Savage Divinity

Chapter 314

When the boss came to him with a covert task, Old Bulat thought he’d won big. ‘I need you to spread a rumour the shark attack was planned.’ Those were the boss’s orders and Bulat wasn’t in the habit of asking questions, especially when given such an easy assignment. Confident as always, Bulat pounded his chest and told the boss he’d hit up a couple taverns and tea houses to tell embellished stories and make friendly wagers with his fellow working stiffs. In no time flat, Old Bulat would have a flock of new cronies spreading and reporting all sorts of rumours and hearsay. It'd be like the old days back in Shen Huo when he kept an ear to the ground for any opportunities which might earn him a pocketful of coppers. Dining, drinking, and dicing with the boss’s coin, it was like a dream come true for Old Bulat, but as always, nothing the boss did was ever simple.

Muttering a string of profanities beneath his breath, Bulat stomped away from the tavern while fantasizing about throttling the painted-fool of a proprietor. Even the barkeeps in Central were all uppity and full of themselves, Bulat and Viyan barely took a step inside before they were cursed at and chased out, mistaken for beggars with no coin. Poor and destitute though they might be, the citizens of Central took immense pride in their appearance. Even the most poverty-stricken of the bunch were dressed in clean and colourful clothes, albeit well-worn, darned, and/or patched, while their hair, moustaches, and beards were all immaculately combed and expertly styled.

Taking a quick glance at himself, Bulat ran his fingers through the tangled, month-old growth on his chin and conceded the barkeeper may have had a point. Wearing a brown, hemp tunic and filthy, ragged pants, Old Bulat stuck out like a sore thumb amidst the farmhands and coolies of Nan Ping, fitting in more with the beggars and deadbeats. One of the many differences between the North and Central; back home, he would've fit right in with the crowd, because survival took everything you had and left room for nothing else. Only the well-to-do families could afford soft cotton handkerchiefs and even then they were mostly used for decoration. Here, the rickshaw runners wore cotton headbands and carried cotton towels to mop their sweat while every serving girl and shop attendant had a colourful silk handkerchief protruding from their sleeves, given away freely as keepsakes to prospective suitors.josei

Viyan, Birca, and Silva even made a wager over which one of them would get the most handkerchiefs. The poor, unwed bachelors, they didn’t understand the sheer joy of marital bliss, else they’d find themselves a wife like Dei An. Just knowing there was someone waiting for him back at camp made Bulat feel like he was walking on air, eager to return and exchange stories about their day.

“We gonna let’em treat us like this?” Viyan asked, eyes narrowed in anger as they moved away.

“Cool yer head,” Bulat replied, leading the way to where Silva and Birca were waiting. “Remember, ye ain’t Viyan the soldier or even Viyan the cut-purse, yer Viyan the farm hand today. Quit glarin’, minor setback is all this is. We’ll get ourselves some new clothes and try again, ain’t nothin’ to lose yer head over.”

Replying with a disgruntled snort, the former thief fell silent and followed Bulat through the winding streets on the outskirts of Nan Ping. Normally, Old Bulat would’ve picked Ravil to watch his back, but today he thanked the Mother the dark-skinned cutthroat had been sent away to mind Jorani and the others. Ravil never had the best of tempers and now that he was a proper soldier with a Spiritual Weapon, he was a volatile font of ego and pride. Vicious as can be, Ravil would’ve wanted to stick around and teach the insolent barkeeper a lesson after closing time. Viyan also had his pride as did the rest of the boss’s former cripples, but unlike Ravil, the others still feared and respected Old Bulat.

Old Bulat didn’t know why they followed his lead, but he wasn’t gonna question it.

A half-hour later, dressed in a gaudy, tight tunic and clean, loose pants, Bulat hoisted a cup of bad wine with Viyan and surveyed the run-down tavern, picking out the threats and quick exits. Even as a Martial Warrior, he kept his old habits of caution and discretion. At twenty-four years old, he’d seen more than his fair share of dirty, low-down bar fights and knew it didn’t take much to kill a man, soldier or otherwise. Worse, these Central buffoons were an excitable bunch, liable to throw-down over the stupidest arguments like which hero was the strongest or noble daughter was the prettiest.

Hmph. As if any of them could hold a candle to his lovely Dei An, with her sun-kissed copper skin, flowing, silken hair, and strong, dough-kneading hands...

Old Bulat wasn’t afraid of a fight, especially in a room full of commoners, but a straight up brawl would give the game away and the boss wanted covert. Best if they could subdue their opponents without resorting to physical violence, but with discount-Ravil at his side, Bulat wasn’t too confident at their chances. The slim, snake-like Viyan wasn’t exactly intimidating and it went double for lazy Silva sulking across the room at his corner table. While most would think twice before crossing the brawny Birca sitting with Silva, the burly bluffer was naturally faint of heart and liable to hotfoot out of here if things got hairy.

A shame he couldn’t bring the ever reliable Pran and Saluk out with him, but the half-beast brothers were too eye-catching after their recent transformation. Good food and daily exercise moulded them into the peak of physical perfection, and even in rags they couldn’t be mistaken for anything besides soldiers. No two ways about it, Old Bulat was up shits’ creek without a paddle, especially after he’d all but guaranteed results by day’s end.

Nothing to do but give it his best. If Old Bulat had to break some teeth to hightail it out of here, then so be it. A shame he didn’t have his fancy gun-axe, but even for a Spiritual Weapon, Lady Sumila’s works were too showy to bring around.

Throwing caution to the winds, Bulat filled his cup and audibly sighed, speaking loud enough to be heard but not too loud to oversell the act. “Mark me, but I needed this. Sharks be terrifying enough without seeing them fly.”

Chortling like a buffoon, Viyan clapped his knee and replied, “I’d worry more about what sent them sharks flyin’. Them northerners are fierce as they come and I can’t rightly name a Central hero who could do the same.”

With the trap set, in crawled their first sucker to take the bait. “Dog shit,” rattled a lean street tough, emphasizing his contempt by pounding the table. “You never heard of Mitsue Juichi, the Obsidian Shadow? Brought down a seven-story pagoda with a casual stomp of his foot, he did. Woulda turned them sharks into meat paste and left nothin’ to drag to shore.”

On the other side of Bulat’s table, a leathery old fisherman chimed in with, “What about the Sanguine Tempest, Du Min Gyu? He’d have sent the whole bunch of sharks back out of the bay with a flick of his finger.”

A third voice added, “Bah, Central has dozens of warriors who could do what those northern savages could, cept none of them are stupid enough to go swimming in open waters. Pei, you can see by how they keep top-tier experts to play nursemaid for a brat, they’re terrified to lose their only talent.”

No matter what station of life you hail from, nothing loosens lips like a wildly inaccurate statement. Everyone enjoys proving someone else wrong, a fact as old as life itself.

“But what a talent, am I right?” Bulat said, shaking his head in admiration. “You see him fight? He don’t look like much but damn me if he ain’t a scrapper. Twenty fucking duels in as many minutes, Rainfall slapped them local boys down hard.”

“Fool,” retorted the street tough, much to the delight of his friends. “You didn’t even get his name right. Clean out your ears and listen, his name is Falling Rain.” Chuckling with reluctant admiration, the street tough continued, “But you ain’t wrong. He knocked the stuffing out of our local boys, saw it with me own eyes.”

“Pei!” The old fisherman took issue with the street tough’s words, showing no fear as he rebutted the table of thugs. “Falling Rain has skill I’ll give you that, but you’d expect as much from number one in the North. What’s he doing fighting a bunch of nameless fops and spoiled popinjays?” By now, most of the tavern was listening in and many of them voiced agreement with the old man’s statement, lending him an air of confidence and authority as he continued. “I saw the fight, smashed right through his opponents with pure physical strength. Wait 'til he tries that against one of the Hwarang and you’ll see, he ain’t nothing but a brainless simpleton who wouldn’t know finesse if it bit him on the ass. Any fool can brute-force their way to victory, but it takes a true warrior to win with style and sophistication. No class, no showmanship, he's a thug hacking away at his enemies.”

Thoroughly pleased with himself, Bulat gave Silva a subtle nod. “All I hear are excuses,” the lazy shirker drawled, feigning drunkenness like a professional. “Don’t matter where he’s from or how he fights, Falling Rain brought the Guardian Turtle to Nan Ping and now he saved her from a massive shark attack, likely sent here by the Father himself. Ain’t a doubt in my mind, he’s a blessed child of the Mother and a hero of the Empire.” Raising his bowl, Silva shouted, “A toast: To Falling Rain, the youngest Second Grade Warrant Officer in history!”

Here it was, the critical point in their task. No point fishing in troubled waters, so if the crowd reacted with overwhelming hostility then they’d knock a couple heads around and move on to the next tavern, preferably one with a better kitchen and friendlier patrons.

Who in their right mind wants to eat squid balls? Old Bulat didn’t even know squid had cocks, much less balls, and rather large ones at that.

Contrary to expectations, almost half the tavern joined Silva in his ‘impromptu’ toast, including the street tough and all his friends. Turns out the boss had more supporters than Old Bulat believed, but the people love a young hero.

But not the old fisherman. “Something ain’t right with that boy’s head,” he said with a solemn shake of his head. “Heard this from my son who was working on one of them troop transports out on the bay this afternoon. He’ll swear it on the Mother herself, but he saw Falling Rain bathing in the guts of a dead shark. Didn’t even try to hide it, was frolicking with shark innards in plain sight. Ask any sailor aboard the KeYing and they’ll tell you the same.”

The busy tavern fell silent at the old fisherman’s ominous words as every person in earshot considered the implication. It was a misunderstanding really, one of the boss’s strange quirks. Probably studying shark anatomy or something, figuring out how they work so he’ll be a better healer, but how was Old Bulat supposed to explain it without exposing himself?

Luckily, he didn’t have to.

In a subdued voice which would have been drowned out by any other noise, the teenaged waiter asked, “Isn’t that what he does though?” Shrinking away from everyone’s attention, he swallowed hard and added, “I hear he bathed in the blood of a Demon too. Maybe it’s like... a ritual or something, just a thing them northerners do to test themselves?”

“What do you know?” scoffed the fisherman, “Demon ichor can melt steel, so imagine what it’ll do to flesh.”

“No, no, the boy’s right.” A previously silent tavern-goer joined the conversation. “I heard he struck the killing blow on a Demon and let the ichor wash over him while fighting in Sanshu.”

“Aye, that’s the Undying,” Birca added, thumping the table in muffled applause. “Took a short nap and then stepped right up to face the traitor Yo Ling.”

‘Idiot, you aren’t supposed to know that,’ Bulat thought, but the arrow was in flight. Inside the tavern, a chorus of voices rose in heated argument as they claimed the boss did this or denied it was possible to do that. Some fixated on the stories spread by the Society, of a wild, untamed brute who spoke of rape and murder with every breath, a half-defiled monster in human skin. Others told exaggerated tales of the boss’s accomplishments, like how he killed Black-heart Nazier in a single exchange (true, but they left out how the boss almost died in the process), or led a thousand soldiers out to battle a Defiled force which numbered ten times their own (only two times, but still impressive, especially considering the minimal casualties).

A few fights broke out among the more impassioned speakers, including a bout between the old fisherman and young street tough. The old-timer gave as good as he got and even though he wasn't a fan of the boss, Bulat broke it up before things got too serious. Buying them both a jug of wine to call their own, he turned on his charm and had them chatting and laughing with old Bulat in a matter of minutes. Then, all he had to do was let slip how he found it strange for so many sharks to attack at once and their drunken minds did the rest.

“Ye know, you might be onto somethin’.” Nam, the old fisherman, developed a slur as he drank. “Born and raised ‘ere in Nan Ping, goin’ on fifty years. Biggest shark pack I seen numbered five. Me grandpapy said he saw seven once, but I ain’t ever heard of dozens workin’ together.”

Barely able to lift his head, the young street tough Hoon grunted in agreement. “Used to work with another old timer who liked to jaw on about fish. Said shark packs are usually families, with the mam, her suitors, and her pups. When the girls get big enough to venture out on their own, they swim off with a couple of ma’s suitors to mate and start their own pack, so the pack never gets too big. With that many sharks in the bay, there had to be more than one pack, I bet me last copper on it.”

Leaping at the chance, Bulat swallowed his drink and smacked the table, having long since replaced the wine with water. “What I want to know is: Who would dare do such a thing? Falling Rain is a young hero of the Empire and the Guardian Turtle is protected by Imperial Decree!”

After a long pull straight from his jug, Nam swallowed and let loose with a thunderous snort. “Imperial Decree don’t mean much to most of them disloyal, dishonest, double dealing noble types. I’ve seen more than one rising young dragon get stomped flat and ain’t nothing the Legate can say that’ll stop it.”

Maybe that’s why the boss wanted these rumours started, to see how the Legate would react. Remembering his purpose, Bulat muttered, “We can’t be lettin’ them get away with this. The Defiled are knockin’ on our door and them nobles still squabblin’ like children.”

“Ah, but what can we do?” Hoon asked, his cheek pressed against the table. “We ain’t nothing in their eyes, cut us down without blinking.”

“We use our voices.” Pounding the table for emphasis, Old Bulat let his strength get away from him and accidentally broke off a large third of the sturdy wooden slab. “Bah, flimsy piece of junk. But like I was saying, we speak. Me and you, we’re small people they can bully, but how many voices can they silence?” Raising his voice, Bulat addressed the crowd. “We are all citizens of the Empire and here in beautiful Nan Ping, our greatest warriors gather to unite against the Defiled threat, yet still there are those who seek advantage. Today, the Divine Turtle, the Mother’s Sacred Servant almost died because someone wanted Falling Rain dead, and that ain’t right.”

Dozens of voices shouted word of support and Bulat swelled with pride. No matter where you go, the people of the Empire all wanted the same things, food in their bellies and a safe place to lay their heads. With the Defiled threatening to take away both, the people were a pile of tinder waiting to be lit, and Bulat was eager to be that spark. “A noble might’ve planned it but we all know who does the real work here. Men and women like me and you. Someone out there knows who’s responsible for this travesty and with enough support, maybe they’ll find the courage to speak up. Spread the word, tell your friends, tell your family, tell your neighbours and your coworkers, tell them all that this. Ain’t. Right.”

Emboldened by the prospect of making a difference, many of the tavern patrons paid their bills and rushed off to spread the word. Joining their exodus, Bulat took the mousy waiter aside and tipped him handsomely for his part in all this. With Viyan in tow, they headed off for another tavern while Silva and Birca trailed behind, ready to spend more of the boss’s coin and spread the word of his good deeds.

This was all easy as turning a hand, ain’t nothin’ to it.

Chapter Meme