Threads 125-Convergence 3

“Do you believe yourself to be prepared, Ling Qi?” Cai Renxiang asked as they approached the departure point. The forward part of the assault group was hidden in a shallow cave, while the main body waited in a river valley some kilometers back. The moment the signal was given, they would go loud, discarding stealth to move in at top speed, reducing the distance to a matter of a minute or two at most, barring interference.

“I think so,” Ling Qi said. She had been preparing for such missions for a while now. She smiled wistfully. “I am the wind thief after all.”

Cai Renxiang raised an eyebrow, as if asking for an explanation. Ling Qi didn’t give one. The heiress shook her head. “I suppose it is enough that you are confident.”

“Lady Cai’s belief in this one is an honor,” Ling Qi said dryly.

“Failure is forbidden.” The heiress bore an unamused expression. “Do not betray my confidence.”

Ling Qi hummed, not worried by the ominous words. She could feel the thread of emotion weaving through that mechanical statement, hidden from the other disciples warming up for their part in the assault. “Naturally. Am I not your left hand?”

“Indeed,” Cai Renxiang agreed, perfectly serious. “I look forward to your success.”

“And I look forward to not being on the business end of my lady’s techniques for once,” Ling Qi jested.

Cai Renxiang smiled faintly, turning away without a word.

Ling Qi breathed out, turning her attention inward as she strode toward the mouth of the cave.

<Everyone ready?> she thought.

<Zhengui is ready! We trained hard,> her little brother said, determination coloring his voice.

<Yeah, Big Sis always wins. Why should this be any different?> Hanyi said confidently.

<That’s a little much, but I have your back,> Sixiang thought.

There was nothing else to be said then.

When Ling Qi left the camp to soar up the slope of the mountain, it was as a shadow and a breeze. Rain filtered through her as if she were not there. Light bent from her, reflecting back nothing to the eye of the beholder, and in the realm of spirit, her passage caused not a ripple.

And that was before she activated Zephyr’s Mocking Escape and Breeze in the Vault techniques. With them, she was no more than the wind between the raindrops, not even a shadow upon the black stone of the mountain. Behind her eyes, she could feel the determination of the communications disciple observing through her.

She flitted over the rim of the caldera right beneath the hooves of the warriors who guarded it, and saw into the caldera below. Flitting around the rim were more than a hundred second realms, and a scattering of early green riders, six in all by her count, were overseeing them.

Descending further into the caldera, she noticed that in the twenty one people below, there were three obvious groups. And there was a cyan cultivator in one of them.

As she wound down into the shadows, she moved ever so carefully to avoid the idle notice of the higher realm cultivator. As she slunk close enough, she began to make out the guttural speech of the tribesmen.

“Why, then, should the people of the sky trust in one sort of lowlander over another?” asked the mightiest among them. The cyan tribesman was of average height and wore armor of bone and scale. He perched on the back of a massive eagle with dark blue and pale white feathers. Wisps of cloud and rain mist trailed from the bird’s folded wings, and the beast glared balefully down at the other groups. His mask, however, drew her attention. It was a thing of iridescent crystal gleaming with prismatic light, and she felt her eyes recoil from it. It sent a shudder through her, even as it left her eyes burning as if saltwater had been splashed in her face.