The problem was, though, that when Wu Hao had returned to his own place, the fight that had pitted this so-called monster from the Hua Sect against another fighter, it was already over. He could hear the impressed whispers of the audience, though.
And he felt the purity of the qi in the air, which still burned in the air in the arena, shaped into one thin slash that must have rent the air like a curtain. All Wu Hao could see of the fighter himself was a figure in elegant red, who made his way easily over to the part of the stands where the Hua Sect sat and was welcomed with slaps on the back and hearty chuckles.
The boy wasn't tall, but his hair was red like a sunset and his back was straight. Wu Hao couldn't get a good look at his qi from where he saw - some sort of array on the stands blocked it out.
About the opponent, nothing was said at all, neither by Tai Buzhou, by the people in the stands, or by any of the other fighters around him, each fenced off into their own area while they waited for their fights to come up. It took him a while to even be able to piece together who the other boy had been.
It turned out that the monster's opponent had been one of the Jin Clan, though.
There was a long moment where Wu Hao sat with that information, before he finally realized that he wasn't going to convince himself that Jin Qilong hadn't just gotten himself beaten to a pulp.
Up on stage, someone from the Tang Clan would be fighting someone from the Zhuge Clan. The fighter from the Tang Clan was a young woman wearing robes, while her opponent was someone named Zhuge Zudao who looked like he would much rather be inside reading a book.
Wu Hao didn't really care who of them won, on an emotional level - he'd had dealings with neither. The Tang dealt in hidden weapons, in poisons and in steel, the Zhuge dealt in all sorts of mechanical trickery and strategems. They were natural allies, which made it sort of ironic they'd been made to face off against each other.
He didn't really see any of the fight, despite his eyes being open. Instead his thoughts returned to the fighter from the Jin.
It was unlikely, he told himself. He hadn't heard anything from the other boy, but if he'd heard the name Hao Wu then he'd have shown some sort of reaction, right? His mother should have been somewhere near the Jin clan stands as well, right? Unless only two of Jin Murong's wives could be near him at a time, or something. But then -
Fuck it, he thought, and stood up. He got a look from one of the other candidates - a greasy-haired boy, who had sat watching the rest of the matches with a rigid back. He wielded a sword, which was laid out across his knees, but around his wrists thick bands of metal acted either as shackles or as weapons. His qi was arrayed into thick scales that criss-crossed his entire core, which looked like they would be able to stand up to anything.
And while the greasy-haired boy had looked impassive at the rest of the matches, he now frowned at Wu Hao. There seemed to be something in his gaze, and his qi reared up slightly.
"You are not paying these fighters the proper respect by not watching their matches," he spoke softly.
Wu Hao considered this.
"Sorry."
With that, he met the greasy-haired boy's blue-green eyes with his own. Wu Hao hadn't gotten the boy's name or his affiliation, but he didn't care, either. If - when - they fought, Wu Hao would learn. If they didn't, Wu Hao wouldn't bother.
Apparently caught off guard by what Wu Hao had said, the other boy didn't speak again, returning his attention to the match in front, where hidden weapons were being thrown at impressive speeds.
Well, whatever. He'd deal with it, and the frowns that were being thrown his way, later.
Or never. Never was also fine by him.
The way to the sickbay had to be an easy path to follow, if the organizers had any sense. Even so Wu Hao nearly got lost in the maze of pathways, which seemed to him to all look the exact same, and it wasn't like the path had been marked out clearly or anything.
In the end he followed the boy from the Zhuge Clan as he was brought back to the sickbay, several thin needles sticking out of several parts of his body. A machine lay on his chest, though what it did Wu Hao wouldn't have been able to say. More interesting was that the boy's skin had taken on a rather green color.
That was the inevitable result of losing a fight with the Tang. Either they poisoned you and you lost, or they didn't poison you and you won. Simple enough.
Thinking about it again, it was good that the girl from the Tang had won, though. They were strong mainly because they used poisons, and he already knew that dying by poison would give him resistance to those when he revived. With that weapon taken away, the fight ought to be manageable.
The door to the sickbay was open. There were no guards standing at the entrance. Wu Hao didn't quite know what the rationale for that was, but it didn't matter.
He slipped inside, surveying the row of beds. There were at least a dozen, most still empty, but a few were filled. He didn't see the blues of Su Biao, which was probably for the best considering he still needed to get his qi back if she wanted another fight. She had been here, though - he felt the traces of her qi in one empty bed, which was being cleaned by one of the helpers in a mask and white clothing.
In a bed at the far end - away from anyone else - Stinky Yi was sleeping fitfully. Incense was burning nearby, smoke leaking into the air slowly as it released a medicinal scent. The effect was ruined by the fact that Stinky Yi shifted, farted, and the smoke rippled as if it, too, was disgusted with him. The injury that had been dealt to him had been fairly light, all told. Du Linglong was still soft, Wu Hao supposed. Some things apparently didn't change.
Wu Hao's eyes flicked past the people who had lost, trying to see if the one he was looking for was there. Finally, more by process of elimination than by finding the symbol of the Jin he'd been looking for, he walked quietly over to one particular bed. He did his best not to get in the way of the people treating their patient, which led to him having to wait out several glimpses before he could be sure of their identity.
It wasn't Jin Qilong. The face was too angular, the limbs too long. And the qi was wrong, too. He was too old. All in all, Wu Hao's fears had been unfounded.
The cloth that had been stripped from the arm to allow a better look at the wound showed a muscular arm, while the wound itself was hidden from Wu Hao's eyes by the constant attention it was receiving. Flashes of white told him that the cut had not been light, while Knowledge of Anatomy and a rare glimpse of the wound itself made clear that the tendons and the musculature hadn't been cut through.
Full functionality would be regained, in other words. All the same, a light scar might remain.
Wu Hao paused. The fighter who was laying in the bed, teeth clenched as he tried to resist groaning in pain at the wound that had bitten deep into his arm and part of his cheek, was vaguely familiar.
It was hard to place his face, though. Wu Hao tried to search back through his memories, but he hadn't seen whoever this was during his time in the Song Valley. It would be the most reasonable option to assume that he'd seen him somewhere at the Jin Clan, in charge of something or other, but he couldn't recall doing so.
"Bandage him up," one of the physicians ordered, wiping his head with the back of his hand.
Only when he saw the boy's face more clearly did he realize who he was and where he'd seen him.
It had been years into the future, during the war with the Demon Cult. There, the other boy had worn purple and wielded his saber. He'd been a man then, and he'd accompanied the young master of the Jin clan. Who had also not been Jin Qilong, but instead the same older brother that he'd seen earlier at the stands, who was already a second-grade. Jin Youshu. He'd reach the first-grade by the time of the war.
Wu Hao made a careful note of this little discovery, but he didn't care all that much. The help that he'd gotten from this man and his fellow guards had mostly been advice that he hadn't been able to do much with.
Technically they had never met.
The other boy wasn't awake, anyway. Perhaps this still couldn't be considered meeting.
Now without a reason to remain, Wu Hao cast a look around the sickbay. Men and women of all ages were bustling around the room, carrying pitchers of clean water, rolls of bandages, big pots of ointment that stunk like hell. Others yet carried sets of needles, all carefully sorted by size and by the thickness of their heads, strapped to rolls of parchment. The steel of the needles glinted in the lamp-light.
And as much as was carried in, almost as much was carried away again. Dirty rolls of bandage were ferried off to be cleaned, soaked with blood. Clothing was dumped, personal effects were carried by servants with spatial tools to be returned to the sects of the losers.
Ao Ying's sword had been left standing by his bedside, a lonesome guardian. No one else was there.
Wu Hao made his way over to the other man's bed, telling himself that it was as much to observe the healers at work.
He was absorbed in watching the healers work, though the healer in charge most of all. His measured, calm movements had the distinct charm of martial arts, repeated a thousand times until they became simple, unconscious habit. Precise stabs of qi reached out and ran along the needles each time one of them plucked out. It had traces of needle arts, but the way the qi worked was fascinating.
It wasn't forming qi into weapons or techniques, though. Instead, gentle, supple qi was slathered across the wound and allowed to dissolve, the patient's qi unconsciously taking it in and overwriting its color, greedily incorporating it into its own. It was the own qi that was directed with needles, forming zones in which the qi pooled and accelerating the healing there and only there.
"Hao Wu," someone whispered, raising themselves up slightly.
Although, no, it wasn't quite a whisper - it was just speaking at the maximum volume that their voice could currently support.
"Ao Ying," Wu Hao said, turning. "You're awake."
"I am," Ao Ying said, reaching out with one arm to pull himself up so he could look Wu Hao in the eyes. The movement apparently used muscles in the belly, though, because Ao Ying tensed and gave a short, angry groan. He didn't give up, though, and eventually slumped with his back against the bed.
He checked Wu Hao, then the room next to him. Wu Hao watched emotions rise and, in an attempt to resolve the brunt of them, pointed out the sword that stood against the wall.
Ao Ying's fingers touched at the hilt of the sword, pushing it slightly but not unbalancing it enough to where it fell. He tried to reach just a little further, but bandages pulled tight and began blossoming in red so in the end Wu Hao just pushed the bed to the side, man and all, and allowed Ao Ying to reach.
"Thank you," Ao Ying muttered, wrapping his fingers around the hilt. It wasn't a small sword by any means, but he held it like it was a pillar on which he rested. "And congratulations."
"You knew that I won," Wu Hao said, meaning it as a question.
"I made a guess," Ao Ying said hoarsely. "You remain here, standing, without a trace of an injury. Either you won or you conceded."
Wu Hao gave him a sharp look. "I would never concede."
"I suspected."
A silence fell that wasn't uncomfortable, as such.
"I followed your warning," Ao Ying said. His fists clenched tight and his eyes stared into the distance. Though he looked at the mess of white-clothed physicians rushing in to take care of the newest loser - a girl with a black eye but not much else in the way of injuries - it was unlikely that Ao Ying saw any of them.
"I saw."
"And yet I still lost."
Wu Hao said nothing. He agreed, though.
"I could make excuses," Ao Ying said. "Perhaps that our backgrounds are different, or the like. Nonetheless, I lost."
"Right," Wu Hao said shortly, not sure what else could even be said.
"I lost," Ao Ying repeated, face shifting into a deep frown. Even from the short, choppy waves that ran through the man's qi, Wu Hao could see how much this hurt him.
A physician came by and brought an ice pack for the black eye.
"Am I so wrong?" Ao Ying asked hoarsely. "When I won the public round, I had just some trouble, but the fact that I won at all made me hopeful. I had not dreamt of securing the treasure itself - but at least the second round. I hadn't thought..."
Again, Wu Hao could think of nothing to say.
"Perhaps I should have heeded the clerk's warnings," Ao Ying said. The look in his eyes had shifted, though - from faraway, he now looked like he wanted support from Wu Hao in whatever he was feeling. "How do you feel?"
Wu Hao considered this carefully. He'd have just answered bluntly as usual, but that didn't quite feel right, either.
"This is a den of tigers," he said. He was able to admit that much, at least. "But even tigers can be hunted down."
Ao Ying nodded slowly, and then raised a hand to Wu Hao. Empty of weapons, he offered it palm sideways, fingers splayed.
Wu Hao placed his own hand within and they shook on it.
"You must win," Ao Ying said, firmly. The hoarseness hadn't cleared up. Perhaps it never might. This was the second man to demand victory from him.
Wu Hao stood up. "That's the plan."