I was walking down a muddy side alley, trying to find a road that didn't look like it was rendered by a graphics card from 1998, when I heard the sound of someone getting the absolute shit kicked out of them.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Each hit was wet and rhythmic, like someone was tenderising a very vocal piece of meat.
I turned the corner. Three inner disciples in pristine white-and-blue robes were standing over a crumpled figure on the ground. He was scrawny, dressed in a faded grey sect robe that looked three sizes too large for his bony frame, and his glasses were hanging off one ear at a forty-five-degree angle. A broken clay jar lay next to him, its contents—some kind of medicinal herbs—scattered across the mud.
"One more time," one of the disciples said, grabbing the boy by the collar. "What do you say when an inner disciple gives you a task, you useless errand boy?"
"I-inner disciple senior brother is magnanimous like the sun," the boy wheezed. His voice had that hollow, rehearsed quality of someone reciting lines he'd been forced to repeat a thousand times. "This lowly one is unworthy to breathe the same air as senior brother's glorious cultivation base. Please accept this humble apology and this one's eternal gratitude for the opportunity to serve."
"Louder. And with more feeling."
"I-INNER DISCIPLE SENIOR BROTHER IS MAGNANIMOUS—"
I stepped into the light.
"Alright, that's enough," I said.
The three disciples turned. The one holding the boy's collar frowned, his hand still gripping the robe. "Who are you? A stray outer disciple? Mind your own business, or I'll add you to today's training tally."
I looked at him. Then at his stance. Then at the glowing aura faintly shimmering around his free hand — a low-level energy gathering technique, probably meant to look intimidating.
"Training tally," I repeated. "You call beating an unarmed errand boy to the ground for dropping a package 'training'?"
"It's called discipline. You wouldn't understand the Dao's harsh—"
"Your left knee is rotated three degrees inward from your hip alignment."
He stopped. "What?"
"Your knee. Pointing in. You've got a minor rotation imbalance in your stance. It means every time you throw a punch from this position, you're transferring about fifteen percent less force than you could be. Also, you're clenching your jaw when you breathe, which means you're cutting your oxygen intake during combat. If you fought anyone who actually knew what they were doing, they'd have you on the ground in four seconds. Not because they're stronger. Because your body mechanics are a disaster."
He stared at me. The other two stared at me. Even the boy on the ground stopped wheezing for a second.
"Also," I added, "the energy gathering technique you're holding? You're cycling it through your third meridian first instead of your fifth. That's causing a micro-delay in your reaction time. About two-tenths of a second. Against a real opponent, that's enough to miss a block and get your throat cut."
The disciple's hand trembled. He looked down at his own glowing palm, then back at me. "How... how do you know—"
"I read a book once. Now get lost before I audit your entire cultivation routine and give you a written report on why you're stuck at your current realm."
The three of them exchanged glances. The one holding the boy let go like the collar was on fire. They backed away slowly, then turned and hurried down the alley, muttering about "demonic possession" and "that guy's aura feels wrong."
I watched them go, then looked down at the boy.
He was a mess. Blood trickling from his nose, one lens of his glasses cracked, his oversized robe torn at the shoulder. He stared up at me with wide, wet eyes, like a stray dog that couldn't decide if I was holding food or a rolled-up newspaper.
"This lowly one..." he started. His voice cracked. He scrambled to his knees and pressed his forehead to the mud. "Benefactor has saved this lowly one's life. This one is eternally grateful. This one has nothing to offer, but this one can work. This one can run errands. Please, benefactor. Allow this lowly one to serve."
I stared at him. "Did you just call yourself 'this lowly one' three times in one sentence?"
"This lowly one apologises if his speech offends benefactor's ears. This one speaks as a proper disciple of the Azure Cloud Sect should speak."
"Yeah, no, that's got to stop. First thing. You're not a 'lowly one' anymore, you're a person. What's your name?"
He looked up, confused. "This one is called—"
"Your name. The one your parents gave you. Not whatever 'disciple designation' your sect slapped on you."
"Han," he said. Quietly. Like he wasn't sure he was allowed to say it.
"Good. Han. I'm Caelan. Now stand up."
Han scrambled to his feet, still hunched, still expecting a hit. His robes hung off him like a curtain. One sleeve was so long it covered his entire hand. He looked like a child wearing his father's funeral clothes.
"Why are your robes so ridiculously large?" I asked.
"To... accommodate the flow of spiritual energy," he said, his voice still shaky. "All outer disciples wear robes one size larger than—"
"No. They're large because the sect's supply chain management is a disaster. Everyone has to wear flowing robes that drag in the mud because it looks 'immortal,' but in reality you're all just walking dust-mops. Do you have any idea how much drag those sleeves create when you're trying to dodge? It's a physics nightmare."
Han's brow furrowed. "This one does not understand. The ancestors decreed the proper sizing for disciple robes—"
"The ancestors were running a textile monopoly. Stop saying 'this one.' You're a person, not a footnote."
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "I... I do not know how to speak like a person, benefactor."
"Caelan. And you'll learn."
He took a step closer. Then another. Then he dropped to his knees again and grabbed the hem of my ruined polyester shirt.
"Please," he said, his voice breaking. "Please do not leave this one behind. I have no family. No master. The sect used me as an errand boy and beat me when I failed. If I return, they will kill me for bringing shame upon the disciples who punished me. I have nowhere to go. I have nothing. Please. Let me follow you. I will carry your things. I will clean your boots. I will—"
"Alright, alright, get off my shirt. It's polyester and it's been through enough."
He let go but stayed on his knees.
I sighed. "Tch. Do what you want. But don't slow me down."
Han's face lit up like I'd handed him the sun. He scrambled to his feet, scooped up his broken glasses, and fell into step beside me. He walked half a step behind, head slightly bowed, still in the habit of being beneath someone.
"Stop hovering behind me. Walk beside me. You're not a servant anymore."
"I am not a servant," he repeated, like he was testing the words. "But... what is a 'polyester'?"
"A fabric. You wouldn't know it. This world is stuck in some kind of feudal cotton-and-burlap economy. What do you guys even make clothes out of here? Demon silk? Phoenix feathers? Immortal-grade flax?"
"This one— I mean... I do not know. The sect issued the robes. I never questioned where they came from."
"See, that's the problem. Nobody questions anything. You've been fed a script your whole life and you've been reading it without looking up."
Han was quiet for a moment. Then: "What is a 'script'?"
"Never mind. Let's talk about something more important. Your currency. Spirit stones. Literal, glowing rocks. You guys are using pebbles as legal tender."
"The rocks contain the essence of the stars. They are used for cultivation—"
"Yeah, and how many bakers actually become immortal, Han? Zero. The bakers just trade the rocks to other bakers. The only people actually using them for cultivation are the top-tier sect elders, who are running a massive, cosmic pyramid scheme. You outer disciples are the bottom rung of a multi-level marketing scam. You shovel the rocks, pay the sect as 'tuition,' and they give you a manual that tells you to stand on one leg for nine hours. It's a scam."
Han's mouth hung open. "Sect... MLM?"
"You didn't even pause at the acronym. That's how deep the programming goes."
We walked in silence for a bit. Han kept glancing at me sideways, like he was waiting for me to turn around and hit him.
"Benefactor—Caelan," he corrected himself. "Where are we going?"
"Away from here. There's a town—the Azure Cloud Sect's lower market district. I need a map. And food. Do you know the area?"
"I was an errand boy for three years," he said. Then he caught himself. "I—I mean. Yes. I know every alley, every stall, every guard patrol route. I used to deliver herbs to the apothecary twice a day."
"Good. Lead the way."
Han blinked. "You... you trust me? I am—I am just an errand boy. I am nobody."
"That's the best kind of person to be," I said. "Nobody's watching the errand boys. And while the young masters are busy screaming about their bloodlines and face-slapping each other in the main square, the nobodies are going to dismantle their entire system from the basement up."
Han stared at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, a tiny smile cracked through the blood and grime on his face.
"I do not understand half of what you say," he said. "But I think I would like to understand."
"Good. That's the first requirement. Now show me where to find the nearest decent meal."
"Yes. Follow this one—" He stopped. Blushed. "...Follow me."
I clapped him on the shoulder. He flinched at first, then relaxed.
"Better. Let's go."
We walked out of the alley and into the crowded market district. Han walked beside me this time, not behind me. His glasses were still broken, his robe was still too large, and his nose was still bleeding. But his head was a little higher than it had been five minutes ago.
I glanced at the sky. No, not the sky. The text-box currently hovering at the edge of my vision:
[COMPANION REGISTERED: HAN. STATUS: OVERWRITING DEFAULT DIALOGUE PROTOCOL. PROGRESS: 3%.]
Three percent. A start.