The two versions of Ishin circled each other within the endless white void that comprised Ishin’s inner world. Each stood ready to both attack and defend. The Ishin who bore scars from a Sun Tiger and wore the red and black of the Crimson Abyss Sect acted first, pressing forward with all the speed his regular body allowed.

  Instead of attempting another thrust, which had yielded minimal success so far, Ishin swung his spear at the clone birthed from his tribulation. The clone blocked the swing with his own spear, but Ishin wasn’t done.

  Both his hands are occupied holding the spear. His right side is exposed.

  Ishin twisted his body and, with his left leg, executed a high kick at the clone’s ribcage. The kick landed with a thud, pushing the clone back and causing him to stagger. Ishin moved against the injured clone, this time stabbing at the clone’s left shoulder.

  The clone managed to recover from the shock of the kick and moved forward, ducking under the thrust and attacking Ishin with its own spear.

  He’s too close.

  Ishin tilted his body to the right, but the clone’s spear stabbed through the left side of his stomach, opening a bloody gash. The two copies of Ishin ran past each other, and there was no doubt which one had come away on top.

  That hurts.

  Ishin pressed a hand to his wound, feeling the sticky, warm blood flowing freely. He braced his spear against the invisible floor of the void to steady himself.

  I thought I was going to win after that kick. Clearly I was overconfident.

  Turning to face the clone, Ishin was relieved to see the faintest wince of pain as it brought its spear up.

  At least I did some damage. Maybe cracked a rib.

  He pulled his red-stained hand away from his stomach. It would be impossible to make any sudden motions without increasing the loss of blood. The pain he could ignore, but if he lost too much blood he would be in trouble.

  “Attacking my flank with a kick was smart,” the clone complimented.

  “Thanks.”

  This guy.

  Ishin understood that his clone wasn’t behaving like a true opponent—or even how he himself would act in a real fight. While it had made genuine attacks that would have killed Ishin, it was also acting rather leisurely. There were times, especially in their early fight, that it could have pressed its advantage but had waited for Ishin to be ready. Even now, these compliments were unlike him. Ishin wouldn’t bother speaking with an opponent like that in combat. It served no point.

  He’s not really me. Must just be the form that my tribulation chose to take. But why? Is it to show me how I should be—fighting without relying on my cultivation? Is it trying to tell me that I’ve lost part of myself since becoming a cultivator?

  It was true that he’d started relying on his cultivation in combat, but in truth Ishin still didn’t think that was a mistake. Fighting another cultivator or spirit beast without using his cultivation would be the same as fighting with an arm tied behind his back. It was foolish.

  I’ve proven that I still retain the fundamentals of my martial arts. So what is the point of this?

  “You’ve been thinking for quite a while,” the clone remarked. It snapped into the fifth spear stance. Ishin recognized it immediately and knew its purpose was solely for an offensive assault. “Enough thinking.”

  The clone advanced upon Ishin, and he brought his spear up to defend. As the clone neared, it shifted its spear to just its right hand.

  Is it going for a greater thrust?

  Ishin smiled. That technique, while offering greater reach, would leave the clone’s left flank exposed. If he dodged the thrust, he could land a fatal blow through the clone’s chest.

  Come towards your doom!

  But when the clone was still twenty feet away, it threw the spear directly at Ishin’s center mass.

  It threw it!

  Given the short distance between them and the force of the throw, there was no time to dodge. And given the narrow radius of the spear tip, deflecting the weapon was impossible. That left only one option.

  Ishin moved forward into the spear but brought up his left arm as a sacrifice. The spear pierced through the arm, and Ishin let out a cry of pain. But the damage was contained: the spear failed to pierce clean through, only partially penetrating his ulna, and then fell to the ground.

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  His weapon is gone!

  Only able to wield his spear with his right arm now, Ishin ran at the clone. The distance between them was minimal, and his opponent was unarmed. This would finish the fight. Ishin thrust his spear at the clone—then the unthinkable happened. Its spear reemerged within its hand, and it thrust at Ishin’s own weapon. The two spears, one silver and one crafted from iron, collided in the air. Ishin’s spear was knocked off course, only scraping the clone’s upper right shoulder.

  “Agh!” Ishin spat as he moved away from the clone. “How did you retrieve your spear?”

  He looked back to where it had fallen, and sure enough, it was gone. As further evidence, the spear held by the clone had a bloodied tip—his blood, from the wounded left forearm.

  The clone flexed its injured left trapezius. “This spear is part of who I am. It’s part of who you used to be before you became a cultivator.”

  “I lost that spear the day my mother was killed!”

  “You lost it as a cultivator. I am not a cultivator.”

  “As you keep reminding me,” Ishin ground out.

  Pain rippled from his left forearm, accompanied by a different burn originating from the side of his stomach.

  This is bad. I can’t use my left arm effectively.

  He glanced at the blood dripping from the gash on his stomach. It had begun soaking into his robes and would have been more evident if not for the red-and-black coloring.

  And that’s getting worse. Ugh. I never would have guessed it could summon its spear after losing it.

  “If you keep waiting, you’ll die from blood loss,” the clone remarked.

  “I don’t need you to tell me that.”

  But Ishin knew it wasn’t wrong.

  Look at it standing there so superior. For all the judgment it’s made about me relying on my cultivation, that version of me doesn’t understand the hardship that came with it.

  It was true. While Ishin had suffered judgment from the other members of the Daihu Tribe for his perceived spiritual crippling and had even been hurt during his duel with Pan Feng, that couldn’t compare to what he’d experienced since becoming a cultivator. He’d been scarred and nearly killed by the Sun Tiger. He’d been nearly killed by the Iron Mantis members numerous times. In fact, the more Ishin thought about it, the more he realized how many times he’d faced death as a cultivator.

  The Sun Tiger, the Iron Mantises—multiple times—the Thunder-Horned Wolves, the Vampire Monkeys, the Vampire Ape, Isho Nel, and that thunder cultivator in the crater last week. It’s a miracle I’m still alive.

  Ishin tightened his grip on his spear.

  What hardships did my past self really face, hidden behind the walls of the Daihu Tribe?

  Yes, he’d gained power since becoming a cultivator—but also a will to survive.

  For the first time since his duel with the clone had begun, Ishin heard his inner beast growl with approval. This time, though, it didn’t come from within his soul; it echoed through his entire inner world.

  “Curious,” the clone said, looking around in wonder.

  Did that also not start until after I became a cultivator?

  Ishin dismissed the thought; it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that he had a strategy that would defeat his weaker, judgmental clone.

  And what does it matter if I die in the attempt? I’ll just attempt the tribulation again!

  Resolved, Ishin charged at the clone, screaming a war cry as he held his spear one-handed. The clone showed its shock at the move and brought its spear out, ready to intercept him. When Ishin was upon the clone, he didn’t attack. As he expected, the clone thrust its spear through his center, just above his navel.

  Blood sprayed from Ishin’s mouth as the pain of certain death coursed through his body. But Ishin was no stranger to pain.

  The clone met his eyes, disappointed. “You’ve accepted death.” It twisted the spear, still pierced cleanly through him.

  “Yes. But you’ll die first!”

  Ishin thrust his spear through the clone’s eye, the tip exiting through its skull. He had accepted pain and death, but in exchange he seized victory.

  The clone let out a gurgling cry as it dropped the spear still lodged through Ishin. Seconds later, Ishin watched as it disintegrated into the void.

  “I’ve… won.”

  Ishin felt himself pulled rapidly backward, flying through the void. With a gasp, his eyes snapped open. Ishin gazed around and saw the familiar sight of Desolate Island.

  *  *  *

  In a distant cave hidden within a mountain range resided a silver and white shrine. A shackled elderly slave, dressed in tattered ash-colored robes and bearing a black collar engraved with a broken circle, tended to five rows of wax candles that glowed with different colored flames. The slave had not seen the sun in twenty-five years, his fate tied forever to this hidden temple of vanity. The only illumination brought to the cave came from the forty-seven candles that he was charged with observing.

  Only three candles resided on the top row, their flames a vibrant emerald color. Beneath them, on the second-highest row, were seven candles that glowed a luminous yellow. Below them sat a row of fifteen candles with deep orange embers. Resting beneath was a row of crimson-flamed candles that numbered twenty. Finally, on the lowest row were two unlit candles, waiting to spark.

  The slave waited in a state of near-constant boredom. A curse forbade him from sleeping, rings of dark circles having developed beneath his eyes long ago. There was little else to do here than stare at the candles. The slave wondered if one day his sight would vanish from constantly watching the candlelight.

  One of the red flames suddenly shifted to orange, drawing the slave’s normally dull attention. Normally, such a change, while rare, would not have surprised the slave. But what was of note was that this was the candle he had most recently moved when it had sparked a few months ago.

  Wrinkled hands lifted the wax candle to the third row, moving it beside the other orange-flamed candles. His master still would not care about it, but if it continued progressing at this rate, perhaps that might change. Until then, the slave returned to his stupor of dim awareness, waiting until the day he could finally die.