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355 - Scheming [Sturmblitz]
🕑 Added 2024-05-02 00:54:42 +0000 UTCThe witch spent an hour detailing the plan, but it was, fundamentally, simple and straightforward. It entailed some deception, but even this was expected to be seen through, and whether or not it was seen through, the desired outcome was equally likely to be achieved. Isidora, of course, had her own intentions, but they weren’t mutually exclusive with the objectives of the Four Sects Alliance.
The plan hinged on opening a new Black Horse Sect branch in Arkaley’s borders, as close to the Arkaley Sect grounds as possible. Since the Arkaley Sect was in an unstable transition period from a neglected Sanger Sect branch to a Newman Sect branch, it would be easy to dispute the Arkaley Sect’s legitimacy. Arkaley was a growing town, bordering on a small city — too large for a piddly school like the Arkaley Sect. It was also far enough from Willowdale to not automatically fall under the Newman Sect’s dominion by virtue of proximity. The Black Horse Sect would intentionally send disproportionately strong cultivators to the new branch as elders and core disciples, forcing the Newman Sect to supplement the Arkaley Branch with their own upper echelons. Simultaneously, Zelsys Newman would be invited to meet with the Four Sects Alliance on neutral ground as an attempt to lure her out of the sect. Regardless of whether she accepts the invitation, goes to Arkaley, or does something more drastic, for the purposes of the plan, they only needed to get her away from Willowdale.
Thereafter, one of the Black Horse Sect’s elite disciples would be dispatched to the Newman Sect to act as a challenger. The purpose of this would be to gain further leverage for negotiation through a bet, not to actually hurt the Newman Sect. If the elite disciple lost, the weight of the loss would fall on his head, but the Black Horse Root Branch would compensate the disciple if that came to pass.
Branstein immediately took issue: “I cannot help but notice that your plan does not appear to hold transferral of the sect grounds to our ownership as its end goal,” the sword cultivator hissed.
“Oh, but it does. Such an outcome would be the ideal end goal. I, however, make no assumptions of how things will pan out. You, of all people, should know that it is very possible we may not be able to dispossess cultivator Walking Tribulation of the Willowdale Sect Grounds. My plan accounts for that possibility and ensures that you will get your new sect grounds no matter what. This conflict will create an ironclad pretense for you to distance your sect from the northern capital, and place you in a good position to further disentangle from their oversight — something you would need to do even if the Walking Tribulation were to simply hand over the Willowdale sect grounds.”
Sanger had no issue with the plan, as he not only didn’t care about the Arkaley Sect, he had not known of its existence until now — so uncared for it was. He nonetheless had something to say: “I will not involve my sect in any manner. By rights, I ought to assist the Arkaley Sect, as it is clear they only joined with the Newman Sect after several mortal generations of complete neglect… But we all must make difficult choices on occasion.”
Branstein shot Sanger a furious stare, his aura warping the air into a finger-length blade that shot towards Sanger’s miniature. Sanger, toking from his pipe, countered in kind — his miniature snapped into a stance with its sword pointing towards the ground. The Guard of the Iron Gate. With a flick, it sent Branstein’s swordlight right back in his face.
The Black Horse elder huffed, but let it go, lest the both of them invoke intervention from the Swamp Witch.
Sanger, meanwhile, took amusement in the exchange, continuing as if he hadn’t been so rudely interrupted: “In light of the unacceptable state of the former Arkaley Branch, for the next two, perhaps three months, I will be busy conducting an internal investigation into the matter.”
He brought out a meticulously-ornamented silver vessel, flicking it open with his thumb. Refilling his pipe with its red, stringy contents and relighting it with a flick of his thumb, he added: “Should this matter not be resolved by then, I cannot guarantee my neutrality.”
For a few moments, Sanger and Branstein stared each other down, cold tension building. Sanger toked from his pipe. Branstein reached for his tea in turn. The cup, alongside a ribbon of steam, had been frozen in the same moment for hours now, and it only unfroze when he lifted it off of its glyph-inlaid pedestal.
“You know just as well as I do that this is not entirely up to me,” Sanger said. “More than a few within my sect believe in our feud to the utmost extent, or otherwise pretend to do so for the sake of their own interests.”
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The clanging of steel against steel echoed throughout the Newman Sect’s courtyard. One after the next, the Elder met the disciples in single combat, imitating their fighting styles by twisting her own. Despite the fact she pulled her punches, it was a perilous proposition — one often entailing broken bones. Most found one or two bouts to push their limits.
It was the fourth round, and a young man covered head to toe in shallow cuts struggled to his feet. His right hand was merged to the handle of a battered warknife, while his left was shielded by an articulated sleeve of plates. His hair stood on end and glistened steel-grey, forming bladed porcupine quills.
Though gruesome, his state was the result of the elder being as careful as she could conceivably be, attacking using only her recently-formed claws. Even then, she only struck as part of the exercise, in order to point out the most glaring gaps in his defense — and there were many.
“Can… Can you not at least use a sword?,” Lucian choked out between laboured breaths. He choked down the last of a Witch’s Brew bottle, steam rising from his countless cuts as the smaller among them began to close up.
Zel raised an eyebrow. “You are aware that this is the easiest I can make it for you, yes? If you’ve had enough, we can stop right here.”
“It’s not that. I want to see,” he shook his head, casting the empty bottle aside as he shifted into the Guard of the Ox — sword held at head height, pointing forward, adjusted for the warknife’s slight curve.
“Claws and punches, I don’t know that, nothing to compare against. But swords, I understand. I want to see.”
