The disciples rolled out from the training area in sparring pairs. Their voices clashed as they raised the big questions. Some spoke Lin Xuan's name in awe, some spat it out with disgust. But one voice called above the rest, high-sounding and impervious.
"Senior Brother Lin!" Wu Ming shouted from three paces away, pushing his way through the crowd with a food-wrapped stack on his head. "I'm serving you supper—which means burnt buns and an ill-fated fish!" Lids were lifted; cheers erupted. Some whispered while others smiled.
Lin Xuan's footsteps came to a halt. "...You're attracting too much notice." Wu Ming smiled and handed over all the eating. "That's my strong point! If they're giggling at me, they're not gossiping about you." Lin Xuan's eyebrow went up a fraction. A fool's cover... not entirely a fool's action.
The dining hall in the Outer Sect was a noisy place. Disciples of the Xinshi family formed ranks for the spirit rice and meat; the tables were crowded with groups. Different groups occupied their sites, while junior ones gathered outside. Wu Ming thumped into the heart of the hall with the air of a general going into battle. "Step aside! Seating for the future top disciples of the sect!" At once, the hall dropped into a moment of silence, and then burst with laughter.
"Future top disciples?"
"Is the clown drunk?"
"He means Lin Xuan—ha! The cripple who was copying sword moves yesterday?" Zhao Kun, resentful of his recent defeat, hammered with a palm on the table. "You dare to blaspheme the sparring matches? Who do you think you are, Wu Ming?" Wu Ming bowed flamboyantly, unchanging his smile. "Why, I am the sect's greatest treasure: A man without shame and nothing worth stealing!"
Even some of Zhao Kun's friends laughed. Rage turned Zhao Kun's face to stone. But he smothered it; the humiliation of yesterday was too close, still. Lin Xuan ate in silence, letting Wu Ming's pranks be the central attraction. The System was quietly humming in his mind. [Observation: Ally supplies social distraction. Effect: Impact on host's reputation limited. Efficiency: 74%.]
So even a fool gets to help this way, Lin Xuan mused. After dinner, disciples turned towards the practice field for night training. Lin Xuan had intended to return to his quarters, but Wu Ming grabbed at his sleeve. "Senior Brother," he entreated. "You mean you won't come back to see me? Tonight I will personally present, live and in Sesame Street action, the pinnacle of my art!"
The field's disciples paused to look up. Wu Ming moved to the center, with a wooden training sword in hand. Posturing for all he was worth, his expression huge. "I'm going to be famous for this!" he cried. So.
The sword swished around in his hands. With a loud bang, it slipped from his sweaty palms, soaring—straight towards Zhao Kun's little helper. The poor boy ducked as the sword clattered into the soil beside him. Laughter turned into low howls. Some of them got up and doubled over, tears in their eyes. One man sneered: "The Laughing Blade? They ought to call it The Leaping Sword!"
The little helper of Zhao Kun's lunged forward, his face livid. "You—" But before he could punch, Lin Xuan was already stepping in. Now the wooden sword was being carried steadily in his hand; he met the eyes of both young men. "He did not mean to hurt." Zhao Kun's little helper froze under Lin Xuan's gaze. Remembrances from the sparring contest whispered in his bones. He spat on the ground and went away. People walked off, laughter still hanging in the air. Wu Ming grinned sheepishly, scratching his head. "See? Even in defeat, I have won since now all eternity must call me the Laughing Blade."
Lin Xuan returned the sword. He was smiling (or trying to); "I laugh all right at writing names for blade shows through people destroying themselves with wrong ones eventually."
Wu Ming blinked, and then broke into another hearty laugh. "Senior Brother, o greatest poet of ancient times. Even the abuse you give people is poetic!"
Meng Zhao was watching the sword field from a shadowed balcony. His fingers were beating against the railing and his eyes narrowed.
Attempts to surround Lin Xuan with idiots. / As Meng Zhao put it, its fingers snapped, rather shields. One fooled his leg."
One of his followers bowed. "Shall we go now, Senior Brother?"
Meng Zhao's gaze turned cold. Then he said: "The bother is only a fool at them quibbling. Lin Xuan is hidden. In silence, silent humor, luck. He'll be getting his falling. One dog of a But Zhoo calls other dogs: Time comes, not only His body but every tie he knits will be broken."
At that line, his eyes raised to look in Wu Ming's laughing face. "A clown, if there were no such animal he would be one."
Night had come to the sect in the Outer Court. Lanterns flickered to and fro, while within his chambers Lin Xuan sat cross-legged with his staff across his knees, utterly immobile; the great mass of blade—long haft it was—knocking gently against both arms' sides, keeping him awake a little longer on guard duty just in case someone took it into their heads to pressure him. Nobody seemed to mind Wu Ming's faint snoring off in the corner, though he did somehow remember to make himself heard again every hour or so by way of a "guard's" loud snore that lingered on. For what? But—Lin Xuan's eyes quietly opened; the mark of the Primordial Emperor was already stirring now beneath his robes.
Furthermore, our politics must be excelled in sharpness, and the knots I forged at the sect test my ability in all things, stage-lights or whispers. So it is! Like others, I will let them think that I hide behind a clown. Then, when that day comes and this are a lame group like any other, standing strong Latinos pick themselves up. Their mocking cripple will tower up above all as king for once. Outside, the sound of faint laughter mingled with the night breeze. It seemed to lift people up so that they staggered beneath its weight.