The Patriarch sat on the highest platform in the Mo Clan courtyard, facing the stand that had been hastily built for the occasion. On his left, Mother sat, dolled in the most extravagant quiet luxury piece sourced from the county's capital.
It was a pale beige against the Patriarch's dull grey robes, a contrast he wished he had noticed beyond the clothes and in their eyes too. But Mother and the Patriarch moved as one, two cold pieces of Jade glued at the hip.
One of the lesser clan guards dragged him across the floor. Knees scraped against the gravel, brushing blood towards the altar of his humiliation. The strength in him was more than enough to escape, as achieving Body Refinement at fifteen had earned him the title of prodigy.
He was a prodigy who could not escape because strength did not lay in meaningless titles, it laid in power. It was power that made him a prisoner even though he had wings.
The guard tossed him into the center of the courtyard. Thankfully, the warm-blooded nerves that gave him away during dinner froze. It meant little now, but at least he would look less of a fool.
Uncle Feng held a horse tail whisk while sitting on his designated spot. Meanwhile, Uncle Yan chose a different viewing spot. The man laid along the brick-stoned eaves of the courtyard with a gourd of wine clawed between his thumb and index finger.
He winked at him, a gesture that made him feel that things would be slightly better. It was an illusion, though a welcome one.
Clan members circled around the stage. Forty-two stood at the front awaiting their orders. Their expectant gazes mixed with both hesitation and glee troubled him. He did not know which to believe, the glee or the hesitation.
The lashing did not start with noise or crazy chanting, for the Mo never reveled in cruelty openly. The Patriarch nodded silently. Uncle Feng met the nod with a knowing gaze. He knew it had started. The gravel beneath splintered his knees and kept him conscious in pain as everyone's breath stilled.
When it struck, he did not know. The swooshing sound of the horse tail whisk trailing behind Uncle Feng gave him a false anticipation. It should have been a few seconds before it bit his back, but it was a miscalculation.
Of course it was deception. At Body Refinement Five, his senses were too clogged to perceive the movements of his Uncle. He paid the price.
Pain struck like a vengeful lover, quick, fast, and splintering his nerves into spasm. Thick clots of blood rolled out his lips in thick gasps. Hands dug into the gravel below. A Mo never cried.
A moment later, Uncle Feng stood in front of him. The man remained composed and measured, with not a trickle of emotion scarring his elegance or face. He patted the base of the horse tail whisk, splattering blood onto the gravel below. No mercy, not even for him.
Suddenly the eaves surrounding the courtyard, in red brick stone, felt like more than structure. They locked him in a cage of the clan's making.
Beneath him, the greyed gravel wrote in him the laws he would follow: Discipline. Through tearing eyes, he turned behind him, hoping to catch a light of sympathy, pain, or even struggle in the Patriarch or his mother. He had hoped for too much.
The Patriarch's gaze tore at him in its simplicity. It told him everything he needed to know. His worth only mattered when the clan benefited. Mother's stare contained the heartless words she spoke during dinner, that Li'er was a disgrace.
Uncle Yan on the eaves looked troubled, fingers trembling as he choked the wine gourd's neck. Despite his devilish reputation on the battlefield, he carried more humanity than his very own father. The man turned away, certainly not wanting to watch his favorite nephew bleed in the pits.
"Hands off the ground," the velvet bass of the Patriarch's vocals whipped his mind.
"When the Head makes a mistake, the entire body suffers. In some instances, the body dies. Let this be a warning, albeit a light one, to every single one of you. The Clan's existence depends on your adherence to the laws that have kept us alive and thriving to this date," the Patriarch spoke, his tone hypnotic and absolute.
He pushed himself off the ground. Kneeling, he breathed in, bracing himself for what came next. Forty-two lashes, his sentence. The circle of clansmen lined to beat out the loss of face squeezed out an elder with hair whitened over years of service.
Frail and sickly, the elder haunted closer until he loomed over him. Uncle Feng tossed the horse tail whisk to the elder who caught it with serpentine grace. Body Refinement Seven. This was going to hurt.
Mercy came from the most unexpected places. The elder did not move with the speed of a cultivator two stages stronger. He slowed down, twisted to his blindspot, and struck with a blunt force filled with both disappointment and mercy.
Heavy-handed mercy. The strike landed true, cutting deep into his flesh. Blood vessels burst and pain mingled with warm blood dripping down his back.
"Now it is time. Commence the correction of the head with all the strength coiled in your bones. Let his wounds be a reminder that his actions carry your lives. One mistake and your lives are forfeited," the Patriarch said once more, slamming his fist on the arm of his chair.
Clansmen came one by one. Others struck with more than discipline. Their anger and only chance to inflict wounds on him roughed their hands. All the bitterness and jealousy they held against him splattered like cold ink along his back. The raw wounds were a testament he would feel for the next month. Tenth in line was a younger cousin he showed no grace to during sparring sessions.
Planting his face into the same gravel he spilt blood on today was a daily occurrence. The boy was too young to keep his emotions in check, and all the excitement colored his face. A smile was held tight against his lips, but the thick furrows in his brows showed the laughter threatening to burst.
He did not laugh. The Mo never reveled in cruelty.
The boy struck, buckling his legs. Gritting his teeth held back the tears and controlled the pain. Slimy drool hit the gravel, creating a thick slosh with the blood pooling below. His gaze no longer searched for aid. He was alone. How he wished he was not a prodigy.
When the twentieth lash opened another wound on his back, his body fought back. The last embers of his physique kept him grounded and alive. Someone weaker would have lost consciousness ages ago. He held on. Gods above, I wish I was weaker.
The last strike stole his vision before it cracked his spine open.
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The thick black curtain hovering over his eyes split open. He was not in the courtyard. It was not a dream. The scalding pain spreading across his back painted the truth too well. Pulses of thick, piping hot migraines mapped his brain. Still, he squinted and cleared his vision to see the small room.
Frigid cold held his stomach in place. He laid on a bed, feeling the leather and the frost stones stuffed into it. Only two flames lit the small room. The window to the left seeped moonlight. His vision focused on scented oils, cloths, and blood roots used to treat injuries, stashed in the corner on a pillar of polished sandstone.
A subtle scent of jasmine and rose teased his nose. It came from behind. His ears strained to the sound of footsteps thudding against the wooden floors. It was intentional.
The Mo built everything in silence, so the presence of sound was always a deliberate announcement. He knew who it was: Mother.
"Lin'er," her voice held a touch of silk and honeyed softness he wished he had heard in the courtyard or at dinner, "how is the spirit within you feeling?"
The question insulted him. Who felt great after being humiliated in front of the clan like a stray dog? Shutting his mouth and staring at the window was the only reply he gave her.
The thick grey clouds hovering in the distance outside offered more warmth than her presence.
Her shadow came into view followed by her spotless white robe. Where was the beige? She knelt down and picked up the bowl with ointments and cloth. Her silhouette felt somber in that moment. He saw aspects of the mother he knew before he turned seven. Her fingers, pale and soft, lifted the bowl.
Her gracious posture and the steady walk that offered stability when she picked him up as a child cut behind him.
"Do not waste your blood blaming your father," she whispered, her voice like a velvet needle. "The Clan required this blood to stay whole."