u/blurryart_886

Flashy fights or well choreographed fights?

Or flashy, well choreographed fights?

Would you rather read a story with high powerscaling but the combat is just "WATCH MY PALM, JUNIOR, IT CAN ONLY BE BLOCKED BY AN IMMORTAL GOD!"

"OLD FOOL, I AM ALREADY AN IMMORTAL GOD!!"

"WHAT!?!?!"

The gold and black energies clashed, bringing ten thousand stars asunder as the immortal gods looked upon in horror. A scene of dragons and phoenixes rampaging, circling and circling, like infinite Yin and Yang. Koi fish ascending to Heaven.

-

Or a story with low powerscaling but a developed system of combat?

Either through world elements like special abilities, Gu, etc or just plain martial arts rendered realistically in terms of what beats what when why and how?

Eg.

A spear is better than a Dao or Jian due to its longer range. In order to beat it, you'll have to enter inside the effective range, making the fight a contest of distance that the blade user will be losing until he succeeds in entering that zone.

-

The warrior closed the gap fast. He shot forwards with a low stance, blade swinging up to deflect the mercenary's spear as it stabbed down at him.

Clang!

The following resonance sent a shudder both ways, biting into their skin, and the spearman retreated. An attempt to maintain a favourable distance from the warrior. But a predictable attempt.

A flying dagger was thrown at that exact moment, piercing the mercenary's thigh. A wet squelch of pain that immobilized him for a breath of time, enough for the swordsman to score a critical slash across his chest, dropping him to his knees.

And another slash to finish the job, parting head from body in an instant.

Picture unrelated 👀

Greetings, Martial Brother and Sisters!

This lowly monk is on an arduous journey to write the best story inside the Primordial Soup of Chaos that is the modern Wuxia genre! Here I shall present you with the first scripture in full, bared before the Nine Realms!

Those who read it and are interested shall join me in my path to conquer the golden-tiled Roads ahead as followers of the Great Dao!

(Read: help test read before Royal Road publication.)

What should you expect: Wuxia Regression story that focuses on the human and relational aspects of the Jianghu. Has realistic combat, in depth martial arts systems (weapons and philosophy), low powerscaling with a ceiling capped at middle superhuman levels.

Follows a Qi-crippled middle aged MC through a 12 chapter arc before his regression and who DOESN'T get an immediate Qi boost after. Instead, he's forced to rely on long term planning, improvisation, psychological manipulation, equipment advantage (not in the OP alternative to cultivation kind), technique, brutality, and an unwillingness to die out of pure spite.

Side cast with depth (not evident with one chapter but it's a guarantee). Tragic tone mixed with comedy. The amorality of living on in a world that wants you dead and what it costs the people involved.

And everyone in the story playing their own game of survival, at different levels and locations, whether they intend to or not.

***

Title: Wicked.

Chapter 1: The Straight and Narrow Path (1).

[Martial Arts].

The backbone of the Jianghu. The binding force that connected its world through every Martial Artist, from Nine Sects and Five Families, to wandering chivalrous warriors, to the Unorthodox devils, witches and lowly sinners. It is an expression. A heritage. A culture. A bond.

[Martial Arts] are a sham.

Yet they were a sham he had dedicated this decrepit life of his to chasing.

“2 Li North, towards the river. Capture the devil alive or dead!”

The hoofbeats behind him intensified, not long now. Not long at all.

The grim, unshaven ‘devil’ hauled his bleeding torso as he leapt through the thickets. Hopefully, that’d slow them down. Even better if those paragon mongrels got off their high horses, though he shouldn’t expect matters to be so simple. Both the path ahead and his current state inspired little confidence in his future. But hadn’t that been the case from the start? Today’s betrayal was stale as weeks-old bread.

He needed to reach the river before they caught up.

“Push through, men! For the Martial Alliance!”

Yeah. For old geezers playing politics with one foot in the grave.

He reapplied his bandages as he broke through the forest into a clearing, tying them off with his teeth while the healing salve set his bones proper. Ptui. Shit stung like a horsefly’s bite.

Zip!

An arrow sailed past his head.

Bows, huh. Had the Imperial bastards arrived? They were experienced. Tougher to deal with than the righteous rabble, and much less inclined to give him a fair fight if they could just shoot him dead. The unshaven devil liked that about them. Ah, if only they weren’t currently aiming for his neck.

No helping it.

Loosening two pouches from his waist, he first scattered an orange-gold powder onto the forest floor in a wide V-shape, resisting the foul stench with his face mask until the colour coated all the trees and shrubbery his eyes could see. Then, following a brief conflicted sigh, a worn goat hide wineskin opened and dumped its contents over the powder. Splash. Splash. Soaking the ground thoroughly. Dead, dried leaves. Snapped branches. He felt rather thankful it hadn’t rained these past few days.

The devil pulled out his flint and struck it once.

Shaaa…

Crackle!

Immediately, a wall of billowing smoke erupted, yellowish and greasy. Unnatural, unlike that of burned grey or black wood. It clung to everything it touched with the potent flavour of garlic and rotten eggs, forcing even himself into a backpedal as the fire, lightning violet and blue, swept along the underbrush.

Engulfing half the world in a single breath.

“Hah!” He gulped.

No matter how many times he saw this scene,

The unshaven devil couldn’t stop wondering how the Tang Clan would butcher him for modifying their precious formula such a way. At least the only person who knew about it was dead.

At their own hands.

He stared at his work for a moment more, before tossing his wineskin into the blaze.

The [Ashen Flame Mist] should halt the imperial squad from advancing too soon, since it was a poison effective against anyone with under 20 years of internal energy. Although, if there really was anyone with over 20 years of internal energy manning the pursuit, it might be better to surrender on the spot instead of suffering through a meaningless struggle. They weren’t opponents he could handle anyways.

The man tightened his bindings and turned away as the goat hide fully disappeared beneath the smoke.

If he survived the day, maybe it might be a sign to quit drinking.

…if.

***

The road leading towards the river was quiet.

So quiet he almost began preferring the obnoxious shouting and calls for justice.

The unshaven devil had spent the last safe stretch of woodland sprinting, with seemingly no intention of covering his tracks, though he would have loved to do so.

Speed was the priority and requirement for his escape now.

And the reason why he expended the embers of his Qi on his movement art.

If you could consider imbuing every third step with internal energy and leaping a bit further as an ‘art’.

Not that saving it mattered, since his pitiful reserves served no purpose in combat. Moving just slightly faster than they expect was the limit. The limit of 49 years of effort.

All staked here.

Once he reached the Lun River, he planned on stripping his outer clothing, throwing them downstream to confuse the hunters while he swam against the current upstream. The bamboo breathing apparatus was already prepared. The salve had done its job enough to move his arms about as well.

Jump in. Swim until he spotted a village or suitable location. Jump back out. Escape!

Simple, no? Obviously, complications were unavoidable. But the structure was solid.

Thus, the unshaven devil steadied himself for another noon and even night of just barely not drowning.

Alas.

The Heavens had never been kind.

For the Heavens are impartial. No.

“For the Heavens are cruel and mocking.”

The man clothed in muddy brown, with his plans, and his tools, and his grit, standing at the boundary between land and water overseeing the Lun River, dropped then his bamboo pipe with a futile chuckle as he watched the river water rampage during the solstice’s month.

Becoming untraversable rapids primed to take his life if he dared attempt it.

Ruthlessly cutting, in an instant, his one and only exit out.

“Ha… hehe…”

The unshaven devil buckled suddenly, bending at the waist. The chuckle that slipped from his torn lips expanding, rising initially into the air as an intermittent, wounding laugh, before exploding into a roar with such immense pressure that for what seemed to be an eternity, the echo of it failed to disappear, failed to resolve. Because how could it resolve? Because how could it disappear?

Because if even his grudges vanished like dew…

How could he ever call himself a member of the Jianghu?!

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!”

With a long, slow ring, his blade unsheathed. His Dao, warm from his body heat, steaming in the frost.

Brandished against the coldness that pricked his lungs.

And when the final embers of the devil’s Qi flickered off, a familiar voice called to him. A recognizable voice. The sort one could learn to unconsciously ignore if it grew too loud. Too whining. To him, traitors and betrayals were just weeks-old bread. That was why he had never expected the Imperial Censorate to uphold their end of the deal. All the martial tomes possessed by the Court in exchange for an ancient relic? Regardless of its worth, thinking those stingy eunuchs would give away the slightest bit of power?

He’d rather believe ducks could walk, talk, and perform Mt. Hua’s Thousand Plum Blossoms.

An unpleasant, sour twinge settled inside his chest.

The unshaven devil’s scheme had been to steal the deposit and relic altogether, booking it before their agreed collection date and avoiding the subsequent double cross into assassination. He imagined even the Emperor would struggle turning over every leaf in the martial world upon missing that opportunity to kill him. So he took his prize, and he took his gains, and he set off for his hideout.

Sending only a lone messenger pigeon into the skies, as he always did.

Because blow after blow after blow. After years of eating stale, rotted bread.

Still, he hadn’t thought…

“Uncle, surrender now!”

To be betrayed by blood.

“You are surrounded by the Martial Alliance!”

The snot-nosed brat whom he raised following his brother’s passing. The kid whom he fed and clothed like his own despite not having any children himself, whom then greeted him at his base with a bottle of liquor and followed it by swinging a sword at his skull. The reason for these injuries and this pursuit.

The wolf-eyed young man who accompanied the Imperial Army in ransacking their home.

Posturing now alongside the orthodox fools jockeying for his life.

“Your welcoming party is too grand,”

“Dear Nephew.”

“I am ashamed to receive it.”

And too blind for not seeing it.

“Uncle!” The young man repeated, “Since I am your filial nephew, how would I dare not implore you to put down the butcher’s knife and repent? Surrender to the Martial Alliance, and you shall be tried fairly for your crimes, giving closure to those who have suffered from your lawless actions! Please!”

Hoh. What a good lad. Putting the acting lessons he taught into practice already.

Yet the unshaven devil didn’t move to puncture his lie, nor play along with irony.

Instead, the man and the uncle sighed.

As if resigning to bear the aftermath of an immature mistake.

“…dear nephew. Even if you lick clean their boots. Even if you swallow and surrender your pride...”

“The family name you restore will be a fragile husk that carries no honour. For the ambitious puppet, strung aloft by the hands of others, is just a puppet in the end.”

His blade levelled itself at the young man in contempt.

“So despite my failings, I believe I taught you better than that.”

“…”

The rebuttal didn’t come naturally. A momentary lapse allowing the prior words to hang, uncontested, resonating through the twilight breeze. It was another mistake on his nephew’s part. On Lesson no. 4, which he thought he had drilled sufficiently into the brat’s thick cranium.

‘Never let your opponent’s position overwhelm yours, ignoring right and wrong.’

‘Never let them have the final say.’

Whether it was simply forgotten, or whether his wavering gaze harboured a different form of answer.

The unshaven devil didn’t feel it mattered any longer.

And neither, apparently, did the Martial Alliance’s hunting dogs, as their prim, confident leader patted the young man on the shoulder once, before striding past him in the same instance.

Breeze trailing the tail of a strict topknot, chained together by silver clasps shaped like pouncing tigers.

The forehead above his brows adorned by a single character, embroidered into a heavy leather band.

While his jagged toothed sabre, polished to perfection, hung stiff from his waist.

Peng.

The [Peng Clan].

The Family of Five Tigers.

“Wanton Villain!” Really, did the orthodox collectively curate their own speeches or what? “Hold your poisonous tongue! You attempt to sow discord, to twist the minds of the vulnerable, but that won’t shake the trust between martial brothers and sisters!” The gallant hero paused to accommodate the cheers of his peers, rallying and hooting in agreeance. The villain shook his head in disbelief.

Then what of those other than your martial brothers and sisters?

“By the decree of the Martial Alliance, I, Peng Yu, a warrior representing the Peng Clan, shall—!”

Ah, truly.

He had had enough of this farce.

Crack.

Smash!

A pearlescent bottle accurately struck the earth between the leader’s feet and exploded, causing him to stumble backwards in shock, one hand tightening over the hilt of his sabre, while the other covered his nose and mouth using the short sleeve of his tunic, as if expecting poison.

It was more cautious a reaction than his demeanour suggested.

It was also completely useless, since the bottle didn’t contain poison at all. It simply contained…

“!!!”

An extract of potent toad shit.

Cough! Koff-cough, urgh, urp!

The sweet, decaying scent juiced from corpses of bile toads that flourished in flooded swamps of filth.

Everyone in the surrounding area began choking and gagging, almost tripping over themselves as they retreated ten steps from the blast zone, scrambling to escape the literal downpour of offensive odour.

Save for, of course, the person trapped directly in the middle.

Peng Yu, who once looked impeccable and pristine, now bore a brown watermark on that white tunic.

Spreading chest to crotch.

The faint flicker of raging bronze Qi being the only thing preventing the Peng Clan Young Master from being just dishevelled. His veins popped through his clenched jaw, but even now, he subtly flicked his attention towards the crowd, weighing their reactions. Peng Yu forcefully straightened his skewed lips, mouth opening a peek before clamming with goosebumps. How determined.

Perhaps, if the stench weren’t so unbearable, he would’ve continued with some rhetorical justification.

But all he could muster past his green tinted face was the following righteous challenge:

“…duel. Prepare yourself, Villain.”

Ah, the devil smiled.

This really was the best method to shut them up.

***

Hope you enjoyed! Feel free to voice your thoughts in the comments below. And if you what to help me test read for the story (9 chapters in rn), please drop a DM and I'll get back to you!

Peace, fellow Daoists.

This lowly monk must go cultivate the Dao!