Chapter 12: Preparation and Paranoia - Part 1
Day 33. Resource acquisition begins.
I transfer forty percent of my primeval stones to Clone #2 through our connection—a strange sensation, like bleeding currency through my soul. The clone receives orders: Purchase utility Gu across multiple merchants over the next week. Nothing flashy. Nothing memorable.
The list is specific:
Leaf Scent Gu (Rank 1): Masks spiritual presence for short durationsShadow Step Gu (Rank 1): Brief burst of speed and stealthIron Skin Gu (Rank 1): Basic defensive hardening
Survival tools. Escape tools. Nothing that screams "combat threat."
"Optimization protocol engaged. Recommended acquisition pattern: Four merchants, eight-day distribution, varied payment methods. Probability of pattern detection: 8.3%. Cost efficiency: 87%."
The clone executes perfectly. Day by day, my arsenal grows without anyone noticing.
Day 34. Clone #3 deployment.
Creating the third clone feels different now. Easier mechanically—my body knows the technique—but harder psychologically. Each clone is a piece of my soul walking around, vulnerable, potentially dying while I watch through transferred memories.
The essence drain is familiar. Sixty percent capacity gone in a rushing void. The world splits—I'm in my dormitory and simultaneously standing three feet away, looking at myself with blank eyes.
"Disguise yourself as a wandering scholar," I tell it. "Travel to the inheritance ground region. Don't enter. Scout the exterior—terrain, escape routes, faction positioning. Return in three days with full intelligence."
The clone nods. Its appearance shifts subtly—scholarly robes instead of academy uniform, a slight stoop to its posture, glasses formed from light-bending Gu. Good enough.
It leaves through the window. I collapse onto my mat, essence-depleted and dizzy.
"Void Stability: 71% (10% penalty applied from clone creation). Recovery time: Estimated 18 hours to functional capacity. Warning: Creating additional clones before full stability recovery risks permanent damage."
Three days of waiting. Three days of being weak while my clone scouts dangers I can't face directly.
The math says it's worth it. My instincts scream otherwise.
CLONE #3 - INHERITANCE REGION
The landscape changed as the clone traveled northeast. Academy territory gave way to wilderness, then to the contested borderlands where Gu Yue and Bai Clan influence overlapped uncomfortably.
The inheritance ground's exterior was obvious from five li away—spiritual energy distorted the air like heat shimmer, and territorial markers warned of dangerous formations.
The clone didn't approach directly. Instead, it circled at safe distance, cataloging details:
Northern approach: Bai Clan scouts established in cave system. Estimated twelve Gu Masters, Rank 2-3. Fortified position.
Eastern approach: Undefended but terrain hazardous. Cliff faces, unstable ground, territorial beasts confirmed through claw marks on trees.
Southern approach: Mixed faction presence. Minor clans setting up camps. Opportunists, scavengers, treasure hunters.
Western approach: Gu Yue Clan forward scouts arriving. Official academy expedition staging area forming.
The clone memorized terrain features, marked escape routes, identified ambush points. Three days of methodical observation.
On the third day, it began the return journey.
It never noticed the territorial beast stalking it from upwind.
Day 36. Morning sparring with Fang Zheng.
He's pushing harder than usual. The inheritance looms, and he's desperate to be ready. Every strike carries real force. Every combination is practiced to perfection.
"Again," he demands after I deflect his fourth sequence. "Don't hold back."
"I'm not—"
"You are." He resets his stance, breathing hard. "You're always calculating, always pulling strikes at the last second. Just once, fight me like you mean it."
Like I mean it. He has no idea what that would cost.
But he's right. I've been too cautious, too controlled. If the inheritance turns violent—when it turns violent—I need to know my limits under real pressure.
"Fine." I activate Moonlight Gu, letting the pale light surge higher than usual. "Your funeral."
We engage. Fang Zheng comes in fast—blade techniques practiced a thousand times, footwork perfect, essence control exemplary. He's genuinely good.
I counter aggressively for once. Shadow Step to his blind side, strike toward his ribs, follow with a sweep. He blocks the first two but the sweep catches him off-guard.
He goes down. Rolls. Comes up already attacking.
The practice blade screams toward my head. I raise my arm to block—
—miscalculate the angle by three degrees—
—and his blade slides past my guard, opens my ribs from collarbone to hip.
Not deep. But deep enough.
Blood soaks through my training robe instantly. The pain is white-hot, overwhelming. I stagger backward, hand pressed to the wound uselessly.
"Mo Bei!" Fang Zheng drops his blade, rushing forward. "I didn't mean—the angle was wrong—"
"Medical tent," I manage. "Now."
FANG ZHENG
The blood kept coming. Too much blood.
Fang Zheng half-carried Mo Bei to the medical building, panic rising. It was supposed to be practice. Controlled. Safe.
I pushed too hard. Demanded too much. This is my fault.
Shen Cui met them at the entrance, took one look at the wound, and her expression went cold and professional.
"Inside. Now. You—" she pointed at Fang Zheng "—wait here."
The door closed in his face. He stood there, Mo Bei's blood on his hands, wondering if he'd just killed the closest thing he had to a real friend.
The medical room is too bright. Shen Cui strips my robe away, examining the wound with clinical precision. Her hands are steady even as mine shake.
"Not life-threatening," she says. "But close. Another inch to the left and he'd have severed something important." Her healing Gu activates—warm green light spreading across the gash. "This will hurt."
It does. The tissue knits together too fast, nerve endings screaming as they reconnect. I bite down on the leather strap she offers, tasting copper and pain.
"You fight like someone who's been hurt before," she observes quietly while working. Her fingers press against ribs, checking for deeper damage. "Not recently. But the body remembers. The way you flinched—you were expecting that blade to go deeper. Expecting it to kill you."
"Training reflex," I gasp through clenched teeth.
"No." She applies pressure to a bleeding point. "Training reflexes are forward. Defensive. You flinched backward like you were remembering. Like this already happened to you."
The pain makes me careless. The words slip out before I can stop them: "Not in this timeline."
Her hands freeze. Five seconds. Ten.
"What?" Her voice is very quiet.
Fuck.
"I meant tournament," I correct desperately. "Not in this tournament. Different practice session."
She doesn't believe me. I can see it in her eyes—the way they sharpen, filing away my slip for later analysis. But she doesn't push. Just continues healing in silence.
When she finishes, the wound is sealed. Angry red scar tissue that will fade in days, but functional.
"You'll live." She washes her hands, not looking at me. "The inheritance opening will be worse than this. People die there for real, not just in practice. Promise me you'll prioritize survival over glory."
I meet her eyes. They're dark with genuine fear—not for herself, but for me. For someone she barely knows but somehow cares about anyway.
"I promise," I say. And mean it.
She nods. Turns to leave. Pauses at the door.
"Whatever timeline you're in," she says softly, "try to stay alive in this one too."
Then she's gone, leaving me sitting there with my heart pounding and the terrible understanding that she knows something is wrong with me, even if she doesn't know what.
That evening, Clone #3's awareness cuts off abruptly. No warning. Just sudden absence.
Then the memory transfer hits.
Traveling back toward academy. Three days of successful reconnaissance. Then movement—too fast, too silent. Territorial beast, different from the one that killed Clone #1. Jaws closing. Crushing pressure. Darkness.
Pain explodes through my chest. Not physical—phantom. The clone's death echoing through our connection.
"Void Stability: 66% (5% penalty from clone death). Memory integration: Complete. Intelligence acquired: Inheritance ground fully mapped, faction positions cataloged, escape routes identified. Clone casualties: Two of three deployed. Success rate: 33.3%. Assessment: Data valuable but cost significant."
I lie on my mat, processing the transferred intelligence while phantom pain slowly fades. The inheritance ground is mapped now. I know the approaches, the dangers, the faction positions.
I paid for that knowledge with pieces of my soul dying in the wilderness.
Worth it. Has to be worth it.
Outside, the sun sets on Day 36. Eighteen days until the inheritance opens.
Shen Cui knows something is wrong with me. Fang Zheng nearly killed me by accident. My clones keep dying in the field.
But I have the intelligence I need. The tools are being acquired. The preparations are progressing.
Survival probability is climbing. Slowly. Painfully.
One percentage point at a time.
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